by FREDERICA VON McTOAST-HYPHEN, Alternate Reality News Service People Writer
On Friday nights, Michael Pimpmysweetryder and his posse go to the Ferkin and Fartin (part of the franchise based on the Spartans, who were famed far and wide for the violence of their flatulence). Pimpmysweetryder et posse are all white, but they're not going to let "ethnics" from Latin Vesampucceri dictate to them how to use their own language! This is Ronald McDruhitmumpf's Vesampucceri now, pal - you don't like the way we use words, go back to where you came from and speak your own language!
Michael has worked at the Federal Bureau of Instigations for 17 years. He is currently a member of the hastily thrown together Emergency Redaction Task Force. He is one of 1,000 FBI agents who have been tasked with reading through the Eppinefrinstein files to flag mentions of President McDruhitmumpf for redaction.
"I'm not allowed to talk about it," Michael told me. "So, I can't tell you how boring it is. Deadly, deadly dull. I mean, before this, I was running drug interdiction operations in South Vesampucceri - which I'm also not allowed to talk about, by the way - and I spent several hours in blackouts that were more interesting than this, and I go catatonic without sufficient visual stimuli!"
Michael went on to not tell me that many of the videos he watched as part of his assignment were disturbing, "but at least they had some entertainment value!"
When he was growing up, Michael wanted to be a ballet dancer. At six foot four, the beefy 12 year-old seemed to be an unlikely balleticist, but he believed that, with enough hard work and moxie, he would at least make it as far as the Potluck Players, his hometown ensemble. Unfortunately, The Company store had stopped selling MoxieTM in the 1960s, when the Nixwatmondnewon government banned the substance because young people were enjoying it too much. Even more unfortunately, Michael cost his family a fortune in leotards; it got to the point where he would split the crotch open just looking at a pair.
So, although his parents were initially supportive of their child's ambition (their enthusiasm dimming with every clothing store bill), Michael fell back on his second passion: beating people up in foreign lands. Today, on weekends and civic holidaysMichael practices Zen ballet (it's like Zen archery, but with 37% more Spandex).
"Law enforcement seemed like a natural substitute for ballet," Michael commented. When I asked him what he thought the connection between the two was, he said, "Sorry, but I'm not allowed to talk about it." When I commented that I couldn't see why comparing ballet and law enforcement should be a state secret, Michael picked up the phone on which I was recording the interview and heaved it at the far wall of the room. As I contemplated its shattered remains, I realized that when somebody in law enforcement says, "I can't talk about," it would be best for my expense account to listen. (Especially because, as a journalist, I don't have a bloody expense account!)
Michael had long shown an appreciation for censored documents. "I always liked thick black lines," he told me. "They remind me a lot of moustaches..." So it made sense for him to be put on the Task Force.
His wife, Mary-Beth, had been a civil rights lawyer before they got married and she became an evangelical Christian. "Now, she's the mother of my five children," Michael beamed. "Groucho, Chico, Harpo, Zeppo and Biblio - we gave them solid Biblical names to give them a good start in their lives. Sometimes, Mare-Be and I laugh at how misguided her life was before we met. Well, I'm mostly the one who laughs, but she often joins in. Quietly, as is her way. Eventually..."
How does Michael reconcile his Christian faith with the fact that his job currently consists of potentially covering up the sexual crimes of his boss? "The Good Gord sometimes chooses imperfect vessels to work His perfect will," he said. He then went on to tell me the parable of the fire ant and the clinical artificial intelligence psychologist, which ended with a moral about the Good Gord sometimes choosing imperfect vessels to work His perfect will. The more I think about it, the more I think he made the story up.