Thank God for wickedly good parody. Here in this region, parody is often - no, make that usually - kicked far back in the shade and rendered impotent by increasingly ludicrous reality. Iowahawk is in the side of the wrong business, not to mention residing on the wrong landmass; he needs to get over here quick and start pumping out copy for the major news agencies. It's at least as good as anything they put out:
"'I'm not sure where we went wrong,' says Ellen McCormack, nervously fondling the recycled paper cup holding her organic Kona soy latte. 'It seems like only yesterday Rain was a carefree little boy at the Montessori school, playing non-competitive musical chairs with the other children and his care facilitators.
"'But now...' she pauses, staring out the window of her postmodern Palo Alto home. The words are hesitant, measured, bearing a tale of family heartbreak almost too painful for her to recount. 'But now, Rain insists that I call him Bobby Ray.'"
"'During a cross-country trip to New York, he stopped at the Iowa 80 Truck Stop in Walcott, Iowa, and bought a John Deere gimme cap as a gag souvenir,'" says Levin. "'Within a year, he had dropped out of graduate school, abandoned his SoMa apartment, and and was working at a drive-thru liquor store. Today he is a wealthy televangelist in Bossier City, Louisiana.'"
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