The pen is mightier than the sword unless the hand holding the pen gets chopped off

It was a dark and stormy Edward Bulwer-Lytton. The teabaggers teabagged in torrents, for when the First Baron storms darkly 'cross the land it's with serious meteorological mojo, except at occasional obfuscatory oscillations between protesting with crudely-inked posters and posting on their blog and maybe a quick run to the sandwich shop exchanging money for goods and/or services such as sandwiches and sex perhaps the basis of all human civilization -- the sandwiches, not the sex because most wingnut CHUDs don't have sex except with family pets and masturbation doesn't count but if it did, I'd be getting laid daily, when it was checked by a violent gust of Congressional and corporate propaganda, sorry for the skipping needle, which swept up the streets like a giant Orick Oreck or a CEO's maid because the wife is too hopped up on goofballs and Mr. Gekko is banging the secretary (for it is in DC that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops like a rattlesnake's rattle or even a baby's, no, a rattlesnake's because that's scarier unless the baby is Damien with the shits at 3am, and fiercely agitating the scantily-clad flame of the lamp that is my imagination, yeah, that's it insert fantasy babe here, take it all off, hot damn, am I struggling against the darkness, Eddie, got a light, it's hard forging birth certificates in the dark, how about I just copy off of yours I've got sideburns, too, no one will know the difference.