Canton, OH (MBDBC) -- Analysis of exit poll data from last Tuesday's election shows that most voters had no idea why they voted for Sun Myung and Hak Ja Han Moon.

A clear majority of the voters in Tuesday's deity election--53%--voted for the Korean ma-and-pa deities; of those, only 13.5% had even the foggiest idea who the Moons were or what they stood for. Never mind the financing of a cocaine coup in Bolivia and the laundering of drug money; almost no one who voted for the Moons had a clue that the husband and wife team consider themselves God together--divine consorts--and that they call Jesus "the failed Messiah."

"These were good decent hard-working Christian people," Jesus said in a interview on Air America. "How could they vote for that mountebank and his evil mantids? Why didn't they vote for me?"

The explanations given by voters on their way out of polling places varied considerably:

• "I dunno, I liked the name. The sun and the moon. That's a good name for a God, don't you think?"


• "Frankly, I can't remember anything about it. I remember parking my car; it's right over there. But as for what happened inside, I couldn't tell you. It's all a big blank."


• "I read about the Moons in The Washington Times, which you know President Bush says is the most independent and objective paper in America. And they say good things about the President and his father, so they've got to be good God-fearing people."


• "You know, the funny thing is, I went in there to vote for Jesus. But after they gave me that cup of red Kool-Aid, it was the weirdest thing, I just changed my mind. Right there in the voting booth. I just thought, hey, I'm voting for the Moons."

Jesus Christ, erstwhile darling of the Christian Right, has been trying in vain to get a hearing for His suspicions ever since the election. None of the major media outlets will give Him a voice. As a result, He has been reduced to giving interviews to the liberal fringe, like Air America.

Air America cofounder and host Al Franken is only too happen to have the deposed Savior on his show, of course. "I'm a great admirer of Jesus Christ," Franken said. "I think He was a liberal way before His time."

Adding to Jesus's frustrations is the fact that Yahweh, Inc. (the corporation now representing the Holy Family, Yahweh, Mary, and Jesus) now has a new spokesperson, who some say is none other than Satan, the Fallen Angel Lucifer of Old Testament mythology.

"You can't trust anything he says," Jesus complained to Franken just yesterday on the show. "He's the Prince of Lies, and now he's got corporate backing, so basically he's untouchable."

A rumor is making the rounds that Jesus is collaborating with Michael Moore on the filmmaker's next documentary. The title: "Jesus, You're Fired!"

The throng outside 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue buzzes with excitement. George Bush arrives back today! His helicopter should be along any minute! Bush supporters in the tens of thousands sip the magic Kool-Aid the old/new administration is distributing free and wait for their Strong Leader to arrive.

Cleaning crews have been working around the clock, getting the White House ready for Bush to assume his second term as President. They removed four and a half tons of dead bugs, a ton and a half of dead fish, and untold quantities of bug juice and fish slime. All the carpets had to be torn up and replaced. All the drapes and other fabrics had to be dry-cleaned four times. It's been a Herculean effort. But it's all worth it: it's for God's Chosen One, George Bush.

In the distance the crowd hears the helicopter rotors. He's coming. Everyone scans the sky, hoping to be the first to spot the President's chopper.

And so it is that no one notices a few bedraggled figures emerging from the White House: a tall man with glasses; a small sprightly man with a turban; and--

"Omigod," someone cries, "look: it's Cher!"

The crowd turns to follow the pointer's finger.

"It is Cher! Cher, over here! Come over here!" the crowd cries.

The three figures are just barely animate. It is as if they have awakened from some long torpor. They stagger and stumble. Their backs are bent, as if with great age. And their exposed skin is red with bug bites.

Now the Secret Service spots them, and hustles them into a waiting Black Maria. As they climb up into the van, the diminutive man in the turban stops, turns toward the crowd, and makes an obscene gesture with his right middle finger.

"Oh my goodness," one elderly Bush supporter says, sipping her magic Kool-Aid. "He must have been a liberal."

"That was Mullah Billdoug," a man says authoritatively. "One of the most notorious bug-hating liberals in the Lincoln administration. And the tall man with him--well, that must have been Lincoln's Literary Critic, Doug Robinson."

"Ohhh," the elderly woman sighs, and sips from her cup again. "You know," she says, "I never really liked Kool-Aid before. It was just something easy to make my kids. But this stuff is good!"

They all watch as the Black Maria drives off. And then, the main event: the President's chopper has arrived ...

"I dunno, Dick, what's Satan gonna say if we come on this strong for Jesus?"

"It's part of the plan, John. You just worry about protecting my investment in Halliburton. Those feds steal back my $3 billion, I'm taking it out of your hide."

"But I don't see ..."

"It's not really Jesus, okay? It's Satan in a Yahweh suit."

"Oh. Oh, okay. Right. I get you."

"Honey," Laura says, gently shaking her husband awake, "Sun Myung Moon is on the line. He's got some good news."

"Stay the course," George mumbles.

"Wake up, honey," Laura says. "You need to talk to him."

"Do what now?" George says, his eyes crossing and uncrossing as his usual waking bemused and bewildered expression settles in around his punch-me mouth.

"You're President," Laura says. "Sun Myung Moon threw Abraham Lincoln out of the White House. "You've got your old job back."

"I, uh," George says, frowning, "I got some brush to clear first. Got some hard work to do around the ranch. You tell him that."

"The brush can wait, George," Laura says. "This is a call direct from God."

George jumps out of bed in a panic. "God's here?"

"No, honey," Laura soothes him, "He's on the phone. Here," she says, handing him the cell phone.

"Uh, God?" George says.

On the other end of the line, Sun Myung Moon smiles.

"Catfish Billy," President Lincoln shouts over the buzzing and the whirring of the bugs, "I thought you said that bomb would take out Blattodea!"

The battle rages all around them. The attackers seem uncannily resistant to their sprays and their bombs. And they keep coming. Every time they manage to quell one wave, another wave sweeps up over the top of their dead, and pushes onward. Lincoln is starting to think the battle is unwinnable. The insurgents are just too strong.

"It did take out Blattodea," Catfish Billy shouts. "Our operatives on the ground confirmed the kill."

"Then where the hell are these bugs getting their backbone?" Lincoln shouts.

Suddenly the battle stops. It is apparently a ceasefire, decided upon collectively, instantaneously, silently by the hive mentality of the opposite side. The bug sea parts. In through the open path step two familiar figures, covered in iridescent green scarab beetles.

"If it ain't the sun and the moon," Lincoln says dryly.

"You know I hate to be called that," Sun Myung Moon says. "Abe, you know my wife Hak Ja Han, don't you?"

"Never had the privilege," Lincoln says. "Nice to meet you, ma'am."

"She's God too," Sun Myung Moon says calmly. "She and I together. Divine consorts."

"Oh," Lincoln says, "the election results are in? Sorry, I've been busy."

"Yes," Sun Myung Moon says, the beetles on him quivering worshipfully. "We won by a small but respectable margin."

"How'd you manage to squeak past Hermes in the Electo--er, Hermectoral College?" Lincoln says. "He seemed to have that one pretty much sewn up."

"We reached, er, an arrangement," Sun Myung Moon says.

"Oh?"

"I won the popular vote, he won the Hermectoral College vote," Sun Myung Moon explains. "So we've divided things up."

"You're both God?" Lincoln says.

"We all are," Sun Myung Moon says. "Hak Ja Han, Hermes, and I."

"And part of the arrangement," Lincoln says, "is that bugs rule, I'm guessing?"

"Sorry," Sun Myung Moon nods sadly, "but you and your boys are out. It's back to the bottom of the lake in Weatherford for you. The liberal revolution is over. The Christian Right will have their theocracy in this country."

"I heard you beat Yahweh, Jesus, and Mary in the polls," Lincoln says. "You're going to let them rule?"

"Good heavens no," Sun Myung Moon says. "I'm installing Satan as my deputy in the U.S. He'll make sure the country does my bidding."

"The Christian Right with Satan at their head?" Lincoln says, scratching his beard.

"Well," Sun Myung Moon says, "he'll be wearing the Yahweh suit I built him, of course."

Lincoln nods thoughtfully. He looks around at his troops, and whistles for his loyal devil-water-cow Bessie. She clops up and he climbs on.

"Boys?" he says. "I guess that's our cue."

And Abraham Lincoln and his liberal fish clop and flop out of the White House.

The triumphant insects, cold-blooded creatures without a limbic system, do not cheer. They simply set about devouring all the art.

Sun Myung Moon turns to one of his mantid lieutenants.

"Get me Laura Bush on the line," he says.

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Washington, D.C. (MBDBC) -- The Secret Service reports this morning that the White House has been "overrun" with cockroaches.

"They're everywhere," Lincoln aide Mullah Billdoug told reporters.

White House staff has been doing battle with the roaches since the wee hours of the night, detonating bug bomb after bug bomb, but so far the battle is too close to call.

Lincoln's staff is calling the infestation an "attack on the presidency."

"This is no random infestation," White House Literary Critic Doug Robinson said. "We have tapes of roaches singing marching songs about killing Lincoln from two and three weeks ago, on the Million Mantid March. This is all part of a master plan designed to unseat President Lincoln and restore the mantid favorite George W. Bush to the presidency."

Apparently drawn by the battle for control of the White House, former Bush aides have gathered outside the fences. All deny collusion in the infestation, however.

"This wasn't an invasion," former National Security Advisor Condoleezza Rice said. "There was no 'plan.' Infestations happen. I've had roaches in my house too."

Former Bush Vice President Dick Cheney scoffed at the liberal bloggers who were calling this infestation an "occupation" of the White House.

"Typical liberal conspiracy theories," he said. "Roach infestations aren't subject to human control. They are acts of God."

Cheney, like most of the former Bush White House, is on record as a supporter of Sun Myung and Hak Ja Han Moon for deity.

Canton, OH (MBDBC) -- As the last voters wait to be let into the polling places in this battleground state, one candidate is already declaring a sure victory; the other candidate still in the race is predicting that the Hermectoral College vote will go his way.

The "sure" winner, given the election by a fair and balanced Fox News in the wee hours of the morning, is the only husband-and-wife team on the deity election roster, Sun Myung Moon and Hak Ja Han Moon of Korea. In addition to a slight edge in the popular vote, Mother and Father Moon (as their followers call them) claim that hundreds of world leaders have endorsed them from the spirit world.

The challenger, Hermes of ancient Greece, claims to have the Hermectoral College vote sewn up. Since the College was until recently named the Electoral College, and only changed its name when Hermes became its Registrar, Moonies and their loyal followers are calling foul. Ohio hermectors in particular are vowing to give the hermection to their man Hermes.

CNN senior analyst Jeff Greenfield notes that this puts a new spin on the old term "faithless elector." A faithless elector was historically someone who refused to vote according to the popular vote; in this hermection a faithless hermector would be someone who refuses to vote for Hermes. A subtle semantic shift, Greenfield says, but one that could prove costly for the Moons.

I swarm. I am everywhere. I delight in my swarming.

It is early morning in Washington, D.C. The polling places are opening. A few humans are out early to cast their votes for me, for Blattodea.

But I don't stop to gawk. I don't swarm past the poll-watchers and the bailiffs to do a little last-minute campaigning. I don't worry about the 150-foot rule. I have my orders. I am headed for the White House. Today is the day. Today I reclaim my place in the food chain. Today I restore God's Chosen to his rightful office, so ignominiously stolen by the fish-loving usurper.

I'm swarming down Pennsylvania Avenue, the White House in view up ahead, when something strange happens. I sort of--lose focus. I forget what I was doing. I had something important to do, I think. I had some sort of destination. But I can't think of what it is.


Food, I think. I'm kind of hungry. Yes, that must be what I was doing: foraging. I scamper through cracks in walls, under doors. Food!

Behind me, still out in the street, I can dimly hear someone shouting. Dick Cheney, I think it must be.

"Where are you guys going?" he's yelling. "The White House is just ahead!"

White house? What do I care what color a house is? All I really care about is, do they leave their trash lying around, food scraps on the counters. And it looks like I've found plenty of that right here.

On the Beltway, the mantids swarm. Ahead lie Washington, the Enemy Fish, and Future Glory. At their head stands Pat Robertson, aglow with the setting sun.

"Onward!" he cries. The buzzing and the whirring as they start across the overpass drowns out thought.

* * * *

In the White House, Catfish Billy dives into the president's tank, breathes deep.

"Yes, Billy?" Lincoln says. "Good news, I hope?"

"Very good, Mr. President," Catfish Billy says. "The bomb is operational. The dolphins are swimming it to the Gulf as we speak."

"Excellent," Lincoln says. "And you've arranged for ground transportation from Galveston?"

"Of course, Mr. President," Catfish Billy says. "The bomb will be in place tomorrow morning before the polls open."

"We're really going to get her this time, aren't we Billy," Lincoln says.

"I think so, sir," Catfish Billy nods.

* * * *

"What's the matter, George?" Laura says, pouring honey all over her words. "You're so restless. Sit, please."

"I can't relax," George says.

"I know, hon," Laura says. "It's tomorrow, isn't it."

"Huh?" George says. "What is?"

"Tomorrow," Laura says. "The election. The Million Mantid March."

"The March is tomorrow?" George says. "I thought we watched it go by a week ago."

"We did," Laura says. "But tomorrow they converge on Washington."

"Oh yeah?" George says.

Laura blinks. "Well," she says, "if it isn't any of that, then what on earth is it?"

"Gotta take a dukey," George says with a squirm and a smirk. "And it ain't ready to come out yet. It just keeps rumblin around inside there like some kinda, I don't know, insect swarm or somethin. Fartin like a son of a bitch, scuse the language. Oh--oh, wait--wait, now--I think it's--sorry, hon, gotta run ..."

George crab-walks to the bathroom. Laura sighs.

I'm on the march. I'm marching. I'm here. I'm going.

The mantids are here. The crickets and beetles are here. The ants are here. The mosquitoes are here. And I am here.

Humans are here. These humans are my friends. They don't step on me. They don't build motels that I check into and can't check out. They vaccinate me against Raid. They are good humans.

The one who ate me is gone now. He was a bug-eating plant. He was chopped down like a plant. He is rotting somewhere. I am eating him.

Up ahead two humans stand by the side of the road. I notice because they are wearing bright clothing: green and pink. The one is green, the other is pink. They are not with the march. They are tourists. They carry video machines to record the Million Mantid March.

I recognize them.

"Hey," I say. "You're those guys that made the propaganda movie."

"What the fuck," the one in green says. "A talking cockroach! Get it!"

I get ready to scamper away. But he doesn't mean with a shoe; he means with the camera. The one in pink films me going by.

"That, uh," the one in pink says from behind the camera, "that wasn't us. That was Michael Moore."

"It was you," I say. "You made me the bad guy. You made me Kim Jong Il."

"Shit," green says. "It means Team America!"

"Yeah," pink says, now moving the camera from his face. "Damn! How'd you guys see our movie?"

"I'm watching it right now on 470 screens across America," I say.

"Huh?" green says. "That isn't possible."

"I am One," I say. "I am Blattodea."

"Who?" pink says.

"You hate cockroaches," I say.

"No, no," green says, laughing a little.

"You're fish-lovers," I say.

"No, no," pink says, laughing along with green. "We don't hate cockroaches. It was a joke."

"You think it's funny," I say. I take a few steps toward them. They take a half-step back.

"Well," green says, "it seemed funny at the time. Have that roach crawl out of the dead guy's mouth and climb into that tiny spaceship."

"Ha ha," I say, taking a few more steps. I'm bigger now, too. More of me. Thousands.

"Seriously, guys," pink says, backing into some kind of field, "we're on your side. We want Bush back in the White House too. We're with you all the way!"

"Yeah," green says. "When we have Gary say dicks fuck pussies, we meant George Bush's dick fucking liberal pussies."

"John Kerry pussies," pink says, a little more nervously now, still back-pedaling. "Abraham Lincoln pussies. Alec Baldwin pussies."

"You also," I say, "have Gary say that sometimes dicks fuck too much, and need to be reminded by pussies to pull back," and keep moving in.

"Uh ... yeah," green says. "But that was just--that was just ..."

"What do pussies smell like?" I say.

"Uh," pink titters. "I give up, what do pussies smell like?"

"Uh," green gulps, "fish?"

"Oh yeah," pink says. "They smell like fish."

"I think you smell like fish," I say. "I think the two of you like fish."

"Well," green says, "heh heh ..."



"And I think that's because you are pussies!" I say, and rush them. It's all over in a minute. When I stand back up, I'm in the shape of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. I even know my names.

Then I notice the camcorder fell in the scuffle. It's lying in the field. I pick it up, thumb it to record, point it at myself.

"Look everybody," I say, "You killed Kenny. You bastards!"