I just watched the State of the Union address and IÕm now
extremely jealous of the presidentÕs speechwriters. They have the easiest
writing job in the world: The State of the Union address doesnÕt actually say
how anything is going to be done, just that it would be really swell if a bunch
of stuff happened. ItÕs like a letter to Santa. So, with an eye toward getting
noticed by some White House honchos and landing a plum presidential
speechwriting gig, hereÕs my own State of EzÕs Union address.
Mr. Speaker, members of
Congress, guests who are working hard and guests who are hardly working: HereÕs
whatÕs up with me. Over the past year, much has happened. Some of it has been
gravy, and some of it has tested our resolve, which means it was probably bad,
because when did eating an ice cream cone at the beach test your resolve? Maybe
if it fell in your lap and a seagull tried to peck it off or something. The
main thing to remember is that none of it was my fault. Why didnÕt the Red Sox
go to the World Series, you ask? All IÕve got to say is that if Grade A eggs
are the largest, then Grade E would sure be little ones. Yup. Grade E little,
they might call them.
But IÕm not here to point
fingers, IÕm here to pull them. Pull them into a glorious new era. An era of
economic growth in which I will upgrade my bank account to one where I can
visit the teller without getting charged $2. An era of a cleaner environment,
where Roommate Scott will get his boxes of stuff out of the hallway because,
honestly, theyÕve been sitting there ÒtemporarilyÓ since we moved in last
September. An era of strengthened family values, or else IÕll give you
something to cry about. Finally, this will be an era of parallel construction
for all of our sentences.
Unfortunately, there will
always be forces of evil in the world, depraved outlaws who seek to undermine
the happiness of every American with their nefarious policies. Specifically,
IÕm talking about the Harbor Garage next to the aquarium, where they charged me
$56 to park overnight, even though their signs say that the maximum is $28.
Well, itÕs $28 until 5 am, then itÕs another $28, apparently because of a very
expensive time warp that occurs in the Harbor Garage early every morning. They
refuse to change their signs to make this clear, even if you point out that it
would be cheaper just to park on the nearest handicap ramp (a $50 ticket). The
Harbor Garage and, to a lesser extent, North Korea, prove that there is still
much work to be done before the world is safe from mankindÕs darkest impulses.
I will continue my popular
culture education initiative, which has seen me read the first three Harry
Potter books and watch The Real World: San Diego as often as three times a week. No longer am I
confused by references to Muggles or left out of debates about RobinÕs possible
breast augmentation (ÒpossibleÓ: wink wink).
On the health front, we must
fight that scourge of our society, steroids. Everywhere you go you see the
effects of this devastating epidemic. ItÕs such a prevalent problem that the other
day I saw a guy roid-rage at the Souper Salad lettuce bin, flipping over the
entire salad bar when he found a wilted piece of radicchio mixed in with the
iceberg. ÒThird time this week thatÕs happened,Ó the manager told me. What
price big muscles? This is no kind of example for our children. When I asked my
4-year-old cousin who his favorite football player was, he said Lyle Alzado. I
asked him who his favorite wrestler was, and he said Hulk HoganÑÕ80s Hulk
Hogan. I asked him who his favorite governor was, and you can probably guess
who he named: Howard Dean! Howard Dean mad! Arrgggaghhh! Now thereÕs a guy with
a steroid problem. ItÕs time to stop the madness, and IÕm leading the way by
changing my Õroiding ways. I only use them myself because having small
testicles is so convenient.
IÕd like to close this speech by sharing a letter from a child thatÕs loaded with sickening sentimentality. Unfortunately, little kids donÕt write to me and ask grandiose questions about how they can change the world. So I wrote a letter to myself left-handed. It reads, ÒDear Ez. My name is Little Chucky, and I have a question for you. What lives in the forest, has brown fur, and canÕt see a damn thing?Ó No-eye deer, Chucky, no-eye deer. ¶