The Swamp

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I would be even more excited if they got the beginning beeps right. It’s DOOT DEET, not DEET DOOT.

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I work at a place called CTG: Counter-Terrorist Gym. You see, a gym is where you train Pokémon, only in this gym, we train Pokémon to battle terrorists. Bulbasaur, Squirtle, Butterfree… if it’s a Pokémon, we can train it.

I’ve just gotten a phone call; it’s from the President himself. He needs me.

***

“It’s beautiful. It’s absolutely beautiful.” The president is crouched over his desk, a magnifying glass in his hand, gazing at something as if it were a precious jewel. His eyes are brimming with tears of rapture. He sure loves his bottle-cap collection. “Jack, come here. I want you to see this. I call it… The Apogee.”

“Sir, you wanted to see me about some sort of terrorist plot,” I remind him.

“Oh yes. The terrorists.” He locks The Apogee into its place at the very center of a large display case. It flips back into his desk, and he returns his attention to me. “They’ve developed a new Pokémon. It’s an evolution of the vicious Zangoose, called Zamiltiger.”

“But Mr. President, that’s impossible! Zangoose is a non-evolving Pokémon!”

“I know, Jack. God forgive us all.”

***

I answer to Professor Holland Oak, the foremost Pokémon researcher in the country and head of CTG. He’s handing me a photo collected from a recent excursion to South Africa.

“This is an awful shot, Oak. Everyone knows Pokémon hate having their backs photographed. Why didn’t your photographer throw a pesterball to spin them around? What a rookie move.”

“I said the same things, Jack, but this is the first ever photograph of Zamiltiger. He’s a very rare Pokémon.”

“Who’s that in the photo with him?”

“That’s Jigglypuff. The man on the phone is Kareem Abdul Jabbar. We think he’s the mastermind behind this whole operation. We want you to find him and stop him. I’ve paired you with a dashing young agent who’s new to CFG. His name’s Ash. Show him the poké-ropes. Oh, and Jack… bring Jabbar back home alive. My wife wants an autograph.”

“Professor, that’s not your wife. You’re pointing at a socket wrench.”

“Dammit, Jack, I don’t need any more of your lip. Just get this done.”

***

We locate the terrorist trio in an abandoned gym near the border of Limpopo. Jabbar is just leaving, with Zamiltiger at his heels.

“Jabbar, you’re sunk! Prepare for Poké-battle!” I call, catching him off guard.

He doesn’t spare any time. “Zamiltiger! I choose YOU!”

“Blastoise!” I cry out. I hope Jabbar doesn’t know my greatest weakness: my daughter is as accident-prone as a deaf bat in the dark, and every single season I have to drop everything to save her tight, blonde kaboose. That’s just the kind of guy I am.

Right away, Jabbar pulls out the big guns. “Endangerment of… KIM BAUER!”

I turn around to see my daughter’s frightened face. She must have followed us. “Kim!” I cry out. “Kim!” Ash echoes. I turn to him, puzzled.

“Oh no, panthers!” my daughter screams. Three giant jungle cats pounce out of nowhere and tear her to shreds. Cackling maniacally, Jabbar morphs into a winged basketball and flies away.

“Oh cruel fate! Take meeeeeeee!” Ash howls at the sky. He drops to her side, which appears to be all that’s left of her. He gazes up at me. “We were engaged,” he explains.

“You bastard,” I spit at him. “How dare you date my daughter?”

“What does it matter who she dates?” His eyes narrowed. “We were in love.”

“The life of a Pokémon trainer is too dangerous for love, Ash. You can’t do this job and have a life. I tried and failed. My wife — and now my daughter — have both been killed by poké-terrorists. You think you can do things differently? Well, you can’t. You need to choose between a life of love and a life of Pokémon, Ash. Make your choice.”

Ash blinked a tear away. He lowered his head in thought, fingering his dead fiancée’s lapel. When he looked back up at me, his face was filled with determination and strength. He uttered the words every counter-terrorist trainer loves to hear.

“America… I choose you.”

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A bit macabre, but cute. (Cheers, Don)

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Have you taken a look at your law books recently? You will notice that it’s gotten a lot smaller over the years. That’s because so many fine, useful laws have been removed. Laws about sex; what sex you could have, and what sex you couldn’t. I think it even contained a few suggestions on how to spice things up in the bedroom, and a killer recipe for clam bisque. But that’s all gone, now. What remains are a few measly pages, and not one of them contains even a word on creamy soups. No, our law books have become stale, and what’s worse, they’ve become liberal. The days of free love have ended, my friends. Pretty much all sex is legal now, and what on earth is the fun in that?

Where is the rush of adrenaline supposed to come from after you’ve realized that having sex upside down in the pool of balls at McDonald’s was finally legalized in Nevada last year? How am I supposed to enjoy myself if I can’t look back on that night in Winnipeg when we strapped frankfurters to our legs and sodomized each other on Louis Riel’s grave without thinking, “that’s behaviour befitting a model citizen”? It makes me sick to the genitals. Everyone remembers the exhilaration they got from the first time they shoplifted or smoked marijuana or tipped a cow; why must American lawmakers seek to deny us this exhilaration while we’re giving new meaning to the word “fisticuffs”?

What’s worse, there are still things — good things that should be legalized — that aren’t. Take gay marriage for instance: two people who love each other and happen to be of the same sex, wanting to get hitched. This is less legal than two people meeting randomly on the street and deciding to play “hide the 12-inch spike” with each other’s orifices? There is something truly wrong with the justice system if that’s the case. It looks like all this new sexual enlightenment is happening in all the wrong places. Sure, the winter’s making bum sex and voyeurism all pasty white and lawful, but there’s still an ugly judicial tan line covering homosexual matrimony.

We’re losing on both sides, folks. Because of these damned rule books, good people who want to get married still aren’t being allowed to, and — to rub scented bath salts into the wound — the crazy illegal sex stuff is no longer crazy, illegal or sexy. As a matter of fact, the last time I was in a sex shop the only other person there was a middle aged woman gushing and fawning over the 18 by 3-inch double-ended dildos like they were the children she never had. Let’s face it: every time our parents start doing things, they become far less cool. I had to put back the one I was buying and grab something else, just so no one would think I was copying her. I’ll never look at a double-ended dildo the same way again.

There is a shining light in this carnal sex dungeon, however: I have a plan to make things right. It involves a trade. One law for another. Are you senators still a bit antsy about letting BDSM slip through the cracks? Think people who dress up in furry costumes are a bit weird? Fine by me; ban the hell out of those suckers. We’ll enjoy it more when it feels more dangerous. In return, you guys will smarten up and let the queers have the same rights you do. It’s the perfect switch! You guys get balloon fetishism and bondage; we get gay marriage. Now, isn’t everyone happy? Thought so. Damn, I’d make a great politician.

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