Let’s all get one thing straight before I tell the interneted web nation how and what to think of a politic. I rarely buy into conspiracy, unless you’re selling doubt in the industry of “Folk Hero”. I know it is controversial, but I’m not completely sold on the whole Paul Bunyan, Davy Crockett, Wilson Pickett, John Henry, Johnny Appleseed, Bananarama Americana folklore stories. How does that affect my politic, you ask? Quite well, thank you.
The North American continent country has fared well over the last hundred million years, excluding Canada and Mexico, and most all of America history. That mentioned said, we should clearly be well-positioned to elect a USA presidency president with extreme prejudice in only uno month time.
Running for election candidacy this go round is the usual mix of the Repubescent (R) party, Demumocrunker (D) party, and the ever increasing popular Wizard (W) party. Which is best? Who should you decide choose?
There are no answers here.
As desperate as you are for me to fill your peanut with propaganda, positions, and stances, the sad reality is this: if I convey anything meaningful to you with this in-depth writing article story, it will only end up as regurgitated politic banter fuel for your small talk with other opinionated shitheels. So let’s skip meaning. Let’s drop the whole subject. Let’s move to something fresher. Something, darker.
Let’s explore the problem of ghosts that haunt places where they didn’t die. Those deceased bastards that haunt outside of the confines of your current household home, i.e. their previous place of employment/residence. I can’t tell you the amount times I haven’t been able get aboard the public city transportation bus-bus because masses of glowing orbs and foggy transparent deados had packed in so tight there isn’t a single stray vomit-strewn seat to lay down upon. It drives me insane. Actually, scratch that; If I can’t get on the bus, I’ll drive myself.
Mrs. Myrtle, who lives in a relatively unhaunted residence household across from me, left her shiny, pre-owned 1990 Oldsmobile Eighty Eight dimwittedly parked on the public road street overnight. I delicately unhinged her automobile glass from the driver’s side door with a slightly off-season snow shovel, and made away with my newly borrowed ride wheels into the steely night searching for that old dusty campaign trail.
Once across the Florida state line, I became completely overwhelmed by the stench of politic and swerved my ‘88 wildly off an overpass. I came to a crash near a welcome sign for a quaint retirement villa and also ran over an alligator. I climbed out of the wreckage and lamented the knot my bolo tie had received during the wild auto collision. I dried my eyes, and noticed a nearby billboard that read, “Today: 2016 Democratic and Republican Shared National Convention | Sun Life Stadium | 3 pm until ?”
I looked at my shattered wrist watch. It read, “2:59pm.”
"Mother of scrode,” I murmured, “I only have one minute to get there or I’ll miss the whole start.”
After a quick transportation plot thread, I arrived just in time for the start of the 2016 Democratic and Republican Shared National Convention. The opening ceremony was quite something. A massive red curtain rose to reveal around 315 elementary school student scholars dressed to the nines in banana costumes. All of the children turned away from the crowd in unison and then turned back to reveal they had retrieved giant golden horns with flags affixed to them. The flag designs varied between each kid child from the Demo Donkey to the Repubo Elephant logo symbols. All of the student child children then raised their horns and began to play Hot Cross Buns.
The floor then started to rumble as seventeen elephants and seventeen donkeys started parading down the center aisle towards the main stage. Right as my paranoia was peaking over the thought of the tiny horn children being crushed by the line of animal beasts, the musical elementary line made a coordinated break in the middle and marched off stage in both of their respective directions. The elephants and donkeys stood marching on stage in unison for about 15 more minutes until a whistle was blown, resulting in a stop in motion. The crowd was silent. Mouths gaped open as we waited for what was to come next.
The sound of dress shoes on polished wooden floor stage surfaced from back stage. Some sort of ringmaster adorned with traditional greased mustache facial hairs and tip-tophat walked out onto center middle stage. He turned fast on his heels and held up an over-sized hula hoop. He looked towards the animal creatures and said something in Russian. All of the elephants and donkeys started to move towards the front of the stage forming a single-file line.
The creatures strutted closer and closer to the end of the stage. A woman adult towards the front of the audience went so far as to say, “Oh my goodness!”
Closer and closer the elephants and donkeys crept. Then it happened.
The first one through the hula hoop was a donkey, who immediately fell off the edge of the stage and out of sight. The building shook with the roar of a seemingly impossible giant motor engine. Next an elephant, then another donkey, then another elephant followed suit passing through the hula hoop and off the front of the stage. The massive engine sound continued to thunder. The stadium was reaching near-deafening decibels. I fingered an earhole to check for blood.
Once the last animal in line had passed through the hula hoop, the engine sound shifted to whirring sound that vibrated every bench seat and jiggled the collective ass. Having completed his task with the animals, the ringmaster rolled his hula hoop away and made himself scarce. As the whirring continued, a colossal machine contraption began to rise in front of the stage. The motorized gargantuan device had a large open tube at the top with a striped design. That tube lead down to a massive cube, which had another open tube jutting out that faced the audience.
As the audience inspected the towering whirring contraption in front of them, the pipe facing them suddenly spewed forth with a mammoth geyser of ground elephant and donkey entrails. The crowd was so shocked with the startling purpose function of the machine that they made no sound as tattered bits of animal sprayed across their clothing outfits and into their open mouths.
Eventually the hose of emulsified mammal slowed to a dribble. The mechanical whirring sound petered out, and the colossus meat grinder lowered to its original resting position. The stadium remained silent.
A holograph of the late, influential, and greatly missed rapper Tupac Shakur appeared on stage. He removed his bandanna, asked the audience to rise, and announced he would be leading us in singing the national anthem. To the shock of no one, the singing of the anthem was the most beautiful thing that ever happened to anyone ever and we all enjoyed a hearty shared weep. Why the lord took that soldier away, we’ll never know.
Since the song was over, the crowd sat back down. A puff of smoke burst on stage and as it cleared, we could all see a new man in a shimmery suit and a cloke was standing at the microphone.
“Welcome...to the 2016 Democratic and Republican Shared National Convention!” A couple claps were heard sporadically from around the stadium. “My name you ask? I am Blando the Great!” He stretched his arms out upon this announcement and some confetti sprung from his sleeves. He continued his moving speech, “As we have all witnessed here today, not only is it possible that the two primary political party symbols in this country work together to form something great, but all of it can happen under the wise and magnificent oversight of the Wizard (W) party! Please consider voting straight-ticket Wizard (W) in 2016. There is a free dove taped to the bottom of everyone’s chairs. Thank you for attending 2016 Democratic and Republican Shared National Convention! Have a magical evening! Thank you!”
With another puff of smoke, Blando had vanished. A few of us pulled the affixed birds out from the bottoms of our chairs and benches and made for the exit.
Politics can be a tiring and complicated subject. It means sometimes you have to find a ride to a questionable national convention. It means having to figure out what a dove eats. Should you buy it a cage? It means taking the time to understand the misguided nature of the first, second, and third political parties. Are there more parties than that? Should we bring anything? It means writing down election days on a calendar with pens and then not forgetting to flip the calendar pages for months, maybe even years at a time. It means coming inside from the lawn every once in while when it gets hot so you don’t get heat stroke or alcohol poisoning. But most of all, it means knowing when to pick your picks from your parties and pickled peppers, but not to pick too much at your politic.