"This is a huge step towards progress," says M.S. Punchenko, who has been waiting more than four years to enter into an official legal relationship with a toaster named Helen<3, his long-time life partner and a registered Democrat. "If I could get Helen registered to vote for Robert Menendez in midterm elections, she might as well be entitled to my health insurance, inheritance, and adoption rights," he says.
M.S. Punchenko, director of the "People For Sexual Liberation Of Appliances" of New Jersey, had sued the state for the right to marry a toaster, and now he expects toaster/humyn couples to be able to get officially married in New Jersey within two years.
Excited grass root activists unleashed a state-wide campaign to raise awareness of the new bill. "I know that the majority of New Jerseyites - and Americans for that matter - are just like us, they couldn't wait to marry a roommate, a pet, a utensil, or a household appliance," says Sandra Graham-Bale of Newark who has recently exchanged wedding vows with a vibrating Gillette shaver named Igor. "The only reason why most people aren't celebrating in the streets must be the lack of awareness. That's why we need this campaign, to let the people know that they are free now!"
Complaints from local residents about the excesses of grass roots campaigners include a story of Joe Damico who walked out to his parked car in Paramus when someone asked him, "Do you own this car sir?" He replied, "I do" - and now all his benefits at work have been turned over to his 1998 Honda Civic.
Another Trenton resident has become a husband to a pair of New York Jets tickets after answering "I do" to a workmate on a construction site who asked if anyone wanted to see a ball game.
In Hackensack, two unsuspecting men were chatting as they walked down the roofing supplies aisle in a local Home Depot store, when at the end of the aisle they were suddenly greeted by a cheering group of associates and pronounced husband and husband.
"We might go a little over the edge sometimes," admits Mrs. Igor-Graham-Bale, "but considering years of oppression we have suffered, whatever we do is not nearly enough. We have a full cooperation of local authorities - the ACLU took care of that."
Predictably, the hasty marriages resulted in a skyrocketing divorce rate. A case was filed in Hoboken by a man who accepted a quarter from a coworker for a vending machine but cannot spend as he is now married to it. He wants out, citing irreconcilable differences.
Another man contacted a Maytag technician requesting a sex-change operation on a two-slice toaster who allegedly wanted to become a male. "The guy was all shook up," recalls the technician. "To learn such news two days after the wedding would break anyone's heart. I applaud him for wanting to preserve the marriage no matter what. It's really heartening to see that some of us still take family values seriously."
"Love counts," says AssemblymanWilfredo Caraballo (D-Essex), a chief sponsor of the bill."The gender, species, brand, or vitality of whom one loves should not matter to the state." Caraballo and some other lawmakers said they would work for full marriage rights for multi-sexual-oriented couples, groups, and consortia.
Others bristled at the notion. "It's my personal belief, faith, and religious practice that marriage has been defined in the Bible*," said Assemblyman Ronald Dancer (R-Ocean) as he dragged his knuckles, swaying back and forth in front of his cave." And this is one time that I cannot compromise my bigoted troglodyte beliefs and faiths."
Dancer's conservative constituents are raising questions, in particular, whether an illegal alien who enters in a civil union with an American toaster will be eligible for a work permit, followed by full US citizenship and voting rights.
The court, in its 4-3 ruling, left it up to the Legislature to decide whether to call such unions "marriages" or something else. Civil rights advocates said they would continue to push for the right to marry, arguing that not calling such unions "marriage" creates a different, and inferior, institution. "I will force my down everyone's throat until you accept the love between me and the toaster!" says Punchenko. "And if you don't, I will go down to Hollywood and personally demand that a toaster/humyn couple is present in every TV show and movie! You will accept us!"
*Bible = Judeo-Christian user manual
(feel free to add your own captions)
Its my sad duty to report that Helen and I have decided to split. Yes, I know, this comes as a shock to some of you -- but I had good reason! I caught that little tart with the blender! I am ashamed and appalled that I got involved with a toaster that would sell itself for cheap mixed drinks and for a blender that only has three speeds. Uggh, my little Helen, my little Helen went off and betrayed me.
That slut, that harlot, JEZEBEL! JEEEEZZZEEEBEELLLL! I'm sorry, I'm just so overcomed with emotion right now. I bought her a new toaster cover for the Solstice Celebration -- a new toaster cover! One with diamonds sewn in! WHY DARWIN!? WHY DO YOU TORMENT US MERE MORTALS!? Ok, deep breaths Meow, remember what Dr. Fuku told you. Pheew, Ok, I'm better. Because of our split, I have found myself with a nice bowl of oatmeal named Michelle. Its a sweet bowl of oatmeal and I think this relationship might be going somewhere. If it doesn't, then I can always wind up in the plugs of a vacuum cleaner I met at Sears. Its name is Wanda. Yes, shes a bit of a tramp, but she is also a Dyson, and nothing holds it's suction like a Dyson. She might be the one!
HELEN IS DEAD TO ME!
There's no use crying in your Victory Gin! When a horse throws you, you've just got to climb back on (or shoot it as Comrade Hathaway suggests).
Madame Svetlana introduced me to a real cutie at the ISG gala. She's a hot little Cuisinart (...and a four slicer - wink wink nudge nudge) named Trixie. If you're interested I can hook you up with her sister.
Don't worry about me comrades, that Dyson vacuum, Wanda, is what I'm after! You should see the accessories on her, wheeewwww weeee!
PUT DOWN THAT CARROT! HE FEELS, THINKS AND LOVES TOO!
Lettuce murderer! Carrot killer! I don't eat anything that has a sprout you murderer!
You said that she's "dead to you". Does that mean she's "toast"? Sorry, I know you're the resident punmeister, here.
*sigh*, I can only wish the best for Helen, she is on her way now to meet her manufacturer in that big Maytag repair shop in the sky. Goodbye Helen, goodbye my sweet metallic little Helen.
AND HELLO WANDA<3! GRRRR....
BOTH...but you knew that :)
I heard that during the contretemps in the Kennedy compound in Florida when William Kennedy Smith pronged that fool girl, that Teddy appeared wearing only a shirt and asking for some service. And we are told that Our Exalted President Clinton did the same thing in the White Trash House and in an Arkansas hotel room, asking a woman to kiss it. Is this eating vegetables? Is eating a root eating a vegetable. Is eating a root of a vegetable the same thing?
And anyway, if you want to marry a vegetable and Teddy Kennedy is taken, why not go to the endless sources of vegetables and marry the John Deere factory? AmeriKKKan efficiency and Soviet sentiment. And you can consummate your marriage in the Moscow subway station under the watchful eye of totalitarian art.
To show how wonderful they were, he wore loose clothing and put one in his shirt neck, expecting it to come out his pants cuffs. It bit him in the balls. Serves him right and I only hope he hadn't reproduced to pass on those stupid genes.
Commissar Theocritus is of the unrepentant opinion that there oughn't be seat-belt laws. People stupid enough not to wear them deserve to die, but what of the children, you ask? They're stupid too. What about neighbors' children? If the neighbors are stupid enough to let their children ride with people that stupid, the neighbors' children are stupid too.
Oh. But wait. Aren't we supposed to be breeding for stupid people who will believe all our shit?
Would you do me the honor of being my beard? Together we can use our jackboots to stomp on the necks of the proles while telling them that the queers are all to blame. And what do I care about hypocrisy? After I get real good at it I'll take a job at CNN. But I'll have a lot of catching up to do to get to Julianne Malveaux and John King. Now they could teach Brutus and Judas a thing or too.
Please say yes, Direktor Irina. All the towels in the house are in lovely colors.
For Blue is the new color Red!
I thought of you, dear Direktor, here at the Hyatt Regency in Wichita as I ate excellent food taken from the tables of the Capitalist Oppressor Pigs and then as midnight came was watching the HD television, liberated from the RepubliKKKan governor's mansion, and I wished you were here with me to see our Empress Hillary.
She was at a religious ceremony with a manger with live animals, to further her presence, and was talking and talking, as she always does. At the stroke of midnight, though, she shut up and the animals started talking.
That's the first time I've seen a four-legged jackass talk and a two-legged bitch shut up.
I am also impressed at the wonderous religious ceremony you partook of. That was an event surely only the most privileged could attend. A very worldly Commissar you must be.
Further stories like that from you might force me to inquire into the price of a tasteful intimate ceremony at Wawel cathedral.
In addition, since I shall be pretending to be heterosexual I shall be engaging in a big lie, which is another Trump card.
And you have nothing on me. I was not given my towels. They were offered me by the scion of the Nieman Marcus family as a contribution to the party, as insurance that they would not be forced to leave their dachas. I was offered his and hers private islands, and bathtubs full of diamonds, but what does Direktor Irina need with diamonds? She outshines them all. And islands? For her to hide on? I want to parade her, on my arm, dressed in our finest matching jackboots and brown shirts, by the Kremlin in Red Square on May Day.
And it's Chairman Puchenko, for now; I have in the offing a Lavender Velvet Revolution where you will find your dacha, a room at Motel 69, occupied by Rosie O'Donnell and Direktor Irina, if she will have me, will be in the penthouse at Trump Tower while The Donaldski fetches vodka and gives her foot massages with his stubby fingers, and polishes our jackboots with his hair-piece. I have found a use for it.
And Jocko, Mike and Harry are quite infra dig. Cheap exploiters and camera hogs and drama queens all. I snap my fingers at things like that. I am currently in negotiations for buying controlling interest in Gold's Gym, where the maintenance is much less. No bling, just mirrors. No Gaultier, just Nike. And the sound of grunts is much pleasanter than the shrieks over a broken fingernail.
Also, Jocko is not in fact a homosexual man. I was recently through Roswell, NM and on main street are many shops selling UFO memoriabilia. The cheekbones are the same. And all of the thin green men have noses which are falling off and only one glove.
And those gloves came in a boxed set with Sister Massively Opiated's Dustbuster, made by Vietnamese Lesbians whose arms are put on backwards.
Are you mashugganah? You're thinking of "Goyem".
However, while I'm casting aspersions, which I do trippingly and even in my sleep, let me recall Lee Atwater's desciption of His Holiness, the Right Reverend Jesse Jackson as "An Afro-turf toilet plunger."
My hat's off. Do you realize your accomplishment? While at Rice I received a bullshit award. And for that place? Astonishing.
You are my heroine.
But of course in the Kollective there are winners and losers. Who after all determines who gets the nice dachas or any at all? It's not based on the color of eyes. (Mine are blue by the way.)
I rather suspect that Michael has already entered into a liaison dangereuse with an appliance from Doc Johnson and the wedding band was made of chrome-plated steel chain links.
But, and take this from a view perhaps more professsional than that of the others on this page, it seems unlikely from the affect of Whacko Jacko that he is actually doing anything intrusive in his fondling. (Believe it or not, there is a pecking order among homosexuals, and child-fingerers are at the bottom.) I have heard that he is of the school of George "Dancing Queen" Michael, who gets his jollies showing his little bits in public places. At least Whacko Jacko paid for his own amusement park instead of haunting public venues in London and Los Angeles.
Have you seen the German artist who, with the permission (he says) plasticizes bodies? I suspect that Whacko Jacko is one of his efforts in a joint venture with Disney to make an Animatronic robot. Thriller.
And do not be impressed with what I pass off as linguistic ability: I have taken great pains to learn to type with my head up my ass. And if you heard me--"Turn yore lats own brat tah-nat" which ought to be "Turn your lights on bright tonight." And those excellent Japanese cars are Tah-OH-ders. I was impressed that not only would one know viz much less that it was short for videlicet. This is tall cotton for those of us schooled in five-year plans and how many calories a peasant may live on after his cow is confiscated for the Glory of the State.
Regarding voltage and amperage: let us just say that faggot is a state of mind.
No, I have not seen Evita's corpse. Perhaps she could share an adjoining slab with Lenin. And if Algore ever is yanked to his feet, dislodging the toilet plunger from his ass, he could collapse on the floor at their feet and the gas released from his ass could be transcribed by David Corn into another blockbuster best-seller entitled, I Really Didn't Steal My Last Book from Ted Kazcinsky. Serialized, of course, in The Nation.
And I'm currently in a dispute with a priest writing a book about early Christian pacifism and I maintain that not resisting evil is evil, which point was advanced when JPII apologized for the Church not doing more for the Jews. Do you think that this will go down well?
Hmm. Mad Jesuit astronomer. If the word astrologer didn't have that whiff of, well, astrology, then that would be the word that we use today. But perhaps I'm being jesuitical. Or equivocal. Or even pusillanimous.
And can you channel Coyotes? We're up to our asses in them here in the desert. In fact I know someone who lives so far in the desert that when he gets up he has to sweep the coyote turds up off the kitchen floor.
My god, but I'm turning into a cunning linguist. Oh. That's a dyke. The distaff side.
Time for the red-dyed Krisko to put a hole in the heart of a kulak.
Sweet dreams, my semidigited love. Until we meet in the Socialist People's Republik where mine is mine and all yours is mine.