You're about to enter Jerkburg so only at the risk of laughing yourself silly!

Jerkburg Report
Jerkburg Report

...or if liberals could have a town all to themselves!

What a really wonderful idea...
especially for the rest of us!


Nothing infuriates liberals any more than having the high philosophical tenets underpinning their lowdown view of the world held up to the bright light of ridicule. Consequently, The Jerkburg Report is the one truth-filled little expose' they’ve all secretly feared would one day be written.

Not since George Orwell’s classic novel of a world gone totally mad (1984) has an entire system of political thought been so effectively dissected through the use of such relentless irreverence, irony, and wit. Like all truly great satire, The Jerkburg Report will quite literally make you laugh until you cry. It's easily the most devastatingly hilarious romp through the utter phoniness of the liberal mindset ever committed to the printed page!

** If you think Ann Coulter drives
liberals crazy, you ain't seen nothin' yet!!


Table Of (Dis) Contents


Section 1.

1... Cry Me A River
2... Little Billy Hindenberg's 3rd Triangulated Law Of What Goes Up Must Come Down
3... A Shrine Is Fine
4... ...'Til You're Blue In The Face
5... A "Jerkerite"?
6... Jeepers Creepers, Dr. Peepers!
7... All I want For Christmas....
8... The Grand Oracles Of Jerkburg Have Their Crystal Balls Removed!
( **  Thanks to Bill and Hill' )

Section 2.

9... Trogloville
10... Bubba Columbo
11... P.C. Jones
12... An Abbreviation Around Which Every Proud Jerkerite can Rally
13... The Democra-Moron Party!
14... A Yahootie Claptrapper-Son
15... Nostril Lahmus's Nose!
16... Mr. Greeds Goes To Washington
17... The Only Truly Honest Thing In Jerkburg: It's Tax Collecting System
18... The Strange Case Of Harriet Bitcher's Stove!
19... "I Came All The Way BAck From The Dead Just To Vote Democra-Moron!"
20... Jerkburg's Pledge of Obedience
21... The Rosey O'Connell Governmental Building
(**  Named After A Hog, Of Course!)
22... Media Bias? .... You've Got To Be Kidding!
23... Alger Hissed
24... The United Notions (**  Jerkburg's United Nations)
25... The Founding "Biscuitly-Challenged-Mothers" Of Jerkburg" (Huh?)
26... Why, You No Good Worthless Blankety-Blank....
27... Jerkburg's Constitution
28... One Flew Under The Cuckoo's Nest
29... A Horse Named "Woodie"
30... Growing Up Can Be Harmful To Your Health
31... You'll Do A While For A Camel
32... You Definitely Don't Want To Round Up These "Usual Suspects"
33... When The Trip Ends.... The Guilt Begins
34... A Few Good Men
35... Out Of The Valley Of Death Stampeded The "Noble" 600!
36... One Sheet In The Wind
37... This Bird's For You!
38... The Naught Police
39... You Don't Ever Want To See The Inside Of a Whittler Chambers!
40... Elmer??
41... S.O.W
42... Otto Bilbo
43... The Wild Bill "Anything Pill" Company Goes Out Of Business!
44... Good Ol' Jerkburg "U."
45... Hand-da-Ball
46... Did You Say "The Debunking Team"?
47... If Jerkberg Is A Bowl Of Cherries...I'll Gladly Take The Pits!
48... The Joan Beech Society
49... Will The Last Free Man Leaving
Jerkburg Please Turn out The Lights!
50... Out, Out You Oh So Brief, But Bright Little Candle
51... If WACKO Fits, Wear It!
52... Who's That knocking On My Door? .....

A Note Before You Read Further

The Jerkburg Report's text runs to exactly 95 pages and is grounded entirely in satire … all except for one serious and very prophetic piece that ends up being nailed to the front door of Jerkburg's town hall. This most unusual piece is aptly titled:

“Will The Last Free Man Leaving Jerkburg Please Turn out The Lights”

If you read nothing else in the entire Jerkburg Report, please read this. It illuminates with the perfect clarity of Liberty's unerring truth the …

Sacred Rights Of The Individual!



Now get a good grip on your sanity, Dear Reader, because you're about to visit “Jerkburg”, a town populated exclusively by liberals. If hard-hitting irreverence coupled with the sharp edge of truth offends your delicate sensibilities, leave this site immediately!

… otherwise enter Jerkburg
only at the risk of laughing yourself silly!

The Jerkburg Report

As compiled by Jerkburg's last remaining free man


Cry Me a River

Yo Yo Mood is Jerkburg’s greatest virtuoso player of the “Weeping Toon“, an instrument of such sublime heart wrenching beauty that merely tuning it up causes all the gathered concert attendees to break out their little perfumed hankies and weep in uncontrollable sympathy ... in uncontrollable sympathy with what? Doesn’t matter ... it’s the sympathy that counts!


Little Billy Hindenberg's 3 rd Triangulated Law of What Goes Up Must Come Down!

Three minutes prior to being expelled from Jerkburg Sr. High for the rest of his entire natural life, little Billy Hindenberg had obediently followed the mid-term examination directions laid out by his 12th grade teacher, Mr. MacDonald.

Mr. MacDonald’s directions were specifically this: “Students, since tests are strictly forbidden in order that we might promote a more self-esteemly-unchallengeable-equal-opportunity learning environment, I want each of you to take out a nice piece of twice recycled paper and write down whatever happy little thoughts might be occurring inside your happy little noggins at this exact moment in time. And don‘t worry, students”, Mr. MacDonald added with a wink, “you won‘t be judged on content.” (We knew that already, didn’t we).

Some of the more profound thoughts which were presently coursing through the noggins of five of the more intellectually advanced 12th graders are listed below in the order that they occurred:

1- “If I had me a little pet chicken I’d name him Ol’ MacDonald“.

2- “.... and a Eeeee-i ... Eeeee-i... O !

3- “Duuuuuuuuhhhh ........

4- “Don't put no whammy on my Uncle Sammy from Alabammy!”

5- And last, but not least, were the cardinal sin-like thoughts of little Billy Hindenberg ... which he made the grave mistake of committing to paper in the form of the following heretical postulate:

Little Billy Hindenberg’s 3rd Triangulated Law Of What Goes Up Must Come Down ...

Little Billy Hindenberg

After Mr. MacDonald read what little Billy Hindenberg had written, and was swiftly revived out of the deep swoon into which he had fallen by a quick thinking student who shouted out sadistically “Look, it’s Nanci Piglosi's beautiful smiling face!” ... little Billy Hindenberg was rounded up by the school’s Prince-Of-A-Pal (the name “Principal” is prohibited since it denotes “dominance” of a vile pedantic sort), and promptly escorted out the school’s back door where he was told that if he ever came back again, he would be relieved of much more the next time than just his intellectual freedom.

This thinly veiled physical threat (coupled with several ominous references made to those neutrally-challenged, perpetually scowling members of the Tax Squads) obviously worked real wonders on little Billy Hindenberg … who left school so fast that day that his shoes are still smokin‘!


A Shrine is Fine

The most visited national shrine in
Jerkburg is The Tomb Of The Unknown Florist.


...'Til You're Blue In The Face

In a town where patriotism is historically spat upon and valor roundly despised, the most heroic act any citizen of Jerkburg can possibly engage in is the high act of “apology”. For the record, the grand record for Jerkburg apologies (if records were kept, which they aren’t since records require competition in order to be set and competition is strictly forbidden in Jerkburg ) is 44 apologies uttered within the context of one single breath exhaled.

The citizen who set the offending record (a male engendered person [naturally] by the name of Gasper Blue), drew in one long impossibly deep breath, and exhaled it by apologizing to everything in sight ... to an ant hill ... a discarded banana peel ... to two pieces of burnt toast ... four sunny side up eggs … three pair of Siamese goat-herders … the sun, the moon, the stars, and the planet Pluto.

In fact, Gasper Blue apologized with such startling rapid-fire rapidity that, you guessed it ... he turned blue in the face ... whereupon he had to be whisked off to Jerkburg Memorial Gardens Hospital where (due to a lack of competition) the doctors are all poorly trained and, as a consequence, while Gasper was still gasping out for air in an attempt to apologize for his inability to apologize further, an expert team of highly competent surgeons amputated his right big toe at the kneecap.


A "Jerkerite"??

The abnormals in Jerkburg won’t dare tell you, but the normal folks over in Trogloville have a pet name for them ... ”Jerkerites”... they call them and, for the purposes of this historical record, you can call them that, too, if you so wish.

But what is a “Jerkerite” actually defined? If you really want an answer (and believe me, you really don’t) just ask any citizen of Jerkburg (read that as a “Jerkerite”) and they’ll be more than glad to tell you in about a 99 page intellectual discourse that touches on everything from the need to improve the drinking water quality in Outer Mongolia, to the desperate need for more tax monies to fund a more detailed scientific study into the acrobatic sex life of the High Jumping Flea ... and by the way, there is an ever increasing need for more Clean-Air-Quality Sirens strategically placed around the equator since the air quality is ever decreasing by the day ... and then there is the major problem of the alarming frequency with which minor panic attacks are regularly occurring within the highly oppressed field mouse population ... (a problem soon to be addressed with about two more dump trucks full of tax payers’ cash dumped on it, no doubt) ….

.... and so on and so forth it will go, until finally, when you’ve been lectured and bored nearly to death, the proud Jerkburger (read that as a “Jerkerite”) will finally get down to the crux of the definition of themselves which they will be more than happy to tell you with a highly superior sniff is simply this, ”You Troglovillers are so perfectly shabby and inferior, while we Jerkburgers (Jerkerites) are so perfectly wonderful and superior.”

However, if you want a truly accurate definition of the word “Jerkerite”, all you have to do is ask any average Trogloviller standing on any ordinary street corner. Then you’ll hear the following statement delivered with barely a passing shrug:

“Hell fire, Bub, why worry your little noggin with definitions when you can step right across Jerkurg's wide open borders and get to know some real Jerkerite types up close and on an actual first name basis.”

( … after which dropping dead won't seem quite so bad after all!)


Jeepers Creepers, Dr. Peepers

Though they’ll never admit to it, deep down within their inner tortured psyches the average citizen of Jerkburg secretly festers with the bitter realization that they’re not nearly so superior as they openly profess to be. On a purely instinctive level, they each sense that something vital … something terribly essential is lacking within the deeper wellspring of themselves.

Thus, it is that they tend to over-compensate for their failure to measure up by adopting a condescendingness of behavior, a superiorness of attitude that, at first glance, appears to be smugly confident of itself, yet, upon closer examination, is revealed for exactly what it is instead: ….

.... an uncertainty of belief so intense underpinned by a frailty of character so profound that it causes them to over-compensate for these glaring inner deficiencies by projecting an outer image of faked superiority, not only to all those they come into contact with, but most importantly, to themselves as well.

(**The biggest fool is the fool who fools himself
and, at this, the citizens of Jerkburg are all absolute experts!)

But occasionally, even these high practitioners of the art of self-deception need a bit of tangible reinforcement. Whenever this is called for, all the gloom-ridden inferior feeling citizens of Jerkburg have to do to make themselves feel instantly superior again is to poke their massive inferiority complexes right inside a “Dr. Peepers” and ... Zingo! ... Zango! ... within moments, an instantaneous state of self-delusion is achieved, after which the deluded one can then proceed gaily on about their daily business, smugly confident of their own exalted position high atop the very pinnacle of the human totem pole.

A Dr. Peepers, of course, is not really a “doctor” at all, but instead, the name of a marvelous “feel good” machine ... an anti-inferiority-complex machine to be more exact. You’ll find a Dr. Peepers conveniently attached to every lamp post sitting on every street corner in Jerkburg ... just in case.

Just in case of what? Well, let’s let the logo just beneath a typical Dr. Peepers speak for itself. Here's what it says:

If the truth is getting you down again, and you’re feeling just like your miserable old inferior self again … well, don’t fret, citizen ... just take a real quick peep inside a Dr. Peepers and you’ll start to feel brand new in seconds!

Just above this announcement sits the machine itself ... a black mechanical box barely two feet square complete with a dark shawl-like hood quite like those used by early 1900’s photographers.

To activate a Dr. Peepers, all any Jerkerite (depressed by the hard cold truth about themselves) has to do is step up to the machine and place the dark hood around their head ... which promptly activates a small T.V. viewing screen inside, which simultaneously activates a highly soothing pre-recorded voice that rolls out with the following pre-recorded worldclass soothing lie.

“Citizen,” the voice advises, “don’t be fooled; this is not a small T.V. viewing screen you‘re staring at ... no indeedy, it’s actually a small mirror instead ... and just look at how beautiful your face looks reflected in it today!”

(** The citizen staring into the Dr. Peepers may, in reality, be ugly enough to curdle an entire lava flow spewing forth from Mt. Kunga Foobi, but that doesn’t matter one whit, because the face displayed on the small T.V. viewing screen will always be smiling and beautiful and very youthful looking indeed.)

“And further more,” the voice will continue, “your intellect is really towering up nicely today as well.” (To reinforce this, a close-up of Einstein’s face will briefly fill the screen.)

“And the moral superiority of your position is equally unchallenged, too.” (In response to this, an old film clip of Alger Hiss testifying will flash briefly across the screen.)

“So, perk up, citizen” the Dr. Peepers will conclude soothingly, “because there is simply no one else on planet earth even half as perfectly superior as you.” which point, the soothing voice will hush, the small T.V. viewing screen will go suddenly blank, and the citizen so deceived will remove his head from the Dr. Peepers, and go happily on about his particular self-deluded business of the day.

As you can plainly see, a Dr. Peepers is obviously a very wonderful machine ... or at least, it does seem to work real wonders for that easily-swayed-type-of-just-waiting-to-be-deceived kind of personality which infests Jerkburg proper.

P.S. The only recorded incidence of a Dr. Peepers actually refusing to work properly was when a Jerkerite by the name of Al Frankincensed stuck his grinning visage into one one day for some much needed physical reinforcement. Unfortunately, a close-up of Al Frankincensed's face was simply more then any self-respecting Dr. Peepers could possibly bear and still continue to function with any mechanical dignity at all. So, it took one look at Al’s grinning face, then said in a whiny self-deprecating little voice “Ugh! I might be just a poor dumb little machine, but I still got some pride left ... and there ain’t no way I’m going to lie to somebody as hardcore ugly as you!”


All I Want For Christmas....

On Christmas Day (a day forbidden by law in Jerkburg) gifts are still permitted to be exchanged ... providing those gifts are all sanctioned by the state. Two prime examples of state sanctioned gifts are listed below:

1- A “Rage-O-Meter”: cleverly designed to resemble a small smirking Elephant with an overly large trunk, a Rage-O-Meter’s sole function is to gauge whether or not any citizen of Jerkburg’s rage level is typically up to par and seething along at a properly acceptable norm.

All any perpetually offended citizen has to do to check the current level of their perpetual rage, is to simply pick up a Rage-O-Meter and jerk on its overly large trunk once … which promptly activates a pre-recorded recording of several million very unhappy Florida- bred donkeys each braying out miserably in defeat … all heard to the voice-over accompaniment of “W” Bush rather goofily reciting the following happily confused little childhood rhyme:

“… One potato, two potato, three potato, four … all my hanging chads have done defeated Albert Gore!!

(Neighbor, if the above doesn’t make you mad, I don‘t know what else will!)

2- A “Pet Apology Clock”: shaped like a rock and kept in the pocket, whenever the Pet Apology Clock is removed and rubbed vigorously between one’s thumb and index finger, a whining pre- recorded little voice clicks on and asks in the following sniveling tone, “What time is it in Jerkburg?... why, it’s the same time as always ... time to apologize, of course!”


The Grand Oracles of Jerkburg Have Their Crystal Balls Removed!

(Thanks to Bill and Hill')

Remember The Oracle at Delphi? Well, Jerkburg once had one, too ... at least, it did until all 279 of its high swamis (it was a collective oracle, [naturally] made up entirely of welfare double-dippers who were especially clairvoyant at predicting on which two days of the month their free money would arrive) ... were all summarily fired from the prognostication business and sentenced to serve out two years hard labor working over in the deep dark dreaded land of Trogloville.

In any event, the reason for the sudden firing of Jerkburg’s 279 member Grand Oracle was simple enough: it strayed from its usual mission of predicting the-future-to-come and got into the more esoteric business of predicting alternate futures instead. In other words, they started predicting futures that would have occurred providing the moon and stars had lined up a bit differently from the very start. And this, dear friends and neighbors, marked the beginning of The Jerkburg Grand Oracles' abrupt ending as you shall see in spades.

The beginning of the end happened like this. One day, when all 279 members of The Jerkburg Grand Oracle had some time on its hands to spare (which was always ... except when they were stampeding over top of one another in order to be first in line to steal their free cash), someone on the oracle suggested that it might be fun to do an alternate future.

This sounded like a really cool idea, so a collective rub-a-dub-dub on 279 crystal balls by 558 deadbeat hands and ... Voila! ... the alternate future that swam quickly into view was this: a small run down shabby disgraceful looking little mobile home nestled disgustingly back up a narrow litter infested disgusting little street in one of Jerkburg’s smaller more run down filthy crime ridden trailer parks that looked just like a sure mark for the next passing category five tornado.

Anyhow, this familiar scene also looked a good bit like home-sweet-home to all 279 of those smiling clairvoyants presently rubbing their balls ... so, another rub-a-dud-dub on the ol’ crystal spheroids and ....

Bingo! ... the small run down disgusting little trailer was magically entered, causing the following interior scene to materialize starkly into view:....

...... a large potbellied unshaven man of 35 or so (his name is William Jefordson Clinston) is slumped down snoring in a battered worn out old easy chair. “Bill” (as everyone calls Clinston whenever the stench of his rank body odor doesn‘t drive them beyond hollering distance, which is seldom), wears a soiled T-shirt stained with little drooled rivulets of brown chili bean gravy stew staining its front. A can of beer dangles half empty from one of Bill'’s hairy ham sized hands. To his immediate front, a Monday night game of Hand-da-Ball is underway on an ancient black and white T.V. screen. But Bill doesn’t care. He’s a bit too drunk at present to pay much attention to anything beyond the steady hypnotic sound of the non-stop Zeeeeee’s escaping from a pimple-pocked nose the size of a large hickory smoked Polish sausage.

Perhaps you’re wondering what’s so terribly wrong with this particular scene of domestic tranquility in a future-time that might have been, but wasn‘t? Not one single thing. The Grand Oracle Of Jerkburg was doing just fine ... that is, until another fond rub on the ol’ collective balls produced the abrupt image of a sweaty young woman standing directly behind Bill in front of a gravy streaked stove (And let me tell you for a fact, folks, that this is when The Jerkburg Grand Oracle started to tread on real shaky ground)!

The woman depicted in the crystal balls behind slumbering ol’ Bill is his wife. She’s blond, early thirties. Her back is presently turned, her face as yet unrevealed. She is, however, cursing relentlessly beneath her breathe as she presently stirs a big dripping pot of steaming chili bean gravy stew. No doubt her cursing is due in part to three little children swarming pigmy-like around her knees, tugging insistently on her grimy out of style dress, yelling, ”Mommie! Mommie! Make that dork that you say is our Daddy stop snoring so loud!”

Awakened by the racket, good ol’ Bill sluffs off his drunken stupor just long enough to scratch his left hairy armpit and put in his own sour dose of grumpy two cents worth, “Will you make them there kids hush up“ he grumbles irritably, “they is disturbin’ my shut eye and what’s left of the game.”

Livid, the blond headed woman promptly puts her big stirring spoon down, turns fully around from the stove, and starts to give “good ol‘” Bill a big piece of her small narrow mind. “Now, ain’t you a fine one to be talkin,” she yaps venomously, “and while I’m on the subject, Mr. William Jeffordson Clinston, let me tell you ......... ”

….... By Elmer! ..... we can see her face clearly now ... yes, we really can ... but wait! ... hold everything, folks ... it simply can’t be true ... but it is!! ... why, it’s none other than the world’s smartest woman standing there in those crystal balls depicting this alternate future that might actually have been but wasn‘t … a future time that surely would have been if not for the engaging high voltage personality of another real-time husband to which she would instead attach herself like a bloodsucking leech, clinging desperately to him as the rising tide of his own ocean liner-like charisma lifted her little mundane row boat of feminine lacklusterness right up by the female engendered skirt tails and set her name high up in political lights ... no thanks at all to anything she ever accomplished on her own or ever actually did all by herself.

For revealing the above alternate future, all 279 members of The Jerkburg Grand Oracle had their balls removed (so that they could not predict any more alternate futures), and were summarily fired on the spot. This was later thought to be not a sufficient enough penalty, so this was later adjusted down to what everyone in Jerkburg could finally agree was indeed a much more fitting form of punishment: two years at hard labor working over in Trogloville moping up floors and cleaning out johns in Trump Towers.

Eventually, this punishment was judged to be a bit too harsh and was summarily commuted to a much lighter sentence of three life terms to be served out consecutively in the dank wharf-rodently-infested basement of a pumpkin-shaped Whittler Chambers.

(** More about Hand-da-ball, Elmer, and a Whittler Chambers later.)


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