 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
 Seanbaby faces off against America's top political leaders with an angry letter and a shiny shirt. Congress retaliates by putting a toy in its pants. 
 CONGRESS! |
July 17th, 1999 - Seanbaby vs. Congress After years pouring one chemical into another and watching randomly blinking lights with a clipboard, our scientists have gradually lost their collective minds. Conspiracy theorist and suspected homosexual, Seanbaby, has composed a letter to the United States Congress to point out some [of his perceived] inconsistancies in modern science. In a special meeting, Congress responded with apathy to the toiletish ramblings shown below, and the motion to adjourn for Catholic Girl Panties Party was seconded and voted unanimously in favor of. 
Dear Congress,Since you regulate these types of things with your white wigs and gavels, please read the following and take immediate action. Modern science can power a fucking clock with a potato. And in seconds, children can download the information necessary to launch with a tube that potato through the back windshield of a lowriding truck. Our president can destroy our world with the touch of a button while getting his "pelvic advisor" covered in the spit of a fat intern. But where is the technology promised to us by space cartoons and Lobster Man from the Future? I'll tell you where, Congress. It's in god damn bathrooms. Pulic restrooms - not your home's bathroom crawling with disease and stolen toilet paper where the only clean spot is where you scrubbed up your spilled seed after reading your son's Tomb Raider (right) instruction manual. If any of you check-bouncing baby-kissers doesn't know what I'm talking about, you probably haven't peed in public. Did I need a urinal that flushed itself? There are amoebas right now living in our mouths feeing off our blood and dead skin. A couple more penis germs on our flushing hand are not going to kill us. And these are not simple motion detecting devices like my neighbor's accursed flood light that's foiled hundreds of my stealthy schemes. No, these toilets are something more. Go ahead - pinch it off half way through and walk away. IT KNOWS YOU'RE NOT REALLY DONE! You can't trick these future toilets! But you know what's sadder than me holding my unfinished bladder in a failed attempt to outsmart an toilet - the years the government spent dissecting downed UFO's for the technology required for cybernetic porcelain. I think Wheelchair Willy said it best while zipping around his calculatingly safe living room, "If they spent more time curing muscular diseases rather than making shitters you can flush with your mind, maybe I could walk down the stairs rather than crash in a flailing screaming heap at the fucking bottom. Suck my handicapped ass, science!" Even if you walk off the bus into some backwater town diner where you're served biscuits and bacon fat by a robbed grave, you'll find these space bathrooms. The can of pop they brought you is 6 slogans old and the silverware was made in a country that no longer exists, but the sinks in the restroom labelled "cowpokes" can match the tap water to your body temperature for maximum handwashing comfort. And after you're done cleaning chew spit off your hands with chemically treated water, they'll be dried by a hot air dryer capable of greeting you in any Earth language.* *And if you're from outer space, the neuro center LenguaCHIP (TM) installed in all air blowers after 1978 can decypher your native in 7 seconds, spray you with Old Spice, and dispense a glow in the dark condom fitted perfectly for your alien genitals. I demand that you and your colleagues pass a bill that will force the world to dismantle these restrooms before they gain enough sentience [UPDATE: as of 6-07-99, our toilets became self aware.] to decide to dominate our race. We should bring back those rusty wall-mounted boxes that have the long looping burlap towel that everyone shares. Or at least simulate this experience. To do this, I propose the GermBucket(tm pending). This will be a simple device made of a large milk-filled plastic bucket restroomers would take turns spitting into, dragging their cocks through, and then rubbing into each other's eyes. I also say we bring back the comb-distributing men's room attendants. They were always the highlight of the digestive process. They stood proudly in their tuxedos handing you towels and making interesting comments on the weather, but had little enough self-respect that you could shove their head into a toilet without fear of them fighting back. For they spend their entire day listening to people shit - their spirit has already been broken. They would struggle to smile and politely thank you. See if you can get that kind of personal service with a fucking robotic hand dryer. |
|
