(That’s right, it’s me, your favorite red-faced ranter from the holler, spittin’ mad as a wet hen in a hailstorm. Weekly World News don’t pay me enough to put up with this hogwash, but somebody’s gotta say it!)
Listen up, you pencil-necked, latte-sippin bureaucrats and their soy-boy sidekicks in Congress! Another government shutdown? AGAIN? What is this, the 47th time this year? I swear on my grandpappy’s moonshine still, if I have to hear one more sob story about furloughed park rangers cryin’ over empty picnic tables, I’m gonna march on the Capitol with my deer rifle and demand a recount—of my blood pressure pills!
WHEN DID CONGRESS GET FILLED UP WITH KNUCKLEHEADS!
Back in my day—oh, sweet mercy, the good ole days, when men were men, women baked pies that could kill a bear, and politicians actually showed up to work without demandin’ a participation trophy—we didn’t have these monthly meltdowns. No sirree! The gov’ment ran like a well-oiled Ford pickup: a little rusty, sure, but it got you from the farm to the feed store without pitchin’ a hissy fit over who gets the bigger slice of the pork barrel. Remember when shutdowns meant the missus turned off the TV ‘cause you forgot to take out the trash? That’s the kinda drama I could handle with a cold beer and a good whuppin’ if I stepped outta line.
But noooo, not in 2025! Now it’s all “border walls versus green new deals” or whatever nonsense these Twitter-addled twits are squawkin’ about this week. One side wants to build a rainbow bridge to Narnia, the other wants to tax your grandma’s false teeth to fund it. And us regular Joes? We’re sittin’ here starvin’ for our Social Security checks while Yosemite’s bears are learnin’ to knit their own parkas ‘cause the rangers are home binge-watchin’ Netflix on unemployment. I tried visitin’ the Lincoln Memorial last month—closed! Abe sittin’ there in the rain, lookin’ sadder than a hound dog with a bad case of the trots, thinkin’, “Four score and seven shutdowns ago, our forefathers brought forth on this continent a new nation… that apparently can’t agree on nothin’ without a filibuster and a fistfight!”
REOPEN WHAT?!
And don’t get me started on the “reopening” circus! They pat themselves on the back like they just split the atom, sign some 2,000-page bill stuffed with enough earmarks to choke a lobbyist, and declare victory. “Crisis averted!” they crow, while the national debt’s balloonin’ bigger than my Uncle Earl after Thanksgiving. Victory? That’s like sayin’ you fixed a leaky roof by punchin’ more holes in it! Next thing you know, they’ll be shuttin’ down the sun ‘cause the solar panels ain’t unionized. Mark my words: by Christmas, they’ll be debatin’ whether Santa’s sleigh needs an electric upgrade or if we should just melt down the North Pole for lithium batteries.
Folks, this ain’t governin’—it’s a bad episode of “Survivor: Capitol Hill,” where the only immunity idol is a fat campaign donation. I long for the days when shutdowns were just what happened to your ol’ lady when you tracked mud in the kitchen. Bring back the rotary phones, the three TV channels (all playin’ Lawrence Welk), and politicians who’d rather arm-wrestle than tweet-storm. Heck, I’d even take Nixon’s enemies list if it meant the post office stayed open so I could mail my complaints without payin’ extra for “expedited outrage.”
GET THEM ALL OUT
So here’s my solution, straight from the heartland: Lock ‘em all in a room with nothin’ but a Bible, a bottle of bourbon, and a copy of the Constitution. No phones, no aides, no vegan kale smoothies. Let ‘em duke it out till they remember what “compromise” means—or at least how to spell it without autocorrect. And if that don’t work? I’ll personally drive my rusted Ram to D.C., hook up the jumper cables to the dome, and yell, “Clear!” till the whole dang thing sparks back to life.
There. I feel better already. Now pass the ammo—I mean, aspirin. And God bless America, before these shutdown clowns shut us all down for good!
Ed Anger is a two-fisted patriot who lives in a holler too patriotic for Google Maps. Send your love/hate mail to editor@weeklyworldnews.com—postage due.
