Vegass Stories: Obama '08

I was sitting around my brother's rather impressive home on Friday when I decided it wasn't enough for me to eat his food and drink his beer as he was awash in the red tape of the real estate world. No, to truly enjoy my vacation I would need to make a mockery of his entire values system. With that noble goal in mind, I organized a Nevadans for Obama meeting to be held at his house.

Damn, it is so easy to organize a gathering of Obama supporters. I made one phone call to Obama's Las Vegas campaign headquarters and less than an hour later there were ten annoyingly enthusiastic Obamaites running around my brother's house. They fixed tofu dogs and fallafel burgers on my brother's grill and left a patchouli oil film on top of his pool, all the while discussing how to tax him back to the prehistoric era. (I like Obama just fine, but I passed on the tofu in favor of a Double Double from In-n-Out Burger)

As we talked about how we could do away with tax loopholes and fill the Supreme Court with activist judges, I heard a familiar voice in the distance.

"What are all of these hybrid cars doing in my driveway?"

Holy shit, it was my brother. One of his clients canceled on him and he came home early.

As he looked around at all of the Obama '08 signs in his backyard, my brother became so enraged I thought his heart would explode. His face was as red as a baboon's ass and all he could do was stammer like the dad from A Christmas Story when the Bumpus hounds ate the Christmas turkey.

I never knew my brother was proficient in the exquisite art of the samurai sword, but he unsheathed a Hitori Hanso and went Kill Bill on those poor optimistic sons of bitches. Soon the swimming pool was choked with dead liberals. Those still alive writhed on the ground, searching desperately for their severed limbs.

My life was spared, but I was thrown out of Stately Vast Right Wing Conspirator Manor and had to spend a few nights at an East Las Vegas YMCA. I left when I was asked to share a cot with a guy named Dragon.

My brother thinks he had the last laugh, but little does he know I signed him up to receive Al Franken's weekly newsletter. Oh, and I kinda drugged him and sorta replaced his blood with Michael Moore's blood.