Slate eBook Club Editions
April 2003

The Six Degrees of Chuck Berry Frank Cammuso and Hart Seely
The Poetry of D.H. Rumsfeld Hart Seely
The War of the Roses Brent Staples
Joke of the Day
Double Dribble at the Twin Tier Tongue Dome Frank Cammuso and Hart Seely
The Bush Administration’s Secret Weapon Michael Kinsley
How the Grinch Stole Election Day Frank Cammuso and Hart Seely



The Six Degrees of Chuck Berry
By Frank Cammuso and Hart Seely
Posted Wednesday, February 23, 2000, at 6:30 PM PT

With apologies to Thomas Meehan.

Hi, everybody! I'm Kathie Lee Gifford, and welcome to the Bankthemoney.com Music Excellence Awards. With co-host David Lee Roth, we'll meet some of the biggest names in the recording industry. Right, David Lee?

Totally, Kathie Lee! And here they come: Hollywood's Tommy Lee Jones, escorting singer Rickie Lee Jones, followed by blues man John Lee Hooker, the legendary Jerry Lee Lewis and rocker Tommy Lee. Hey, do you folks all know each other? No? Let me do introductions ...

Tommy Lee, John Lee. John Lee, Jerry Lee. Jerry Lee, Tommy Lee. Tommy Lee, Rickie Lee. Rickie Lee, John Lee. John Lee, Tommy Lee. Jerry Lee, Tommy Lee. Tommy Lee, Tommy Lee. Kathie Lee?

Thanks, David Lee. More artists are arriving, led by my own personal favorites, Boy George and Kid Rock. Hey, do you folks all know each other? No?

Boy, Kid. Mr. Rock, Jewel. Jewel, Cool. L.L., B.B. Mr. King, Mr. Hill. Dru, Lou. Mr. Bega, Ms. Vega. Suzanne, Celine. Ms. Dion, Mr. Zevon. Warren, Waylon. Mr. Jennings, Mr. Jagger. Mick, Nick. Mr. Lowe, Ms. Loeb. Lisa, Tina. Ms. Turner, Ms. Tucker. Tanya, Enya. Enya, Shania. Shania, Mariah. Mariah, Wynonna. Wynonna, Fiona. Ms. Apple, Mr. Berry. Chuck Berry, Buckcherry!

That's no little feat, Kathie Lee, but Buckcherry's a band! And more bands are arriving. Hey, do you folks all know each other? No?

Garbage, Biohazard. Biohazard, Anthrax. Anthrax, Megadeth. Megadeth, Genesis. Genesis, Live. Live, Offspring. Offspring, 10,000 Maniacs. Maniacs, Dummies. Crash Test Dummies, Goo Goo Dolls. Goo Goos, Go-Gos. Go-Gos, Toto. Toto, Kansas. Kansas, Alabama. Alabama, Bananarama. Bananarama, Chumbawamba. Chumbawamba, Eminem. Eminem, R.E.M. R.E.M., U2. U2, B-52s. B-52s, War. War, Bush. Bush, Presidents of the United States of America. Presidents, Barenaked Ladies. Barenaked Ladies, Squeeze. Squeeze, Sponge. Sponge, Cake. Cake, Cranberries. Cranberries, Buckcherry. Buckcherry, Chuck Berry!

Him again? Oh, well, it's a crowded house, David Lee! And more artists are arriving, led by my own personal favorite, Ozzy Osbourne. Hey, do you folks all know each other? No?

Ozzy, Mr. Nelson. Willie, Billy. Mr. Bragg, Ms. Crow. Sheryl, Cher. Cher, Bono. Mr. Bono, Ms. Ono. Yoko, Coolio. Coolio, Julio. Mr. Iglesias, Ms. Imbruglia. Natalie, Natalie. Ms. Merchant, Mr. Cash. Johnny, Yanni. Yanni, Danny. Mr. Elfman, Mr. Ant. Adam Ant, Flea. Flea, Mr. Doggy Dogg. Snoop Doggy, Puff Daddy. Mr. Daddy, Mr. Pop. Iggy Pop, Brandy. Brandy, Mr. Berry. Chuck Berry, Buckcherry!

Them again? Oh well, they got lost in the traffic, no doubt. But more bands are arriving, Kathie Lee. Hey, do you folks all know each other? No?

Backstreet Boys, Indigo Girls. Indigo Girls, Dixie Chicks. Chicks, Styx. Styx, Stones. Rolling Stones, Jesus Jones. Jesus, Judas Priest. Judas, Godsmack. Godsmack, Smash Mouth. Smash Mouth, Kiss. Kiss, Yes. Yes, Wilco. Wilco, Devo. Devo, Jethro. Tull, Tool. Tool, Moe. Moe, Hole. Hole, Korn. Korn, Cracker. Cracker, Limp Bizkit. Limp Bizkit, Hot Tuna. Tuna, Phish. Phish, Byrds. Byrds, Eagles. Eagles, Eagle-Eye Cherry. Eagle-Eye Cherry, Buckcherry. Buckcherry, Chuck Berry!

Him again? He's just not in sync. More artists are arriving, David Lee, led by my own personal favorite, Sammy Hagar. Hey, do you folks all know each other? No?

Mr. Hagar, Mr. Harding. John Wesley, Lesley. Ms. Gore, Ms. Bush. Kate, Bonnie Raitt. Ms. Raitt, Mr. Strait. George Strait, Tom Waits. Tom, Tim. McGraw, Hill. Faith, Keith. Mr. Richards, Mr. Richard. Little, Baby. Ms. Spice, Mr. Ice. Vanilla, Santana. Santana, Madonna. Ms. Madonna, Mr. Idol. Billy, Billy. Mr. Ocean, Mr. Brooks. Brooks & Gaines, Brooks & Dunn, B & D, Miami Steve. Miami, Houston. Whitney, Britney. Ms. Spears, Mr. Slash. Mr. Slash, Mr. Manson. Marilyn Manson, Zachary Hanson. Zac, Beck. Beck, Boss. Bruce, Juice. Ms. Newton, Mr. Martin. Ricky, Mickey. Mr. Hart, Mr. Beefheart. Captain, Doctor. Dr. Dre, Mr. T. Ice, Ice. Mr. Cube, Mr. Loaf. Meat, Chuck. Chuck Berry! Buckcherry!

Them again? This is beginning to sound like a cheap trick, Kathie Lee! Oh, well, guess who just arrived! Hey, do you folks all know each other? No?



The Poetry of D.H. Rumsfeld
Recent works by the secretary of defense.
By Hart Seely
Posted Wednesday, April 2, 2003, at 10:03 AM PT

Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld is an accomplished man. Not only is he guiding the war in Iraq, he has been a pilot, a congressman, an ambassador, a businessman, and a civil servant. But few Americans know that he is also a poet.

Until now, the secretary's poetry has found only a small and skeptical audience: the Pentagon press corps. Every day, Rumsfeld regales reporters with his jazzy, impromptu riffs. Few of them seem to appreciate it.

But we should all be listening. Rumsfeld's poetry is paradoxical: It uses playful language to address the most somber subjects: war, terrorism, mortality. Much of it is about indirection and evasion: He never faces his subjects head on but weaves away, letting inversions and repetitions confuse and beguile. His work, with its dedication to the fractured rhythms of the plainspoken vernacular, is reminiscent of William Carlos Williams'. Some readers may find that Rumsfeld's gift for offhand, quotidian pronouncements is as entrancing as Frank O'Hara's.

And so Slate has compiled a collection of Rumsfeld's poems, bringing them to a wider public for the first time. The poems that follow are the exact words of the defense secretary, as taken from the official transcripts on the Defense Department Web site.

The Unknown
As we know,
There are known knowns.
There are things we know we know.
We also know
There are known unknowns.
That is to say
We know there are some things
We do not know.
But there are also unknown unknowns,
The ones we don't know
We don't know.

—Feb. 12, 2002, Department of Defense news briefing


Glass Box
You know, it's the old glass box at the—
At the gas station,
Where you're using those little things
Trying to pick up the prize,
And you can't find it.
It's—

And it's all these arms are going down in there,
And so you keep dropping it
And picking it up again and moving it,
But—

Some of you are probably too young to remember those—
Those glass boxes,
But—

But they used to have them
At all the gas stations
When I was a kid.

—Dec. 6, 2001, Department of Defense news briefing


A Confession
Once in a while,
I'm standing here, doing something.
And I think,
"What in the world am I doing here?"
It's a big surprise.

—May 16, 2001, interview with the New York Times


Happenings
You're going to be told lots of things.
You get told things every day that don't happen.

It doesn't seem to bother people, they don't—
It's printed in the press.
The world thinks all these things happen.
They never happened.

Everyone's so eager to get the story
Before in fact the story's there
That the world is constantly being fed
Things that haven't happened.

All I can tell you is,
It hasn't happened.
It's going to happen.

—Feb. 28, 2003, Department of Defense briefing


The Digital Revolution
Oh my goodness gracious,
What you can buy off the Internet
In terms of overhead photography!

A trained ape can know an awful lot
Of what is going on in this world,
Just by punching on his mouse
For a relatively modest cost!

—June 9, 2001, following European trip


The Situation
Things will not be necessarily continuous.
The fact that they are something other than perfectly continuous
Ought not to be characterized as a pause.
There will be some things that people will see.
There will be some things that people won't see.
And life goes on.

—Oct. 12, 2001, Department of Defense news briefing


Clarity
I think what you'll find,
I think what you'll find is,
Whatever it is we do substantively,
There will be near-perfect clarity
As to what it is.

And it will be known,
And it will be known to the Congress,
And it will be known to you,
Probably before we decide it,
But it will be known.

—Feb. 28, 2003, Department of Defense briefing



The War of the Roses
How the Squirrel Lady almost drove me to murder.
By Brent Staples
Posted Tuesday, June 6, 2000, at 12:00 AM PT

When gardening season opened in early May, nurseries in the asphalt city of New York were crammed with apartment dwellers, a few of whom live in garden apartments with access to ground, but most of whom vent their agrarian impulses by planting in barrels, roof containers, window boxes, and those dog-littered patches of dirt surrounding trees on the city streets. By summer's end, you can see tomato plants heavy with fruit, craning their necks through the rusted railings of fire escapes.

You can also see the verminous squirrels that steal and eat those tomatoes, leaving the planting area littered with half-eaten fruit. If the gardener is lucky, the squirrel will be satisfied with one tomato and will move on. If the gardener is unlucky—as I have been in most years—the squirrel and his friends will return again and again, taking a mouthful or two from one piece of fruit after another, in a display of gluttony and waste unparalleled in the animal kingdom. From the gardener's point of view, people who feed squirrels, thus encouraging them to breed, deserve to be trussed up and caned in a public square.

Common throughout the Northeast, the eastern gray squirrel is a nuisance wherever it roams. Hunters in rural areas of New York take 850,000 of them a year, often cooking them up in a tasty stew. Hunting is illegal in New York City, which leaves the urban gardener in a perpetual fight to protect his vegetables and flowers from plunder by these pests.

I encountered the vicious side of squirrels a few years ago, when I acquired a brownstone in Brooklyn with an expansive backyard that sparked an obsession with gardening. After making the dead soil suitably habitable for plants, my fiancee and I rushed out to the nursery and returned with perhaps as many as 200 bulbs, intent on laying out hyacinth, crocuses, and tulips. Within days of planting, we noticed gaping craters in our neatly mulched beds and found the peeled skins of our bulbs piled on the patio. Soon we witnessed a vivid display of what had been happening. A big squirrel bounded into the yard, stuck his snout in the mulch, and came up with a nice, fat tulip bulb. Sitting on his haunches, he spun the bulb like a potato through his teeth, deftly shedding the skin, then ate the bulb, calmly, right there in front of us. In laying out our garden, we had unintentionally provided a smorgasbord for these bushy-tailed rats.

The only sure way to protect bulb beds is to cover them with galvanized mesh or wrap them, Cristo-like, in a heavy canvas. I considered the chain-mail option, found it ugly and expensive, and went off on a fool's errand, thinking that there was some easier way to keep the beasts at bay. Gardening columnists typically suggested methods that did not work—like blanketing the beds with red pepper—or exotic treatments that were unavailable in the city. Dotty Woodson of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, for example, advised that the squirrels would be repelled by fox urine, but no such thing was available at any nursery that I could find. Another writer suggested urine of mountain lion, as though this were something you could get down at the Home Depot. Yet another writer said that squirrels were repelled by mothballs, which I guess would be fine until the wind shifted and the neighbors caught the stink of all that concentrated naphthalene. Bill Adler, the author of Outwitting Squirrels, recommends the equally implausible solution of importing families of hawks to prey on the squirrels. Clerks at the nursery assured us that squirrels would be put off by the smell of dried blood, which for the most part they were. But dried blood spread over a 100 feet of flower bed smells a bit like a slaughterhouse—and also washes away when it rains, forcing the gardener to spread more of this gory substance every few days. Some writers recommend trapping. But every time you subtract a squirrel, another arises to takes its place. Some people say that a cat patrolling the yard is just the ticket to ward off squirrels. This might work with genteel suburban squirrels, but the thuggish Brooklyn squirrels that control my block give no ground at all to the two big cats that have patrolled my yard for years. The cats step aside when they meet a squirrel traveling along the top of the fence and actually run away when an aggressive squirrel stands up on its haunches and barks.

We gave up planting bulbs after the first year and turned instead to begonias, impatiens, and marigolds. The squirrels did not eat these. But they suspected that there were bulbs—or nuts buried by other squirrels—beneath the freshly turned earth and patrolled the beds each morning, uprooting plants in search of a breakfast. Until the plants were firmly established, I spent the first half-hour of each day replacing divots in the mulch and replanting begonias, impatiens, and marigolds.

In the summer of 1999, after three years of warfare, the plague of squirrels on our block reached biblical proportions. At one point during the summer, I counted 13 of the beasts in and around the backyard at once—scampering over the lawn, trekking across the garden wall, and moving ceaselessly along the telephone lines overhead. The squirrels were growing not just more numerous, but bolder. They scampered in through open doors, begging for food right in the kitchen. A couple next door to us was burgled for more than a week by a squirrel that had sneaked into the house and taken up residence in a roll-out couch. While the couple was at work, the squirrel made sorties on a dish of cat food, deposited its droppings in the houseplants, and returned to its "den" in the couch for the night. Once the couple discovered the intruder, it took them two days to chase it out.

The plague seemed solely an act of nature until I noticed a huge, somber woman on a back deck several doors down, feeding squirrels—as they crawled around on her arms and shoulders. I had heard of people who adopted squirrels as pets, but this was the first time I had actually witnessed it firsthand. The Squirrel Lady dispensed peanuts by the pound, which the animals deposited in specially dug holes in gardens and window boxes all up and down the block. Squirrels seeking a handout converged on our block from all over Brooklyn, trooping in procession along the wires, and returning to bury their booty in our garden, where rival squirrels soon arrived to dig it up. As the Squirrel Lady stepped up her feeding, the grays took up residence in nearby trees and even chewed through the roof into a neighbor's attic. When the neighbors complained, the Squirrel Lady responded that she had a right to feed squirrels if she wished to and that no harm could come of it. But as the tulip gardener next door put it, "The peanuts are the main course, but my tulips are the dessert." He watched, depressed, as the squirrels ate every tulip blossom, every year. Besieged by more squirrels than ever and sick of playing the patsy, I laid out this year's garden with no edibles at all and a humane trap at the ready. I considered erecting a small tent in my yard to serve as a squirrel death chamber. After trapping them, I would drown as many as possible by submerging the cage in a galvanized washtub—though inside the tent, to keep the slaughter from public view.

I am pleased to report that things got better before execution became necessary. Within days of setting out this year's garden I noticed that few if any plants were being uprooted and that the squirrel colony had shrunk by about half. I had dared to plant tulips, and every single one survived. The telephone lines that had served as a crowded highway for squirrels were blessedly empty. Asking around, I found that the Squirrel Lady had sold her house and moved on. Before leaving, she had offered her favorite pet squirrels to neighbors—who politely declined—whereupon she packed them up in cat cages and decamped for the suburbs. I have no idea which suburb. But if you find your neighborhood besieged by a plague of squirrels, you will know to raise an electric fence around your tulips.



Joke of the Day
Posted Monday, September 20, 1999, at 8:00 PM PT

One of the biggest questions in campaign finance reform is the difference between an issue ad and an attack ad.

An issue ad shows your opponent in grainy black and white; an attack ad shows them in black and white accompanied by the music from Jaws.



Double Dribble at the Twin Tier Tongue Dome
By Frank Cammuso and Hart Seely
Posted Friday, June 9, 2000, at 12:00 AM PT

“Welcome back, Chuck Churlinger and Brad Terwilliger here, in the tumultuous Twin Tier Tongue Dome! Ashtabula leads by one with a slim 66 slick ticks left on the clock. Walla Walla ball. Bert Butler brings it up, Fuzzy Peppers guarding him. Butler, dribbles to the baseline, shoots—swishes it! And the Big Bangs take the lead!"

"Chuck, Ashtabula coach Paul Pickel wanted an offensive foul called. Here on the replay, watch as Latrell Peters puts a pick on Peppers, then Tryone Pippins puts a pick on Peppers, and that's a pack of picks on Peppers, and Paul Pickel's wondering, how many picks on Peppers can Peters and Pippins put?"

"Ashtabula ball. Shaquille Cheeks dribbles up court, looks for an opening—finds Chick Woods underneath—oh—off his shoulder and out of bounds, and Walla Walla takes over. Chick Woods wasn't even looking, and Shaq's flat pass slapped his fat, sad back. Brad?"

"Coach Paul Pickel's angry, because once again, Chick Woods did not check back for the pass. You have to wonder, how much could Chick Woods chock up, if Chick Woods would check back? Personally, I think Chick would chock as much as Chick could chock, if Chick would just check back. Chuck?"

"Walla Walla ball! The Chinese sensation, Ching Xiang brings it up, passes to Butler—oh—through Bertie's hands, out of bounds. Ashtabula ball. Three turnovers for Butler tonight. What's the matter with Bertie?"

"I was talking to Bertie before the game. You know, Bertie Butler is a brooder. 'Brad,' he said, 'this battle's beaten. When I botch a buzzer-beater, it just makes my battle bitter.' I said, 'But Bertie, a Bertie Butler buzzer-beater sure would make your battle better, so boost your butt up from the gutter, and be a better buzzer-beater shooter.' "

"Ashtabula ball! Peeples passes to Boate, who dishes it off to Cheeks. Shaquille puts up a three-pointer—no good. The Big Bangs get the rebound and call timeout. Brad, that was a poor shot by Cheeks."

"Chuck, Shaquille has to stop shooting three-pointers from so far away. Fans know that Shaq shoots set-shots by the seats short. The short set-shots Shaq shoots are surely swell shots, but when Shaq shoots set-shots by the seats, Shaq shoots short-set shots."

"Not only that, Brad, but Ashtabula is not getting rebounds. Notably, power forward Fuzzy Peeples has not hit the boards with intensity."

"Let me say what everyone knows, Chuck: Fuzzy Peeples has not been himself since all-star center Harry Chester went to Rochester. When Harry was here, Fuzzy was a bear, but after Fuzzy had no Harry, Fuzzy just wasn't Fuzzy, was he?"

"With a one-point lead, the Big Bangs go into a four-corner stall. Peters passes to Pippins, over to Xiang, now to Jethro Throne. Foul called! Robert Beatty-Buggins bumped him! Robert Beatty-Buggins bumped him! Walla Walla's in a one-and-one, and Jethro will throw three free throws. Brad, is that the best slowdown you've ever seen?"

"Chuck, when I was in Arkansas, I saw a stall that could out-stall any stall I ever saw. They could move a ball all a game, willy nilly, à la Walla Walla."

"Oh, my! Jethro Throne has underthrown three free throws. Ashtabula ball! Seconds remaining. Peppers passes to Boate. MAKES AN INCREDIBLE SHOT! TROY BOATE! TROY BOATE! TROY BOATE! Ashtabula by one!

"Five seconds—four—Walla Walla ball! Xiang puts up a desperation heave! HE MADE IT! HE MADE IT! OHHEEOOH-HAHA! CHING XIANG! WALLA WALLA BIG BANGS WIN!"



The Bush Administration’s Secret Weapon
By Michael Kinsley
Updated Wednesday, April 2, 2003, at 4:24 PM PT

Frustrated by heavier-than-expected resistance from Iraq's elite troops, U.S. President George W. Bush authorized today the use of what many consider to be the ultimate weapon of mass destruction: bores. Even as the president made his announcement at a brief—though it seemed lengthy—appearance in the White House press room, the skies over Iraq turned a dramatic light gray as thousands of bores dropped from American warplanes. Parachuted—along with several "embedded" columnists and TV commentators—into clusters of Iraqi troops and Baathis officials, the American bores immediately launched into discussions of whether it was likely to rain and heated debates about which teams might make it into next year's Super Bowl. The effect was devastating. "The pointlessness of discussing the possibility of rain in the middle of the desert in the beginning of the summer has long been known to make this an especially powerful weapon for use in the Middle East," said a Pentagon official who asked not to be awakened. "But today we confirmed that talk about American sports can be an even more effective battlefield weapon because it is devastatingly boring to foreigners, while Americans actually find it stimulating."

According to experts, a single bore, if deployed in prime time, can paralyze an entire nation. "Bores are especially powerful weapons precisely because the damage they inflict is so focused," said Günter Yawn, director of Wake Up America, Wake Up (WUAWU), a broad-based coalition of boredom inactivists and lack-of-interest groups. "The neutron bombs developed in the 1980s were regarded as insidious because they killed people while leaving buildings, weapons, and other property intact. Bores go one step further: They leave the property and the people physically intact, but destroy their victims' minds."

This evening, as the Iraqis struggled to regain consciousness, they were hit with a second wave of bores, some of them nattering about baseball statistics and others reviewing opera. In his announcement, Mr. Bush warned Saddam Hussein that American opera companies will begin putting on actual performances throughout Iraq unless he cedes power immediately. "Nor will we hesitate to drop all 17 volumes of Robert Caro's The Years of Lyndon Johnson on targets of opportunity among the Iraqi leadership. The United States of America will always strive not to bop innocent civilians on the head with heavy hardcover volumes, but let us be clear: If they find Caro's high-decibel hectoring and tedious, repetitive detail unbelievably annoying, the true author of their misery is Saddam Hussein. Americans are a compassionate people, and we will distribute free synopses of all Caro volumes to every Iraqi citizen who needs them. But not until Saddam is gone." White House officials are said to hope that this strategy will encourage a coup.

Until today, successive U.S. administrations have refused to confirm or deny that the United States possesses Weapons of Mass Tedium. But all have said that America would never be the first to go boring in a crisis. Asked to justify today's action in light of this long-standing policy, White House spokesman Ari Fleischer said, "This is not a crisis. What occurred today was pre-emptive boredom. The president calls it Boredom of Opportunity. As the world's only remaining superpower, the United States must bore those who would bore us and our 43 or 44 allies in this endeavor. Here, let me read out the entire list: Armenia, Antartica, Africa, did I say Armenia? ..."

Fleischer denied persistent rumors that the Bush family has stockpiles of bores hidden at its various palaces. "What you call 'stockpiles,' " Fleischer told a reporter, are actually Bush relatives who gather regularly here and there to exercise their constitutionally protected right to repeat the same family anecdotes again and again, or perhaps to play Fish and other innocent card games." This is a tradition in old WASP families, Fleischer explained. "It may seem boring to you, but it's not boring to them."

Mr. Yawn, the boredom inactivist, said, "The American government has demonstrated repeatedly its willingness to bore its own citizens. Why should anyone be surprised by its decision to spread boredom among people halfway around the world?" There is no known antidote, he added.



How the Grinch Stole Election Day
By Frank Cammuso and Hart Seely
Posted Tuesday, November 21, 2000, at 12:00 AM PT

(With respects to Theodor S. Geisel.)

Every Chad
Down in Chad-ville
Liked voting a lot ...
But the Grinch,
Who lived just north of Chad-ville
Did NOT!

The Grinch hated voting! He thought it a bore.
Now, please don't ask why. Could be Bush, could be Gore.
It could be his heart bled with liberal mush.
It could be, perhaps, that he listened to Rush.
But I think the real reason his trust was so shattered
Was the great Grinchy view that his vote never mattered.

BUT
Whatever the reason,
Lack of trust, lack of goals,
The Grinch dreaded that day when Chads went to the polls.
He just hated those speeches and negative ads,
And when push came to shove, he just hated the Chads.
He just hated their theme parks, their football-team rooters,
He just hated their gun laws, their barmaids at Hooters.
He just hated their weather, even hated their hate.
And he hated that they were a battleground state.

"So they're making their choices," he snarled with a sneer.
"This 'Decision Two Thousand' is practically here!
"They'll struggle to choose 'tween a crumb and a bum,
" 'Cause a voter's a voter, no matter how dumb."
Then he growled, his Grinch fingers nervously drumming,
"I MUST find a way to keep outcomes from coming!"

For tomorrow, he knew ...
All the flag-waving souls,
Would again waste their efforts on Clintons or Doles.
And by then, oh, the polls! Oh, the polls! Polls! Polls! Polls!
That's the one thing he hated! The POLLS! POLLS! POLLS! POLLS!

So the Chads, rich and poor, and by bus, car, or boat,
They would vote! And they'd vote!
And they'd VOTE! VOTE! VOTE! VOTE!
They would vote to ban smoking or clearing your throat.
They would even vote laws in for curbing your goat.

And THEN ...
They'd sing that anthem. It always came later.
Be they Bush-ites or Gore-ites or ites of Ralph Nader.
They'd stand close together, and though still full of fight,
They'd stand and they'd sing, by that dawn's early light.

And the more the Grinch thought of Election Day's ring,
The more the Grinch thought, "I must stop this whole thing!
"Why, for two hundred years I've put up with it now!
"I MUST stop these outcomes from coming!
"... But HOW?"

Then he got an idea!
Yes, a legal idea!
THE GRINCH
GOT AN AWFUL BUT LEGAL IDEA!

"I know just what to do!" The Grinch laughed with a jig.
And he wove from his goat a Sam Donaldson wig.
And into the mirror he spoke with grand rancor,
"With this helmet of hair, they'll all think I'm an anchor!"

"All I need are some ballots ..."
The Grinch looked around.
But since ballots were private, there were none to be found.
So he made his own ballot, printing letters quite little,
And he scattered the names, running holes down the middle,
And he stuck it together with Chad-berry spittle.
And he said, "They'll need Einstein to figure this riddle!"

THEN
He loaded his boxes, and without looking nervous
Put a sign on his van that said "Voter News Service."
THEN
The Grinch pulled away in his van with a screech
Toward the pads of the Chads in a place called "Palm Beach."

When he came to the first polling place in the square,
All the lines were quite long. Thoughtful talk filled the air,
As the Chads chatted merits of managed health care.
"Vote early and often," the Grinch said with a grin.
And he marched to the front of the line and stepped in.

There he left all his ballots, the strange ones with punches,
And instructions that said, "Please punch punches in bunches."
As he slunk out the door toward the nearest Grand Hyatt,
He could hear what you'd think was an Elián riot.
The Cohens—sisters Esther, Mitzi, and Shannon,
Just realized that their votes had all gone to Buchanan!

At a place in Dade County near a middle-school yard,
The Grinch donned a shirt that said, "Polling Place Guard."
And he eyeballed each Chad and said, "Where is your card?
"Voter card? Motor card? Credit card? Diner's?
"Face card? Race card? Baseball card? Shriners?"
And he turned them away. Then the Grinch, like a fox,
Stuffed all of his ballots and locked the lockbox!

Then old Grinch returned home to go "LIVE" on TV.
He had waited quite late: (It was now eight oh three.)
So the Grinch Network News first projected a score:
"Now with one percent in, we pick Chad-ville for GORE."
Every Gore-ite in Chad-ville said, "GIVE US SOME MORE!"

So he pulled more projections straight out of his stack.
Then, "Oh, dear!" said the Grinch, "I must take it all back!"
So the Grinch Network News, in grand fairness to all
Now reported that Chad-ville was "TOO CLOSE TO CALL."

"Don't be mad, all you Chads, for this isn't a scandal,
"It was just," the Grinch said, "we forgot the Panhandle.
"The science of sampling can leave one out-simpled."
So the Chads were left hanging and pregnant and dimpled.
And the stress of it all put George Bush among the pimpled!

Then the Grinch raised a finger for the night's final push.
"Election Day's done, and the winner is BUSH."
After all, George was leading at least by a dozen.
(And whenever it's close, always go with your cousin.)
"Play the music, the songs, pop the corks, sing the praises,
" 'Cause with Bush as the winner, you're all getting raises!"
And then the Grinch yawned, "This election stuff's hokey,
Good-bye 'till next year! And now back to you, Cokie."

And the Grinch, he went back to his old Grinchy pad.
But en route, he was nabbed by a little Chad lad
Who had stayed up all night (quite ignoring his dad).
He stared at the Grinch and said, "Sir, who's our leader?
"Is it Bush? Is it Gore? Or, my choice, Derek Jeter?"
And the Grinch simply smiled: This day couldn't be sweeter.

They were finding out now that no outcome was coming!
They were seeing it now, all their dumbness and dumbing.
"They're just waking up!" he said. "Here's what they'll do!
"Their mouths will hang open a minute or two
"And the Chads down in Chad-ville will all cry, 'WE'LL SUE!' "

As he stared down at Chad-ville, the Grinch popped his eyes,
But the scene that he saw brought a shocking surprise.
All the Chads down in Chad-ville, Chad lads and Chad dads,
They were counting the votes, they were counting the chads!
He hadn't stopped an outcome from coming.
IT CAME!
SOMEHOW OR ANOTHER, IT CAME JUST THE SAME!

As the Grinch with his head buried deep in the sand
Sat puzzling and puzzling, "They will count them by hand?"
Yes, it came with the lawsuits, it came with the lawyers,
It came with Tim Russert, it came with Bill Moyers.
When the ballots were plucked and the counting was done
The last margin of victory turned out to be ... ONE!
And if the Grinch had just voted,
... HIS GUY WOULD HAVE WON!
And what happened then ...
Well ...
In Chad-ville they say
That the Grinch's small district
Grew three sizes that day.

'Cause the minute his mood had come out of its slump,
The Grinch said, "Hmm! I could be running this dump!"
So he formed a committee to do all the work
And he ...
HE HIMSELF!
The Grinch ran for town clerk!