A Hundred Bucks Well-Spent:
Goddamnit, the Rude Pundit's disappointed that the GOP is abandoning its plans to drop each and every one of us fine American households a C-note. The Rude Pundit had hisself some plans for that hundy, had hisself an idea or two of how to use those federal gas tax "relief" bucks to do some good or at least have hisself a little fun.

See, the Rude Pundit was gonna get hisself some friends together, like a couple thousand of 'em, to pool our Benjamins, and, now, the Rude Pundit's no Paul Krugman wonky economist, but that appears to add up to a couple hundred thousand big ones. He figgers that much cash money oughta be enough to buy time with some of our fine public servants, like maybe Senators Rick Santorum or Kay Bailey Hutchison or Conrad Burns, or maybe House members Joe Barton or Denny Hastert or Richie Pombo, all of whom line up like Datsuns at a Mobil station back in 1977 to get Texas tea-bagged by that oil lucre.

Yeah, we'll have a party, a reception, fuck, we'll make it an awards banquet, call us a PAC like "American Citizens for Oil Consumption Knowledge" or some such shit. Say we're gonna give out trophies for mighty Republicans who stand up for the rights of Americans to gorge themselves on as much gas as God and Jesus can let us suck out of the compliant earth. We'll promise 'em all checks, man, big fuckin' checks fer showin' up, that soft money, that campaign cash.

It'll be a grand time. We'll serve chicken, lots of goddamn chicken, 'cause everyone likes chicken at their banquet, with rice fuckin' pilaf and goddamn green beans. It'll be proper-like, with bow-tie-wearin' Latinos and Negroes pickin' up the dishes with the half-eaten chicken and the almond slivers shoved aside, re-fillin' the water glasses, offerin' coffee and cookies. At the end, we'll tell the Congress members it's time to present the guests of honor.

Except they won't be invited to the dais to speak, oh, no. We'll put on music, loud old timey Texas-soundin' music, Bob Wills or Sons of the Pioneers, and we'll tell 'em, "Now, it's time to dance, motherfuckers. You want your money? You fuckin' dance." And slowly, unsteadily at first, they'll start to dance, because it's Pavlovian for them to dance when the people with the cash tell 'em to dance. They will dance like monkeys at the circus, man.

Goddamn, how we'll whoop and cheer as we watch Denny Hastert wheeze and undulate around, Kay Bailey Hutchison shakin' her groove thang. We'll throw Benjamins at them and tell 'em to scamper around on their hands and knees, screamin', "Yeah, you like it, bitches, you like that gas money." Haster may teeter on the brink of a heart attack the whole time, but he'll scramble around and beat down Connie Burns to get that last hundy.

Then it'll be tank-fillin' time, where we see which member of Congress can have the most C-notes shoved up his or her ass. Get Richard Pambo to bend over so that Rick Santorum can see what delicious fate awaits him, and we'll all count as hundreds are shoved into Pombo's ass. After forty or fifty, we'll ask him if he can take more, and he may be in pain, but he's a good member of the GOP delegation. "Shove more," he'll cry out, smiling at the idea that for every few hundred shoved into his bowels, he'll be able to buy just that much more time in the House to represent our "cause."

We'll do 'em all, one by one, shoving Benjamins into their hemhorroidal, colonoscopated rectums, and when we're done, we'll take out a gas pump handle and use the nozzle to pack it all in. We'll ask 'em if it's worth it, if the pain is worth the money, if they'd rather have no pain and no money, the freedom to walk upright and proudly, but, like every sore-ridden crack whore who fucks one more john, they'll say, "Yes, yes, it's worth it. Shove it in." We'll ask Joe Barton if he'll hold hearings on the shoving of gas rebates into the anuses of members of Congress, and of course he'll hold hearings, with no one under oath, with nothing done at the end but a report issued, with nothing but more members lined up with their ass cheeks spread for their chicken, their rice pilaf, their hundreds and thousands of dollars.

It'll fail, our effort, yes, for irony is not in favor in D.C. But we'd have had more fun with our hundreds than two tanks of gas would have given us.

Oh, and as we're leaving the hotel conference room, with the prone, stuffed-assed Republicans still on the floor, we'll release a bunch of horny male caribou into the place. Then we'll finally have some Arctic wildlife drilling.