If you're reading this, then you have lived to see the inauguration of George W. Bush.
In this fine city of ours, we are lucky enough to be able to hold and, likewise, easily attend the inauguration of our fine new president. Or something.
I was one of the lucky millions to get a Gray Ticket. I capitalized that because it's important. Or something. I'm grateful that I got the ticket (on a side note, people who don't have tickets, like that jerk standing next to me, shouldn't sneak into the damn ticketed section. You are hindering my feeling of superiority). However, thanks to the wonderful planning of, I can only imagine it was the D.C. government, I was pretty much unable to see. Well, that's not entirely true. I did see some stuff. I saw this one guy. Green body, white top, answered to the name of John. He was there with his friends, all wearing the same thing. I guess it was a fraternity event. Anyway, I stood there, listening to our beloved President George Walker Bush get inaugurated. Visually, I saw a toilet. Any connection?
Well, from now on, whenever I hear Bush speak, I got to take a leak. That's not such a bad thing, I suppose. I could have been looking at a gun, then I would have to shoot people. That would be very Texas of me. So, by now, Mr. Bush should be getting well adjusted to presidential life. A life of pleasure, a life of pain and a life getting to own bomb codes.
There are three types of people in this world.
Now, for me, I fall into the sock people. Mr. Bush, however, can wear socks, own a home and bomb the good people in Sarajevo. Now, while I think it's fine that he wears socks, I'm kind of uncomfortable with him owning his own home. Face it, he's going to mess it up and his whimsical, slow-talking drawl will piss the heck out of any of the people who live near him. I figure we won't have to worry about the bomb codes. Numbers, while I have absolutely no proof, are not his strong point, unless they are followed by the letters "oz." and have a 40 before them. Yeah, you know what I'm talking about.
But, I'm getting ahead of myself. Back to the inaugural festivities. Picture this: Washington, year 2001. The gray skies are dripping with water. Toilets line the streets. A man is speaking on a loud speaker, giving a speech that is rather boring and far too long. Among the numerous toilets, hundreds, thousands, dare I say 289,682 (yeah, I said it) eager people, waiting to see their newly selected president speak, slowly.
Now, I've been bored before. All the time actually. And, usually when I'm staring at a toilet, it's not that boring. But this time... this time it was rough. Because it was like the toilet was talking to me.
"I'm going to lower taxes."
"What? You're a toilet, how can you do that?"
"We need children and God, Children and God I say. And some God."
"But you're a toilet, you don't have children."
"I have a god though. His name is Poopicus Maximus. He is a kind God. Of poop."
"You have no God, you lying toilet. I hate you, I hate you. You never listened to me."
"Please, love me. Love me. Be my friend. Nobody loves the toilet."
That's it. That's all it said. It's true. This toilet was lying to me. Now, you can curse at me. You can call me an idiot. But I can't take people who lie to me. And that toilet lied to me. By the way, his name was Jerry. Pee on him if you can.
So, after the speech, a man gave a benediction, which is a prayer to honor Benedict Arnold, British war hero. Then, the band Survivor got on stage and broke into a raucous verse of "Eye of the Tiger." Then we all went home.
It all happened. Just like that.
Then, all of the sudden, I was on the Metro, riding home to scenic Tenleytown, slightly confused and one of my feet kinda hurt. That happens when you don't wear shoes. But, I did say I was a sock person, didn't I?
