by Fred Reed: A
Conversation With Hant
point downward, I tell you. On the lobotomy box the other night
I stumbled on what seemed to be sock puppets standing behind rostrums
and hypnotically intoning The American People, the American
People, the American People.
speculated that it might be a convention of performing autistics,
but soon understood that it it was a debate among Republican candidates
for the presidency. Why use people, I wondered? We could do it as
well in software. Computer graphics, small recorded vocabulary,
narcotic rhythm. Easy.
Romney was speaking. I checked the Wicked Pedia to see what manner
of creature he might be. No surprises. Pampered rich kid, apparently
not too bright, mediocre student in fancy private schools. A Mormon.
Only one wife, though. A former missionary in France. It might have
been worse. We could have bombed St. Denis.
I thought of
all the Mormon missionaries I had seen in various countries, black-suited
in Taiwan in August, peddling around like bicycle-borne undertakers,
earnest, solemn, living in some eerie head-bubble inaccessible to
outsiders. Oh help.
I'm going to
become an ant, I decided. It would be less embarrassing. I don't
know how to go about it, but there must be a way. I'll live in one
of those high-rise mud nests in the Australian desert, except I
think those are termites. How can they be termites with no wood
to eat? Maybe they have it shipped in.
Among the American-Peoplers
was Rick Perry, a Son of Texas in the mold of Bush II, dumb as turnips,
inarticulate, a wing-nut Christian. I guess he's waitin' for the
ol' Rapture-suction to whoosh him up to drink Lone Star with Chay-suss.
Poor Chaysuss. Rick wants to invade Mexico militarily, but only
with the permission of the Mexican government. Thoughtful of him
Does he speak
Spanish? No. English? Almost. Any experience outside the US? No.
Doesn't need it. He has a direct line to God, who presumably speaks
to him slowly, in words without too many syllables.
People. The American People. We have to get America back on track.
The Ordinary American. We have to get back to American Values. The
What the hell
is the American Dream, I wondered? Seven credit cards maxed-out,
living paycheck to paycheck, upside down on the mortgage in a boring
house you don't really like, a job you hate but the retirement plan
gotcha, your little boy buzzing on force-fed Ritalin, wife and daughter
gobbling Prozac and everyone wondering, Is this all there
Well, maybe a week at Disneyland with that stupid mouse.
Bachmann, clueless evangelical daffodil. May God save us from Christianity.
Brighter than Perry, but so is anything not actually inanimate.
Not visibly intelligent enough to disqualify her for election, but
maybe she is dissimulating. No experience in the world that I can
was not created to be a nation of followers,, Romney told
his followers. The key to election seems to be to tell Americans
how wonderful they are, stroke them like cats, avoid puzzling them,
and keep saying The American Dream. Tell them that we're
a country of rugged individualists, just like Davy Crockett and
Dan'l Boone. Probably we should wear coon-skin hats.
Romney, will he attack Iran if it doesn't obey Washington? Absolutely,
responded this apostle of the Church of Latter Day Pattons. Japan's
oil comes through the Straits of Hormuz, which his hearers believe
to be a brand of beef stew. No oil, no Japan. No matter. The
I'm going to
slit my throat. Do ants have throats? A country of 315 million,
nuclear-armed, able to wreck other countries it has never heard
of in minutes, and the candidates sound as if they were addressing
a warehouse of stuffed animals. This is the best we can do?
People. The American Dream. We must turn this country around. OK,
then the East Coast would front on the Pacific. Why would that be
better? It's probably some sort of real-estate scam.
At least he's been to school, though he's smart enough not to emphasize
it. The American People. The traditional values that made this country
grate. Great. America is not a desperately sick over-policed welfare
state collapsing into the Third World. No. Everything is as it always
was. All we need is the Newt World Order and we will leap tall buildings
at a single bound.
He too wants
to attack Iran. The man has the military grasp of Tinker Belle.
Grrr, bow-wow, woof.
of an ant, I'll become an aardvark. Though I'm not sure what one
is. I need a change of phylum. What do cephalopods eat?
At least we
no longer have that low-wattage high-school cheerleader turned moose-huntress.
Stuffed animals fore and aft, I tell you. Contemplating Obama, I
swore I'd never vote for another black president. After Bush II,
I swore I'd never vote for another white one. My options were narrowing.
Now I'm thinking Obama or Herman Cain. Slick Empty in the great
White Yurt on Pennsylvania Avenue is still corrupt and invertebrate,
but now only starts small wars, as in Uganda. Cain makes pizzas
and seems to be a human being. It's a novel concept but these are
trying times. Besides they say he did sexually inappropriate stuff
to some gals who want to be on talk-shows and get book contracts.
Good for him. I'm going to start a group called Men Mad at Sanctimonious
Priss Spigots. Cain can be a Founding Fondler.
Cain (I think) and Ron Paul, the candidates all want to attack Iran.
Rick Santorum too. I guess it's a manhood issue. Maybe we could
buy them codpieces instead. Michele could get hers from Victoria's
Secret, with sequins and flowers. Most of this crew were of military
age during Viet Nam. How many served? Ah. Umm. Uh. Urg. A pack of
martial dwarves without the tiniest freaking idea why the Pentagon
can't beat Iran.
take it. Before Ron Paul began to speak I went out for a gallon
of Padre Kino red and an IV drip. I thought it might hold me over
until I figured out how to become an aardvark.
Ron Paul is tiresomely predictable. He would say hateful anti-American
things. You know, we should get out of damn fool wars, pick the
military leech off the back of the republic, dismantle an empire
that bankrupts the US, and end our perpetual state of martial priapism
against Iran. Completely unelectable. A commie, I figure.
is author of Nekkid
in Austin: Drop Your Inner Child Down a Well and A
Brass Pole in Bangkok: A Thing I Aspire to Be. His latest
book is Curmudgeing
Through Paradise: Reports from a Fractal Dung Beetle. Visit
© 2011 Fred Reed
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