Over five hundred Republicant lawmakers, bigshots and underwear salesmen gathered at the Slather City auditorium on Tuesday for a friendly debate. The topic? Whether or not women actually have souls.
Mr. Philip Bluster was the first person to take to the podium. He rode a giraffe to the stage. A red plastic slide was attached to the poor creature’s haunches, from which Bluster slid down onto the stage. He shouted “Wheeeee!” The giraffe collapsed and died, but not before singing the first verse of “Don’t Cry For Me Argentina.”
Bluster walked to the podium and cleared his throat. “A woman’s place is in the home,” he said. “Well, come to think of it, my father’s place was in the home, too. Especially when it was cold outside. When it wasn’t, my father would usually sleep in his treehouse and play with his toy soldiers. Now that I think of it, a treehouse is also a kind of home. So where is a home, really? It’s where the heart is, and I left my heart in San Francisco. I was forced to give it to a little Thai fella to feed my habit. Come to find out just a few days later that Coke is, in fact, one of the most popular beverages in the world, and I needn’t have made such a big sacrifice. Well, live and learn, I suppose. What was the question?”
Duncan Skunkbottoms was up next. “I seem to have soiled myself,” he said, giggling. “I was playing on that little hill out back and got dirt all over myself. But that’s cool. There was an old rope attached to a tree where we could swing like Tarzan and then jump, getting some waaaay wicked air. Anyway, I do believe the question for the day is whether women have soul. Well, I’d have to disagree with some of you and say that, yes, some women do have soul. Aretha Franklin is the Queen of Soul. My wife, however, does not have soul. She can barely carry a tune. But she did carry me over the threshold, so that has to count for something. Also, she carried me during our prizefight. I was out on my feet by the third round but she waited until the sixth to knock me out. She wanted to give the fans their money’s worth. And I admire her for that.”
Finally, after dozens of speeches, it was getting close to eight O’clock, which meant that for several of the attendees it was getting dangerously close to milk and story time. But the keynote speaker was next. He was a very respected man, so nobody left quite yet.
Longtooth Flatulence, owner of the Hunny Rabbit Fon Town Arcade stepped up to the podium. “Now listen here ya little varmints,” he said, “we all know that the vegans, with their carrot fingers and their lettuce hats, have been attempting to de-ball even the manliest of us hootenannies. But we won’t stand for it no longer. Na! Hippies are the ones who stand! From now on we’ll either walk or jog in place. We will no longer remain at rest!”
Suddenly, everyone got up out of their seats and started walking in place. Unfortunately, most of the attendees were morbidly obese, at the very best. The physical exertion meant that some of the attendees simply dropped dead. Others began to vomit violently. By the time it was all over, nearly 67.5% of the attendees were either dead or singing Cher songs, which we can all agree is a fate worse than death.
And so, like many questions of the day, this one would have to stay unanswered.