By Mort Poisson

Godammit, I was hungry... or at least I should have been after an evening of boozing and watching
the election returns. But instead my stomach curdled and a (possibly permanent) headache gripped your humble scribe as the chilling hands of reality clutched my brain and delivered its unyielding message: they've re-elected the fuckin' retard!

Who is/are "they?" Ah yes, a question for the ages. "They" who seem omnipotent and oh-so-loquacious ("They say"); "They" who "don't make 'em like they used to"; "They" who "crucified my Lord."

For once, I really needed "they" identified to me, if only so I could feel my fingers close around "their" ignorant, ignoble neck(s).

Try as I might, I can not remotely understand the twisted rationale anyone but the most bloated oil baron could have for voting for George W. Bush. I won't get into the details for my feeling this way; they have been catalogued by bartenders and patient friends citywide. I will just say this: if you voted for this irritatingly smug frat boy after four years of the gutting of America that he has presided over, then you will have much more to answer for than had you not listened to whatever huckster preacher guided you to the voting booth. When your loaves are turned to fishes, may you all choke on the bones.

It would be maddening enough had Bush won based on his accomplishments (?!?!?!) over the past four years. But exit polls indicate that the most important issue on the minds of Bush voters in this season of war,terrorism, record deficits, and unemployment was "moral values." "Moral values." I'll say it again... "MORAL FUCKING VALUES!"

How this translates to any sane person still laboring under the shame of American citizenship is something like this: "We good Christians in the heartland hate homos." Pure and simple. Death, destruction, poverty... all baby shit compared to a dude with another guy's willie in his mouth. And where does this irrational fear of faggotry find its political focus? In that heartwarming bastian of holy worship and wholesome family values; (no... not NASCAR)THE CHURCH! Yes, that unimpeachable moral citadel (forget for a moment the Christian church's long standing culture of child rape and witch burning); that selfless,humble sanctuary (pass the collection plate) of God's love, mercy and... homophobia? Priests and Preachers; Ministers and Reverends throughout America's South, Southwest and Heartland saw their moral duty, even though it is nowhere to be found in their fucking job descriptions, and compelled their flocks to re-elect the right moral George W. Bush, and to sweep into office world class nutters the likes of Tom "I'll sterilize the hussy" Coburn, Jim "no fags in the classroom" DeMint, and John "I am but a lamb of God" Thune... humanitarians all. It seems "Mega-Church Think" is today's coin of the realm, with newsmags and TV talk shows pondering the phenomenon of "family values" politics and the zombification of the electorate.

So, Mr. & Mrs. Moral America, as you march onward to your Kristallnacht (or Jonestown, as the case may be), be aware that a simple yet true childhood lesson has been left in the dust:

Mother: "Now Johnny... if the Rev. James Dobson jumped in the river would you jump in the river too?"

America: "Yes."

Yes, America... on November 2nd, 2004 you were there to pull us from the brink of our own destruction. Our great homeland is now spared from the horror of gentlemen commiting buggery under the sacred umbrella of marriage. Yes, the sanctity of marriage is now safe for heterosexuals everywhere, from Britny Spears to Joey Buttafuoco; from Loreena and John Wayne Bobbitt to O.J. Simpson; from Newt Gingrich to Mark Hacking; from Elizabeth Taylor to Mickey Rooney; from Anna Nicole Smith to Scott Peterson. They can all rest easy in the knowledge that the holy vows of matrimony will not be bespoiled by rump roasters and carpet munchers. God's will be done.

But this is a column about food... you know... our sustenance; our sensual passion; our very humanity; the stuff most of us will soon be digging through rich folks' garbage to find. The holidays (never has the term taken on such an ominous tone) are upon us and as usual your intrepid gourmand has begun scanning the landscape for which Thanksgiving feast I will crash and which free meal I will consume. Like the true parasite that I am, I consider the eating of festive holiday bill of fare under false pretenses the most important holiday tradition. It has been decades since I actually sprang for a meal on turkey day. How do I accomplish the feat of scarfing up a free dinner each Thanksgiving? Research and bullshit, dear reader. Research and bullshit is at the heart of every great scam, rip-off and political election. I always make sure to insinuate myself into a large enough holiday gathering so that I can blend with the crowd. This leaves out most private family feasts and pushes me toward more institutional celebrations.

Yes, I've taken turkey dinners at jails, hospitals, corporate boardrooms, Free Mason meetings,
Moose Clubs, and homeless shelters and rescue missions of every ilk. This year I began weighing my options on Wednesday November 3 ("a day that will live in infamy"), but was sensibly talked out of my first impulse: to crash a celebration at the First Assembly of God with a bowl full of Semtex disguised as green bean casserole. I'm sure you are familiar, dear readers, with the First Assembly of God church. It is one of the two battling enormo-church-mega-plexes that sit kitty-corner from each other on Mulford Road. Until recently First Assembly was easily identified by the gigantic erect phallus sculpture that stood just outside its main entrance. Nearly as tall as the building itself, the stiff prick greeted worshipers for twenty years and was adorned with a very lifelike concrete scrotum and neatly trimmed pubic bush of evergreens. Evidently church officials finally caught on to the sculpture's overwhelming effect on female (and latently gay) parishoners and took steps to disguise this symbol of patriarchal superiority. I have often wondered how the sculpture was proposed to the church to begin with. Somewhere, I imagined, a sculpture designer has laughed himself to death (on the way to the bank, no doubt). But I digress...

Where to eat, where to eat? I peruse the newspaper for a clue as to which local organizations are holding Thanksgiving parties. A few possibilities rear their heads:

The Alano Club - Hmmm. Nah... I'll bet it would be really hard to get a beer there.

La Leche League - Nope. I've always been more of a leg man.

The Black Cowboy Association of Winnebago County - I'm afraid being an African-American cowboy in Rockford, Illinois poses enough hardships without me leeching off them.

Frustrated, I decided to go for a drive. I drove my trusty Opel Kadette up and down the streets of Rockford in search of an idea of where I could purloin a home cooked Thanksgiving meal. I had nearly resigned myself to a holiday season of Hungry Man dinners when I passed the offices of The Rockford Institute and WHAM! I had a plan!

For those unfamiliar with this wormy little organization, The Rockford Institute is a "Conservative think tank" of national and international regard. Calling themselves "Paleo-Conservatives", the Rockford Institute is essentially a group of bearded, pipe smoking pseudo-intellectual white men whose assertion of Caucasian Christian male values and antebellum fetishism pegs them at least one or two notches up the food chain from the Ku Klux Klan or the White Aryan Nation. In their minds a well turned argument trumps a burning cross and a lynching any day, and I say good for them! One thing troubles me though. If these guys are so hot on white Christian male identity, where the hell is their big cock sculpture? Never mind. True American traditionalists, I'm sure they will lay out a hell of a Thanksgiving feed. My mind runs away with me in anticipation. Not only is there the standard Thanksgiving turkey with all the trimmings, but the atmosphere is ripe with tradition and history. On the wall, overlooking the dinner table is a large oil painting of an ever stoic Jefferson Davis.

The coy-yet-demure womenfolk all wear Scarlett O'Hara-style corsets and hoop skirts. The men are all dressed like Confederate officers and continuously goose each other with their sabres (accidentally, of course). The fringes of the dining room are alive with jolly, white-gloved Negroes busily attending to their duties. At dessert, the members of the Rockford Institute will pay tribute to their happy attendents by forgoing the traditional pumpkin pie in favor of a tart breadfruit pudding. As you may recall, dear readers, breadfruit is a tropical delicacy native to the Carribean that was used to feed Africans on their adventurous journey to find employment in the new world. Yes, the Rockford Institute will spare no expense or effort in allowing their trusted servants to experience the culinary delights that were enjoyed by their ancestors in the cargo holds of ships coming to America just a few short centuries ago!

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEL! I hit my brakes and nearly skid into the Schwans delivery truck ahead of me. The guy in the unscratched, unsullied giant Dodge Ram truck behind me turns beet red and begins flipping me off and cursing like a Tourettes victim. As he swings into the left lane to pass me, still cursing and frothing, I notice the "Bush-Cheney '04" sticker in his window and the Jesus fish insignia on his tailgate. "A perfect poster boy for the New America," I think to myself.

I come to my senses concerning the Rockford Institute. On my worst day I couldn't eat with that diseased bunch. What if their good buddy, professional scold and full time physic-face Pat Buchanan were to show up at the celebration? No... spending my life behind bars for first degree murder is not a wise trade off for a free Thanksgiving meal. I drive to the supermarket and stock up on Hungry Man dinners. (Besides... who'd want to eat with the motherfuckers?!--Dr. Mality)

Happy Holidays, dear readers. God bless us, every one... unless you're a fag.