tories of voter apathy in this off-year election have more merit following Monday's vote in the Senate for an $87.5 billion budget for Iraq reconstruction. The spending package passed with a 5-1 ratio, but only received an estimated 6 votes among the Senators in attendance.

Using the cop-out, or "strategy" known as a voice vote, the Senate skipped the usual procedure of recording who votes for what in the record so as not to embarrass apathetic Senators and possibly damage their chances for re-election or campaign contributions.
Using the voice vote, a verbal "yea" or "nay" or "no fuckin' way nay," Senators kept their names off an official record as being for the Iraq war or against it, so in due time when the majority of the populace reaches consensus on the wisdom of the war they can finally tell us how they really felt.

Some theorize the miniscule number of Senators voting had more to due with disillusionment and disappointment in Congressional legislation, rather than a despicable show of cowardice and political tightrope-walking. For the Senators, the "seniors" of the D.C. school, they've been around the block and seen how the game is played, and their cynicism is manifesting itself in voter apathy.

"It doesn't really matter anyway," said 39-year-old Hunter Whepley (D-SC), "no one ever listens to me. It's not like one vote in the Senate ever made a difference anyway."

The words express what many feel is an unwritten truth in the Senate: Voting is for nerds. Actually, it is a written truth, if you check out the men's room in the Capitol building. But instead of being the attitude of underachieving legislators or a handful of stoner congressmen, many point to the voting record as proof the Senate no longer thinks voting is cool.

"I'm not saying anything against voting," said Montana Republican Rooton Hardsandal, "but when was the last time anybody even passed any good laws or anything? You can't change nothing. The president just does what he wants. The states all do what they want, you can't make a difference. And those assholes in the Congress, they'll vote for anything you put in front of them. Gaylords."

Pennsylvania Senator Eli Keith expressed the lack of power many Senators feel.

"Sure, you can 'yea' or 'nay' a bill until the cows come home, but you know it's got to get approval from the House, and then the dorkwad president has to agree to it. And by that time, like, a hundred riders have been attached to it making it so it's illegal to smoke frogs or something, whatever some jerks in the back think is funny. Then, if you actually do show up, and nobody does, all the other Senators hear about it and get on your jock about it. I don't really care what everyone else thinks, but I don't want to be the only guy voting besides Robert Byrd. That old fossil votes for everything. I guess when you actually get Medicare you give a shit whether it passes or not."

Some peppy strategists on other congressional committees have proposed ideas to win bored Senators back to voting, including a Senatorial "Rock the Vote" special on C-Span, with guests like Nelly and Coldplay, or luncheons with motivational speakers like Tony Robbins to espouse the virtues of showing up to vote. The problem, according to Senators who wished to remain anonymous, is all those ideas are super-lame, and organized by king dinks of Dinktopia, doing more against voting than for it.

ll of England is in a froth this week as rumors circulate about a deliciously dirty secret tucked deep into the cranny-holes of the House of Windsor. What exactly has a former manservant alleged about that most buck-toothed of Casanovas, Prince Charles of Wales? Newspapers all over Britain are bursting at the bylines to gush about this vile and heinous morsel, a tale promised to be so lurid and shocking as to rip the top of your head off and skullfuck to death your children who have still yet to be born.

But one obstacle remains to the commencement of this public orgy of disclosure: nobody can say what Charles is supposed to have done. Nobody; not the press, not your shopkeeper, not even a little talking cricket with an umbrella. Thanks to a lawsuit brought by yet another of Charles' deposed butlers and England's medieval libel laws, the mere mention of the Prince's alleged crime is enough to get a man strung up by his sweetmeats and fed English food intravenously until hell freezes over, or one of the Spice Girls wins the Nobel Peace Prize. In other words: pack your earmuffs, Gary Leon Ridgway.

This strange tale of anonymous denial and dueling ex-butlers has grown bizarre enough to make Charles's possible crimes almost incidental and likely disappointing in comparison, but regardless curiosity dangles an anvil over the cat's cranium with a vengeance this week.

"The Prince of Wales didn't do shit, and any shit it is alleged he may have done, was not done by him, regardless of whatever exactly that shit entails," Charles's private secretary Sir Michael Peat read from a prepared statement. "We won't say what it is he didn't do, but only seek to make it clear he didn't do anything. At all. No matter what you're thinking of, Prince Charles didn't do it. Furthermore, Charles penned this quote he wanted passed on to the general public: 'I ain't done shit, and you sons of bitches can kiss my inbred royal hiney until it shines. Love, Charles.'"

Managing editor for the Times, William Barclay, agreed to speak to the commune after consulting with his lawyers over how the letter of the law looked upon libelous "hints" and "warmer, colder" guidance. After being convinced that no one with a law degree would be caught dead reading the commune, Barclay agreed to evade our questions in an answerlike manner.

Did Charles… fondle a butler?

"No, absolutely not."

Did he have sex with a piece of antique furniture?

"Not that we're aware of."

Fluff a chicken?

"No."

Pork a stork?

"No."

Are we close at all on the sex thing, are we at least warm?

"We're not at liberty to divulge that information."

Nuts. Was that him in Christina Aguilera's "Dirrty" video?

"I am certain I don't know."

Further inquiry clarified that the alleged offense did not involve dressing an elephant up like a cheerleader, cannibalizing the corpse of a dead war hero, eating an entire case of crisps in one sitting or drunkenly crashing his car into a whale's vagina. He also never choked on a pretzel, had his body painted to blend in with the London cityscape, or smoked Van Gogh's ear in a hash pipe. It is likely there were several more scenarios in which the heir to the throne did not take part, but this reporter was escorted out the door before he could fully formulate one involving Paddington the bear, marmalade, and the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders.

1. Start smoking, then quit, then brag about it.

I bet it's not that hard, if you set your mind to it. And you were only doing it to be a dick in the first place.

2. Finally tell that cheesedick from Time Warner that I can't afford cable.

That guy's been calling every day and I can't help but feel like I'm leading him on with all the long heart-to-hearts we've been having. Time to cut the cord—or the cable, if you will. Clever.

3. Find a new place to poop.

I opened a stall in the men's room this morning, and I almost shit prematurely because that big flaming eyeball from the Lord of the Rings was in there. Woah, dude, latch the door! I know it's probably tough when you don't have any arms or anything, but you don't have any feet I can see under the stall door either, so you gotta work that out somehow. "I SEE YOOOOU!!" Yeah, no shit! I see you too, big guy! And I wish I hadn't. Now I don't need the men's room any more, I need the laundry. Fucker.

That was the second-worst experience I've had in a public bathroom this month. Yeah, now you're starting to get an idea of how my month's been going. A few weeks ago I'm on the john when all of a sudden I realize there's a chewing noise coming from the next stall over. Motherfucker was in there eating celery! I shit you not! Man, whatever kind of diet you're on, quit it, because that shit just ain't working. Try narrowing down the number of rooms you're allowed to eat in, like the rest of the human race does. I think you'll shed a few pounds.

Then again, maybe the guy was living in there. Strange, sure, but I think there's definitely somebody living in the men's room over at Subway. There's always somebody in the handicapped stall and the other day I heard the sounds of the Tonight Show coming from in there. Not a bad set-up if you can get it, though I bet you can end up with some pretty questionable neighbors.

4. Walk on my hands to Kansas.

This one pretty much explains itself.

5. Punch Burl Ives right in the goddamned teeth.

I'll have whatever the hell kind of Christmas I want to have, Jack. Thank you very much. You have yourself a merry little mouthful of broken teeth.

6. And now for a funny word: effluvia.

7. Remember the subtle-but-important difference between "a twinkle in his eye" and "a tinkle in his eye."

Stay away from maternity wards until people on the street stop referring to me as "that baby-pisser." While I'm at it, never have kids.

8. Bring the pain to Al Roker.

Ever since that guy lost all that weight, he's looked seriously bored, like he misses the thrill of living on the edge of a coronary. His biggest danger in life now is that he might have a stroke while jerking off to a magazine interview with Mandy Moore. That's just not right.

9. Kiss and make up with Catherine Zeta-Jones.

We've never had a fight or anything, or even met, but still.

10. Write a new column for the commune.

I've been running a little low on canned goods this month, and I figure I could use a—hold on, never mind. I think I've got an idea.

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