By Ron. Who else could write this well?

One day Barry the Magic Muslim decided to visit his old friend Vacuous Nancy, the brain-damaged ex-hippy, in her make-believe cottage on the shores of Bottomless Welfare Pond. He wanted his partner, Jerkwad Joe, to go with him, but Joe had a previous appointment with his analyst who was helping him search for his common sense, which he had misplaced several years ago and been unable to find since.

So he asked Gigolo Jacques, the horse-faced veteran of countless imaginary battles against perfectly innocent little brown people, to go with him. Jacques loved to make up stories and then go tell them to the old white-haired men who sat around in the building with the big dome eating pork sandwiches and blowing smoke at cameras. One of his favorites was a fabulous saga about modern soldiers emulating Genghis Khan, raping, pillaging, and burning their way through the Indochina peninsula in pursuit of personal glory for racism’s sake.

Barry liked Nutty Nancy because you never quite knew what funny thing she’d come up with next to say. She’d long ago replaced her cerebrum with an overripe cantaloupe and lost the ability to process reality in the trade. That loss of steering and the whimsical approach to life it brought made her a lot more fun than the bisexual, piano-legged, pottymouth penis envier who had been such a pest over much of the past several years.

Jacques and Barry sometimes liked to hang out at the gym where that narcissistic hot-dog guy used to take pictures of his naked torso and e-mail them to people who didn’t particularly want to see them. The snapshots of the guy’s “Whitey Bulger” intrigued Barry, though they held little interest for Jacques, who preferred to look for rich widowed white women.

In the crotch of a fairy dust tree they found Jabber-Jabber Jay, who had never ever learned to tell the truth so well, but he could play a hot mike just like ringin a bell. He was sitting there practicing his incantations while watching a RINO butt his head against a jabberwock bush down near Unicorn Swamp.

They thought about stopping by Stonewall Labyrinth to see what Eric the Knave was up to, but it was so easy to get lost in there that they decided against it. Besides, Eric almost never had an opinion on anything and just borrowed one from a handy reverend, such as Al or Jesse or Jerry, when he thought one might be necessary.

Jay reminded Barry that Slow-Talking Chuck, who had been a senator until he donated his brain for research at the Center for Sudden Mind Death Studies in Poughkeepsie, had wanted to play soldiers with them that day. Barry thought that over for a moment and then told Jay to put him in touch with Frat-Boy John McStain so he’d forget about playing war with Barry and Jacques.

As they crossed the Bridge of a Thousand Lies, they were beset by a gaggle of toads sent by Ms Enbeecie who wanted a statement on the caution about the demise of Al Qaeda in the land of the Moon Loons. As he had no access to his trusty idiotproofer, Barry recited a talking point on the need to control private weapons and stop all production and use of fossil fuels.

When the See BS toad thrust a mike his face, Jacques began chanting a well-rehearsed cabala extolling the virtues of Paleosimians and the contributions of Moose Limbs to world culture.

It was then that “Spondi” (Spontaneous Demonstration) Rice came running up to them shouting, “The sky is falling! The sky is falling!! We must run and hide!” She went on to explain how she was tossing her dried Tibetan Yeti foot at the pixie dust pattern she had drawn on her virtual séance board when Tinker Belle emerged from the screen and whispered in her ear that the ghosts of assassinated Al Qaeda leaders were planning an attack on every US embassy and consulate in the solar system.

“I smell Tea Party here. This clearly is the work of some evil genius, perhaps the Witch of the North, Shotgun Sarah, or Pugnacious Paul,” said Barry.

“It has the stench of Cocky Karl about it. I say we spend the day on my yacht, eating truffles and drinking sherry, safe from the contaminating influence of poor people who didn’t have the wisdom to marry above their station.”

“No,” Barry said with an expression on his face as if an errant thought had lodged in his mind and was causing him great discomfort. Original thoughts were frightening to him, and unless Gigabucks George or Meretricious Moochelle approved of them, they gave him that sour taste in his mouth as if he’d vurped his Sam Adams.

“No, what we need here is a speech. It’s what I do, and it’s what people expect. If anything will allay their fears and placate the followers of Muhammad (PBUH), it’s a nice rousing speech full of generalities, platitudes, clichés, and doubletalk. Nothing calms them down more quickly than half an hour of hot air. The only thing we have to fear is the blacks and Latinos discovering reality. Spondi, get my team on that right away. Make it about 20 minutes . . . don’t want to overdo it.”

And with that he pulled his St. Travon hoodie up over his nappy head, climbed aboard Dumbo, and soared off into the safety of his shining castle on the banks of the Food Stamp River at the foot of Ethnic Loyalty Mountain on EBT Highway in Shangri-La.

In the meantime, Ambassador Feierstein barricaded himself in his quarters in Sana’a and contemplated the process of turning an entire desert peninsula into multicolored glass.

Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!