Ah yes, the elections have come around again. Most notably, the Republican National Convention has come to PhilaHELLphia to make life hell either directly by closing roads and filling up hotels or indirectly by drawing out all of the crackhead protestors. Yep, I reckon that all of those professional protestors will be like maggots squirming around on a big slab of rotted meat. Such is our political system.
A group of contemporaries and I went to PhilaHELLphia the day it arrived to town with the hopes of getting to see some good old-fashioned democratic fisticuffs, but we were far too early. All of the radicals and pseudo-terrorists were still scraping together the last few bucks they'd need to buy an 8-ball to get in the mood to join the political process. All we saw were a Green and a few nonspecific anti-Bushists. My companions were far more interested in signing petitions and buying bumper stickers than I. My reluctance was not due to any amity toward Bush and his minions, mind you, but rather my loathing for pothead radicals who are either sitting around and bitching without coming up with solutions or are living in a drug-induced dreamland where the world can be a beautiful happy place free from suffering and want if only we take away everybody's property and give it to the same government they're bitching about.
This whole thing has been enlightening, though. As I have previously mentioned, a leader needs a good, powerful, and easy-to-attach-to-monuments name. After careful consideration, I have chosen Jason Steele as a preliminary selection. I began thinking of the bigger picture, though.
As is common knowledge to anyone with a glimmer of intelligence, ol' George W. Bush announced recently announced Dick Cheney as his running mate. I also heard on the radio that he'll take Colin Powell as a Secretary of State. That gives us the presidential Dream Team of Bush, Dick, and Colin. I'm surprised the joke factory hasn't been pounding out volumes of humorous tales to that effect. Sadly, I'm just not creative enough to cash in on what will be the biggest joke bonanza in decades.
Which brings me to my point. It's not enough, I've realized, to be careful of your own name when you are in a prominent position. The name Jason Steele is pretty much unassailable. What if, though, I had a top advisor who's name was Rust? Wouldn't that just suck? It also wouldn't be good to have any associates with last names of other metals, like Irons, Silver, or Aluminum. Too much metal will just sound silly. "Bender" will be bad, too. Can you imagine the Steele-Bender plan?
Then, of course, there are the horde of other names that will not be considered in any case. There's Butt and all its derivatives, Bustard, Hymen, Dick, Batman (that's a real last name! I SWEAR!), and all of the other sick or silly sounding names that my quick perusal through the phonebook did not unearth. I'll also include impossible-to-spell names such as Wrzesniewski on the red list. So if you want to ride on MY coattails, you'd damn well better have a presentable name, like Elizabeth Hurley, Latitia Casta, Sophie Marceu, Denise Richards, Neve Campbell, Jodi Lyn O'Keefe…you know, stuff like that.
All I need in this life to make me happy is if Al Gore picks a running mate that somehow tops the Bush-Dick-Colin ticket. PLEASE GOD! He's got a good start: "Gore". All he needs is a running mate with a name that complements his so perfectly as to make this the most appallingly lame election in history! Jokes will be told for centuries hence! Children will get a hearty laugh out of the history books before being stunned into awed silence by my chapter! PLEASE! That's all I need to make me happy for the rest of my life!
I ask for so little.
I get even less.
