That Snot Right

One Protester's Weapon of Mass Revulsion

by Gross-out King Chris Riordan

I donít get sick very often, and when I do I like to make the most of it. My path back to health typically consists of entire days spent lying on the couch smoking pot and watching television.

Between the pot and the chest cold, I found myself coughing up phlegm every five minutes. After getting sick of getting out of bed to spit in the sink over and over, I dumped the pot out of its ziplock bag into a little green mound on the nightstand and started spitting in the bag. After a few hours, it was so full and gross I decided to keep spitting in it for the duration of my sickness. Maybe forever!

Of course, curiosity forced me to open and sniff it every now and then to check its grossness. Strangely, it smelled sweet. Like old eggs and sugar. If I didn't know it was the smell of old mucus, I would probably have liked it.

On the third day, in fulfillment of the spitures, something evil happened. More accurately, it was the third night. I woke up around three in the morning and almost vomited. The whole apartment reeked of dead ass, not at all like eggs and sugar. It was the scent of evil.

I assumed the source of the stink was the sloshy bag of gray loogies, but to be sure I opened and smelled it. I almost passed out. It was like someone marinated a hundred dead and diseased hookers in a diarreah glaze and stuck them in an oven. I put it outside on the window ledge and went back to bed. It stayed out there for a few days while I wondered what to do with it. Surely something that wicked should be put to bad use.

As fate would dictate, George Bush visited Buffalo the Monday after I was sick to talk about the Patriot Act. I began imagining a scenario wherein I used the bag as a biological weapon, throwing it at the president when he got out of his limo. People assured me I would either be shot or sent to federal prison for the rest of my life, but Iím not so sure - I have a documented mental illness, and nothing is crazier than saving your phlegm for three days and throwing it on the president. I figured I would get a few years in a mental hospital where I could write my memoirs, study medicine and do push-ups until I was the perfect human specimen.

Unfortunately, no one could get anywhere near the presidential motorcade, so I just threw my biological weapon against a wall and dared people to smell the splash. I wonder how many people have walked past there since then and caught my cold.

The Bush visit turned into a pretty fun protest. Thatís what this story was supposed to be about, but what is there to say, really? There were pro-Bush and anti-Bush people, the anti-Bushers confined to a "free speech zone" hundreds of yards away from the building the president spoke at.

I enjoyed screaming for the first few minutes I was there, mostly about the free speech zone because I found the concept even more shocking and horrifying than President Bush's administration.

The Bush-protesters outnumbered the supporters by about 10 to 1. Too bad those figures wonít be reflected next November when George Bush Ďwinsí the touch-screen election, securing the right to loom over our country for another four miserable years.

At one point this little republican girl asked me how I would like it if Saddam Hussein put me in a meat blender. I told her I would be sad, and asked her how she would feel if George Bush dropped a bomb on her family. Some guy told me I was being ridiculous. Of course, the chances of Saddam Hussein throwing some American scumbag journalist who never leaves his area code in a meat blender are relatively high.

I screamed at the little girl for a few minutes, hoping she would cry and I would get a good picture, but she just laughed at me.

We ended up breaking the fence and the police had to put it back together. Someone claimed to have witnessed free speech temporarily escaping the pen and running loose up and down Porter Avenue unchecked.

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