It's Open Season On Whigs!

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WASHINGTON—Noting that the level of mental strain associated with the profession was far and away the highest recorded, a federal study on workplace conditions and occupational stress released Thursday has confirmed that your job is the most demanding career in the entire nation, and that none of your friends or family fully understand how hard it is.

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CHICAGO—Explaining that the sense of unease she felt walking to and from her home had declined markedly over the years, Humboldt Park resident Kirsten Healy expressed her disappointment to reporters Thursday that her neighborhood was becoming too safe for her family to afford.
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It's Open Season On Whigs!

I understand that those God-damned Whigs are up in arms about the methods by which the Know-Nothings raise money for their campaign war-chest. Well, what of it?, I initially thought; it's typical of those Whig bastards, smarting as they are from their defeat in the last election.

But, as I came to realize, if the Whigs have their way, the Know-Nothings would be forced to return their hard-won bounty, and leave Washington in disgrace. It would spell utter disaster!

Once, many years ago, one of those lousy Whigs invited Mrs. Zweibel and myself to a grand dinner and dance at his town-house in Boston. Not only was he an insufferable Brahmin-type who constantly had his needle-nose imbedded in a box of snuff, and served his guests a dish which looked like enormous boiled insect thoraxes, he also had the appalling nerve to seat me next to the editor of The Brickton Atlas-Trumpet, P. Oliver Gummidge!

Now, in those days, The Brickton Atlas-Trumpet was the hated arch-rival of The Onion, and a filthy Whig mouth-piece to boot. "Ah, glad you could make it, Zweibel," Gummidge said. "Delicious autumn weather they've been having up in Cape Cod. You should see the colors!" So incensed was I at these hostile and inflammatory words that I picked up a tureen of scalding mock-turtle soup and expelled the contents over Gummidge's bald head.

As Gummidge screamed in agony, I collected Mrs. Zweibel and boarded the carriage back to our hotel. How Mrs. Zweibel carried on so! "We'll never be accepted by polite society now!" she wailed. Her head was always filled with silly dreams of becoming a wealthy and respected matron, playing bridge with the Astors and acquiring Baroque art. But I refused to have her emulating the effete, prancing ways of the Whigs, even if it meant a reduced social status!

How I wish my old nurse did not confiscate the bowie-knife I kept under my bed-clothes, or I would board the next canal-barge to Washington and personally slit the throats of as many Whigs as I could find. That is the only way one can deal with Whiggery, and I implore all decent-thinking, true Americans to heed my urgent call to arms!