by Jeff Charlebois

Created on: April 30, 2008   Last Updated: May 01, 2008

I always thought ultimate fighting was a brutal sport, that is, until I started following politics. In this game, nobody likes anybody. At least the fighters shake hands after they beat the hell out of each other. Politics is like an on-going Rosie O'Donnell and Donald Trump feud.

Why anyone would want to run for public office is beyond me. The scrutiny is relentless. One thing that would disqualify me is, well, my past. The press picks through that like a mother chimp grooming the bugs out of her baby monkey's fur. They would find my history contains shoplifting, a bucket of gambling debts, spousal abuse where my wife kicked me to the curb, a fourth grade incident in which I lit an M-80 in the men's room toilet, and a few nights with ladies of the evening. (Those evenings were not cheap.)

The moment I declared my intentions for running for congress, a pile of bones would pour from my closet like a rush of polluted water breaking through a New Orleans levee in a hurricane. Most of the time, a candidates downfall is the result of some seedy sex scandal. On the upside, if they would just look at my current state; they'd see that I've changed. I'm married, which means I have no sex life anymore. So I guess I got that going for me.

Why do people choose public office? The desire to make a difference, change the world, help the little man, hold on, damn, now I can't stop laughing. Why all of us wish these noble reasons were the motivation, the truth is, it's something more primitive. Say it ain't so, Joe! I'm saying it. Through years of watching the news and reading the newspaper I've been able to contrive an Einstein-like mathematical formula to help understand the need to be a government official. It's simply: politician equals power and greed squared.

The politician is known as a public servant, which is obviously a misnomer. The day a congressman comes over my house and weeds my flower bed, walks my dog, runs the kids to dance class, gets me a beer, feeds me grapes, and throws in a back massage then I'll accept the label of "servant." (Don't get any ideas Barney Frank.)

These people are far from servants. They are rich beggars. The majority of their time isn't spent on solving national problems like illegal immigration, healthcare, social security, alternative energy or, most importantly, getting the talentless Paris Hilton out of the limelight. No, their time is spent hobnobbing around the country on first class flights, staying in five star hotels, drinking top

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