It came in the mail the other day, an official and frightening looking envelope from the Federal Government. The possibilities race to your mind. Cripes. No. Not another audit. Just because I claimed those 16 Russian brides in the catalogue as dependents. Can’t America take a joke any more? (Pictured, My godson, Dr. Rupricht, once cloned a sheep’s head to his 8th grade P.E. teacher’s body.)
I squinted and looked closer. Blessedly, the correspondence wasn’t from the IRS nor at nearly 60 was I getting drafted and sent to Vietnam or whomever we’re fighting these days.
It seems my Rupricht was being studied by the feds.
You’re right.
Rupricht is not his real name. On the off-chance President Barack Zoolander and one of his many Political Correctness czars Googles his real name and find this small, rural internet sand-painting in his honor, I don’t want Ruppie “accidentally” being lumped in with some flea-infested mad bombers in the latest Democratic Party sissy PR stunt federal trial.
Here’s an amazing thing about my godson, Rupricht:
Except for three years of life, Rup-Rup has been in school. Pre-school. Kindergarten. Elementary. Jr. High. High School. College. Post-graduate. Med school. Residency at USC for five years and now, he is one of a handful of specialist surgeons in the world to study some new procedure.
I think it’s called E.B.T.
Entire Butt Transplants.
Kidding.
Maybe.
For some daft reason, herr Dr. Ruprict scribbled my name as a character reference. I will, of course, do the good-Uncley-Wunkley/godfather-ish thing and pass along what a peach the guy is and if any aging billionaires in the pharmaceutical business out there have daughters, I can probably wangle letting out his cell number.
Ruprict and I go back. Way back. Like birth (his). Ruprict isn’t his real name. He’s in his mid-30s now but it seems like yesterday when I was making motorcycle noises on his tummy and carrying him around on my shoulders.
Still. I am sorely tempted to imbelish. It is, after all, what I do for a career. But, I won’t. Here’s my letter of recommendation to the Federal Butt & Brain Doctor Certification Board:
Dear NFB&BP’s (Nosey Federal Butt & Brain People):
Thank you for the envelope of unnecessarily thick federal forms and the prejudicial assumption that whomever reads these out will obviously not condemn said applicant to some hellish 1984 torment.
It is my good pleasure to recommend my godson Ruprict (not his real name) for the post of Federal Female Body Inspector and Human Clone Mad Scientist.
Despite some snippy accusations in the monthly newspaper up there, if Mrs. Dia wasn’t quite dead, she wasn’t feeling very well and it would have only been a matter of time before she kicked the bucket. Who knows. In the scheme of the universe, don’t all of us have but a few scant years?
Looking at the bigger picture, for glueing the sheep’s head to Mrs. Dia’s body, Ruprict got an A-minus on his project at the County Youth Science & Ag Fair in Sonoma!
It was a really cool project, too.
Ruprict hooked the gym teacher/sheep’s head to an old 8-track and got her/it to sing that Santa Clause song. You know: “Ewe better watch out, ewe better not cry…”? Bonus, he wired her jaw so that her mouth moved as the music poured forth.
Despite the fact that Ruprict is nearly 9-feet tall, drools and walks sideways in a curious crab-like gait, I am confident he will make a snappy mad scientist for our current ever-growing mad dog fascist state, although with the imminent passage of the $900 trillion-gazillion Universal Health Care, instead of being an underpaid doctor, I think he could better spend his time as a wealthy Botox distributor in the private sector.
I know you guys give bonus points to minorities, so I’d also like to point out that besides being the top of the top of his class, my godson is a paleoindian hunter/gatherer. I wouldn’t worry much about Ruprict being a specialized brain and butt surgeon with giant webbed hands with the oozing sores like he has, either. I know how you feds love hiring the handicapped.
I mean, cripes.
Look at Eric Holder, the alleged attorney general.
Another thing about Rupricht? That guy can put away the suds, too. He’d be perfect for one of those daily President Zoolander apology photo ops.
Well. Hope this helps. And if it doesn’t, he is too damn good for your multi-million-dollar federal grant to begin with and if you’re going to take that kind of holier-than-thou attitude, you can just take my tax money and …
Excuse me.
I hear Mrs. Dia in the side yard bleating. Must be 5 a.m. I’m going to set out a tray of enchiladas and some Hamms beer for her.
Your servant,
John Boston- Commentary
John Boston, aka Mr. Santa Clarita Valley, was recently named Best Humor Writer in North America to go along with 117 other major writing awards. His webpage, thebostonreport.net, is undergoing a brand new hepcat national look and will be unveiled soon. Tune into his weekly radio show, “The Former Friends of John Boston” on KHTS AM 1220 every Monday at 2 p.m.
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