I just read where the current Congress passed fewer laws last year than any body of Congress since the highest court ruled that Adam and Eve could no longer walk around in their birthday suits lest they offend the good Lord and their nosy neighbors.

What this Congress seems to do best is talk endlessly about everything — guns, taxes, immigration, education, health care, the rising deficit, the sinking middle class, Iran’s nukes, Wall Street’s bandits, same sex marriage, the runaway welfare state — but do absolutely nothing about any of it. Instead, they take trips to fun places on the taxpayers dollar, half the time with their families in tow — $4 million alone last year, according to a report released this past week. The frequent flier miles must boggle.

There ought to be a law against this sort of legislative inertia and public freeloading, except there’s nobody around who could pass it. Everyone’s out running for president and talking about how the crackpots on the right or the wackos on the left refuse to talk to each and get stuff done. So they might as well go take a nice trip to the Bahamas.

Reader, since it’s just you and me talking, and I’m not due to check in with my court-appointed psychiatrist until noon, I’d like to offer a few of my own talking points on laws we ought to pass if-and-when Congress comes back from Palm Springs and gets back to the people’s business.

Today is Oscar Sunday. I haven’t seen a single one of the films up for Best Picture. I know, truly shameful. A first for me, actually. Frankly there ought to be a law against this sort of cinematic indifference. It’s un-American or at least unHollywood. Then again, all the movies up for Best Picture this year were such downers (I know because I watched the trailers) and simply couldn’t bring myself to lay out $12.50 for a movie that was going to make me wish I’d stayed home and watched a lonely ace on C-Span give a speech about ice jams on the Mississippi to an empty chamber of Congress.

Besides, who wants to look at all those glamorous and underfed celebrities on the red carpet, flashing their scary white teeth and talking about their former-limo driver boyfriends and designer ball gowns? We could really use a good law against thin and famous people with super-white teeth talking about their designer gowns and boyfriends, none of whom shave or seem to own a pocket comb — the boyfriends, that is.

Look, I have nothing against white teeth, per se. I used to have a set or two myself. But then I got older and so did my teeth, most of which are still with me and get brushed twice a day. I have a theory that people with blinding white teeth never eat anything, which is why they stay so thin they can get into designer ball gowns and attract guys who never comb their hair and would probably be living with their parents if they weren’t driving a limo.

Speaking of boyfriends — this just in — Robin Thicke is being sued for divorce owing to his wild party life in London and Katy Perry just kicked her boyfriend John Mayer out of her Hollywood mansion. I know you’re shocked to hear all of this. I certainly was, even though I have no idea who Robin Thicke is and can’t think of a single song by Katy Perry. Wasn’t Robin Thicke that guy on a 1980s sitcom? I understand Katy Perry called John Mayer the “worst boyfriend of all time.” That’s saying a lot, excluding Ghengis Khan or George Clooney one supposes, even for a celebrity with overly white teeth. Before Katy Perry dumped him, John Mayer dated Taylor Swift, who evidently wasn’t. Frankly, one needs a flow chart to keep up with all of this talk about celebrity shenanigans, the wild London parties, the blinding teeth and limo boyfriends.

Anyway, I think it would be helpful to have a law against hoarding. According to a new study of American social habits, ten percent of Americans are confirmed hoarders. That means every tenth person you meet on the street or at work goes home to a house full of empty cat food cans and Barbie dolls, probably binge-watching “Entertainment Tonight” and episodes of The Walking Dead. Seriously, all you dead people, ask yourself, is this any way to live your life? If not, may I suggest you get an actual cat?

I have a cat — two actually, a very young one and a very old one, both strays we adopted, though neither seems to give a fig about that. And besides, I’m really far more of a dog person. The old cat is completely cranky, follows me everywhere and drives me crazy. The young one annoys the old one and terrorizes the dogs. Last night the young one ran up a neighbor’s trees and howled in the starlight until he drove my neighbors nuts and I had to go out and throw tennis balls at him to try and get him to come down. My neighbor now thinks I’m a serial tennis ball- and cat hoarder, which may explain all the empty cat food cans and chewed tennis balls in our yard.

I can almost hear you saying “Why don’t you mind your own business, Porky.”

Please don’t call me “Porky” because it hurts my feelings. There are laws against that sort of thing, though probably not enough because my boss calls me “Slim” when he knows I’m anything but and makes me want to go home and climb a tree and howl about Congress being on a sunny beach in Polynesia and not doing the people’s business, whatever that is.

Fortunately my court-appointed psychiatrist just phoned to remind me of our noon appointment. Between you and me and the cats, he really likes to talk about everything under the sun but what’s really bothering me — all this talk about nothing.

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