Rep. Dennis Kucinich introduced 35 Articles of Impeachment on the floor of the House on Monday. This afternoon, I sent this letter to the editor of the Illinois Times for publication. Since it may never see newsprint, I will publish it here for the digital set, after the encouragement of Suzanne (thank you).

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If the opportunity to impeach President Bush has passed, so has the chance to repudiate hijacking through deliberate deception the country's civil, military, and economic resources by our highest elected officials.

Phase II of the pre-war Iraq intelligence report provides the most definitive statement to date that the administration's public statements and policy actions contradicted available intelligence or relied on unsubstantiated claims.

All the U.S. soldiers' and Iraqi civilians' lives lost, billions of dollars spent, slipping status of the U.S. in the world, a failing economy -- is the President going to escape a formal trial for deceiving the public and Congress, misdirecting the military, and subsequently contributing to all these problems? Mismanagement is not criminal, but co-opting national services and risking lives through subreption, or deliberate misrepresentation, qualifies heartily.

Kit Bond (R-Mo), a member of the Intelligence Committee, gave examples in his dissent of other public figures making similar faulty claims. Good company doesn't substantiate innocence, especially when the architects of the deceptions relied upon are clearly identifiable.

The new political season is already here, and most seem content to ignore these revelations for promises of honest and just governance by the next administration. But if this President skips out of the White House unshackled by his crimes, we have no assurance against future hijackings by singular visionaries willing to sacrifice the country's resources, values, and well-being.

Sarah, you really are too much. When you announced that you were going to start the second season of The Sarah Silverman Program in October in honor of my birthday, I thought that was so sweet. Recently, though, I saw that the debut episode is actually on my birthday, October 3rd! You must have really called in some favors at Comedy Central HQ to make that happen. How you ever managed to squeeze your program in among many possible scheduling conflicts -- what with all those reruns of Mad TV and the contractual necessity of airing The Money Pit at least twice a month ... Needless to say, it must've taken hours of negotiating that I don't even want to know the scope of, lest I might think you went through too much trouble. I really do appreciate it.

You may be shocked, Sarah, to see this blog post so candidly discussing our relationship for the whole world to read. I figured since our relationship, via my birthday, is actually influencing a cable station's programming schedule that there was no longer any sense in hiding our deep, deep love for each other. And the hot sex. The sweet, hot, sweaty, toe-curling sex. Your pussy's like a song. Something by Led Zeppelin, maybe.

Love always,
Daymon

Whenever I wear flip-flops, I feel like I should apologize for it. "I'm sorry. When I rolled out of bed to come over, I couldn't be troubled with putting on socks and shoes. Have you seen the state of my dresser? Most of my time getting ready for work is spent searching for a matching pair of socks. I might as well try to reconcile a calculus equation. It would be less stressful.

Shoes? Laces? Tying? It's a whole big thing. So I found these bits of rubber and plastic that just kind of sit under my feet, kept awkwardly in place by a strap between my toes. You should try them. I won't hold it against you, as long as you let me slide, too.

It pains me to point out, though, that you might be looking at this all wrong. I didn't feel the need to put something on my feet -- anything, in fact, from two pieces of cardboard to masses of electrical tape -- to avoid walking on your dirty floor. To the contrary, your floor isn't dirty enough. What will really make me appreciate coming over is flipping up detritus to become trapped between my foot and the sandal; then, with each step I'll grind those bits of your life into the soles of my feet. Cracker crumbs, the plastic ring from a gallon of milk, whatever the hell that is -- all of it reminds me of you and the fun time we've had. I'll take all this with me now and see what other surprises I've picked up when I get home."

"What do you think of my new sandals?"
"I forgive you."

There's a requisite level of insanity that must be met to work in an office. Each required mindset is comparable to a recognized mental illness, although none of them is nearly as romantic as its full-blown comparison.

Autism. Except for the remarkable intelligence or aptitude in a particular area, most office workers carry with them the earmarks of autism: underdeveloped social skills, obsessive attention to minutia, compulsory and repetitive physical motions, and inappropriate touching. Behavior seldom reaches the level of sociopathism, but the potential for outburst is ever-present -- even if only by intra-office e-mail. All of these characteristics are almost charming in the right worker, but caution is advised. They're still dangerous.

Schizophrenia. Delusions of grandeur ("No one here works as hard as I do. I could run this place."), fear of persecution ("That guy has been spying on my work progress all day."), imagined enemies ("Someone's been dulling my pencils." "So-and-so doesn't refill the ice trays because she thinks she's better than me."), and false alliances.

Fecophilia. A little-known statistic: most coworkers eat shit and die. Or at least, they should.

The best thing that can be said about most office workers is "it's a good thing they're off the streets."

It seems too often that our egos are dependent on convincing others that the way we do things is moral, productive, and right. The problem is that "life steering" businesses are so profitable.

Will a music reviewer ever type the magic combination of words and sentences that finally convinces the world that Britney Spears is untalented? Will a movie critic ever convince the population that it's not worth their time to watch the same mundane love story with its hackneyed comedic foibles and inexplicable worship of all things Julia Roberts? No, and lucky for you, Mr. Movie Critic. If you finally convinced people that these movies tell the same stories over and over, no one would hire you to review the movie so that you can tell them that. Muster as much indignation as possible, Mr. Movie Critic, another bland, formulaic love story has hit the screen. Put righteous pen to paper and try not to smile at the fact that if these movies ever stopped being released you'd lose your paycheck.

Does this mean that we should allow such audio-visual drivel to leak out of Hollywood's loose anus uncriticized? Certainly not. But what it does mean is that those who seem to care so much about what enters our eyes and ears, who really do seem to be benevolently looking out for our well-being, purely from an altruistic standpoint, are profiting by exposing our habitual shortcomings, so their diatribes must be greeted with a reasonable amount of skepticism.

Dr. Phil is an excellent example of faux paternal benevolence springing from a geyser of profit. Besides convincing most of America that he deserves the title "Dr." but is cool enough to follow it with his first name, he will appear in your home, if you so choose -- it's up to you; he only helps if you turn on your TV -- to give you budgeting tips, marital counseling, and self-esteem pep talks. On a recent episode he advised a husband that he should stop criticizing his wife's decorating scheme and knick-knack collection because women deserve to decorate their homes any way they want; it's their realm.

He declared it as though he was revolutionizing gender politics, as though women have been systematically denied equal access to and prominence over domestic concerns. Oh and the women in the audience the vehemently applauded the declaration with their fat, overly moisturized hands -- happy to bask in the Doctor's wisdom and let it soak into their permed craniums. They felt like they received a gift from Phil that day, instead of being encouraged to sequester themselves in traditional roles and values.

O'Reilly wants to convince us that he who screams loudest wins; Donahue that snow white hair makes him wise; Ted Kennedy that his nose is so red only to lead Santa's sleigh through inclement weather, not from alcoholism; Geraldo that his credibility is not completely derived from his moustache; police that laws must be followed even if unjust; Reagan that drugs do more harm than good; Bush that he is the "decider."

Glorified chain-mail letters all of it. You'd be better advised to turn the channel from Dr. Phil to that psychic guy. Is he still on?

Should I be lumped in with all these losers because of trying to convice readers of this pathetic, seldom-updated blog that I'm right? No, because I openly admit I do this for ego-profit. Everytime someone leaves a comment, the hairs on my anus prickle in a delightful dance of glee.

"I'd buy that for a dollar."
"If you don't, the next shmuck will."

Central Illinois' finally remembered that there's no Springfield without Spring, and most would agree that Spring in its traditional sense is more akin to recent mild temperatures and sunshine rather than the freezing rain, snowfall, and tornados preceding. Although it would have been interesting, from a psychological perspective, to catalog the surge in the suicide rate if a snowy tornado, or snow-nado, capped off this bizarre season, most probably welcome the more traditional Spring in the field.

So now, all the office workers can be seen walking on their breaks and lunches. For instance, the man and woman who whizz by my window every morning, doing their best imitation of competitive speed walkers. Their heads bobble-like, arms stiff and flailing in peaks and valleys, legs propelled forth by straining leg muscles -- it looks like a synchornized seizure, but with the elusive goal of tighter buns and healthier respiratory systems.

On my way to Goodwill to kill time during my lunch break by looking at records from the 80s and earlier (oh, so many Christmas compilations), I saw an older gentleman, also imitating a walking catatonic. There was something different to this man's palsied and breathless excursion: pinned to the center of his sweater vest, displayed prominently by his proudly puffed chest, was a little ribbon -- of the award type, like for a prize pig or science fair entry. Had he made this accomplished decoration himself for a competition only known to him? A competition scheduled, trained for, endured, and celebrated all in his mind?

"Congratulations to our runner-up!"
"Thanks, me. I did do a good job, didn't I?"

On the coattails of two tornados, which nearly swept all of Springfield to Oz, rode in this year's central Illinois Spring. The menu includes a strong chance of four to eight inches of snow, with "blowing snow" after midnight. When I was younger I thought that meant the radio was giving us permission to use snow blowers after midnight. It was not a suggestion, but a command, as though any disturbance of snow on the ground before that time might actually cause additional bad weather.

Why should Winter transform into Spring this year anyway? The seasons are just keeping trend with the static nature of everything else. The United States is fighting the same war in Iraq, and the administration is still trying to distract us from its longevity (although it was a novel effort having Cheney get drunk and shoot a 78-year-old man in the face, it's the same old three card monte shuffle-and-hide strategy). One of my coworkers, when asked a question, still responds, "Yes?" in a tone that suggests he means, "How may my brilliance enrich your life today?" And, Illinois citizens must still must declare a party affiliation to vote in the primary, although the policy is up for an advisory vote tomorrow (just ask for a referendum ballot).

We'll all still hang out at the Brewhaus, and you still won't convince me that a 3am is a good idea.

So let's enjoy nine more months of Winter. It is possible to grow so accustomed to our balls escaping the cold through constant retraction and nipples being hard enough to type with that we might begin to like it.

"What about the groundhog?"
"He died of cancer."

Too many books of poetry read like habits of highly effective people.

There's more poetry in a miner's syrupy, black-lung cough; the politician's smile as bright and metallic as the grill on his Lexus SUV; and a swine's shrill squeal before slaughter.

Little Herve "Tattoo" Villechaize sings, "Why don't we know what children know?" and William (H. Christ) Shatner is a Rocketman. A rocket, man. But the only things heard are the thighs of obese American office workers, rubbed raw by the cotton and polyester pants sewn by a little kid, hungry without breakfast, in a country we couldn't find on a globe. The fat herd coaxed through the cattle run, pumped full of antibiotics, the males' prostates pinched from over-reproduction and the females' teats swollen by hormones.

A rich political hustler treats the world like he does his woman -- a three-car garage in which to park his dick.

The new Eucharist comes as a depository that is slowly dissolved by anal enzymes throughout the day. Occasional gentle sphincter flexes keeps it in place. At sundown, the holy-water enema flushes any particulate matter remaining, such as undigested bits of beef, disengaged chunks of willpower, and pointy kernels of self-esteem.

When young, we recognize the differences of each day. When we age, we struggle to see past the similarities.

"Son of a bitch feels like its coming out sideways."
"Thats 'cuz it is."

New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin emerged as a champion of people whose livelihoods were destroyed by oversight, carelessness, and failure. "Failure," a word that has become synonymous with the Bush administration, the most apropos being "intelligence failure."


(Another nonexistent exit strategy.)

Although the city is now dry, clean-up crews neglected to clear the muddy waters from inside Nagin's skull. The detritus have settled. As a prelude to the day when insanity will fully take hold and he will reveal himself to be RayNagu, the world's most loveable performing Asian seal, Ray proclaimed his divine understanding of God's plan in sending the hurricanes. God is discontent with America for invading Iraq and for the black community's unwillingness to care for its women and children. As if child neglect ever needed such an elaborate excuse.


(They are both very cute.)

Of course these comments are reminiscent of Pat Buchanan's diatribes regarding Ariel Sharon's stroke, the gay community's insistence on remaining gay, and the cultural diversity of yogurt. ("I just don't think blackberries should be commingling with creamy white dairy.") Buchanan will incidentally one day reveal himself to be "The Brokeback Preacher."


(Buchanan in "Crazy Conservatives Love Creamy Bukkake IX.")

Listen up, Christians. God hates you. "Hate" is probably too strong of a word. He's indignantly dismissive. He's your cousin from a big city who can't figure out "what you do here."

Jesus might dig you, which is amazing considering we killed him instead of having the respect to let him rant himself into homelessness and then scuttling him off to prison on spurious drug charges. Jesus tells Dad, "Aw, they're alright. Let them hang with us." Any of us should be so lucky to have a friend so generous. (But the crown of thorns was a hoot, wasn't it?)

I say, hey, it's your religion; desecrate it in any way you want. Just don't save me a seat in your handbasket. I know where you're heading, and I'd rather be left behind.