This running for President business isn’t all its cracked up to be. First, you have to remember, locate and pay off all those pesky ex-wives, old girlfriends, fired employees and childhood innocents you might have played doctor with. Remember Chloe, the one-night-stand who made you strip naked and dance the hoochie-coochie prior to sex? She could have videotape. There might be people out there who have photos of you wearing your wife’s underwear or sneaking a quickie at 3 a.m. in the back of the bus from Roanoke to Duluth. What about the rotten eggs you left in the cloakroom at Carver Elementary? What about the time you voted for Ross Perot? It’s a jungle out there and it only takes a single faux pas to elbow you right off the campaign trail and into the ditch. Unless, of course, you happen to be Donald Trump, whose robot voters live in caves and eat dirt.
Next, you need a platform. Are you for or against macaroni being named the National Food? How do you feel about Pee Wee Herman? Should we invade Swaziland or save the troops for Venezuela? It’s an endless list of options and you can’t afford to choose badly. I, myself, will be The Ecology President, vigilantly uprooting climate villains and cleaning up the air, water and suspect Greyhound bus stations. I will also be The Equality President, establishing special education centers which will teach white people to play basketball as well as blacks. I will insist on equal wages for men and women except where professional auto racing is concerned. I will overrule bigoted state legislators and certify LGBT parades in Mississippi, as long as they don’t get too poofy.
None of this will do any good, of course, if a campaign does not get off the ground due to insufficient finances. Since I have already denounced edgy PACs and promised not to accept more than ten billion dollars from the big corporations, it becomes necessary for each and every one of my followers to send me one dollar (cash please, no pennies) in a plain brown envelope. All of this money will be used to pay campaign staff, open offices in often ignored jerkwater locations and pay off Sean Hannity not to say mean things about me on the radio. If there’s anything left over, I thought I might buy a few new ties.
Finally, I have to select a vice-presidential candidate. I know this is usually left to the honchos at the National Conventions, but that’s how you wind up with Dan Quayle and Sarah Palin. Right now, I’m thinking about this guy:
A Letter To Al
Dear Al Franken,
I thought I’d drop you a line to ask how you were and find out if the ice-fishing has been good in the finally-thawing lakes of Minnesota. If all the foolish Democrats hadn’t jumped the gun and prematurely run you out of Washington, it would be you high on the list of potential Dem contenders instead of me. At least that snarky Kirsten Gillibrand, who greased the skids for your demise, is only polling about half a percent and trending down. ‘Twas ever thus. Historically, the Democrats have often proved to be their own worst enemies. But enough of this unpleasant chit-chat, let’s get down to business.
It occurred to me recently that you might be bored up there the Land of 10,000 Lakes (which really seems like a lot to me---are those license plates fudging a little?) and perhaps a smidge anxious to get back to the political wars. I was looking around for a possible running-mate the other day---a reasonably progressive candidate but one still anchored to Earth, an uncompromising egalitarian, an ecological champion like myself and a man of the people. That’s you, Al. So what if you got a little friendly with a couple of cuties, we’ve all been there, and I’m sure you’ll be much more careful in the future.
Sure, it’s a bit of a come-down to be running for Veep instead of the top job but I am 78 years old and shit happens. It would be nice to know that a proper replacement would step right into the oval office if I came down with terminal yaws, werewolf syndrome or Cotard’s Delusion. Or, perish the thought, a militiaman sniper from Montana ruined my inaugural parade.
So I’m hoping you’ll take the vice-presidential slot on the ticket, Al, even though your country may not deserve you. Take your time and think about it, there’s no rush. If you decide to give it a shot, I think we’ll take the country by storm. And consider how much fun it would be to consign Senator Gillibrand to the inaugural ball at the Washington Navy Yard.
Your pal, Bill
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| Who says our ticket lacks diversity? |
Close The Door, They’re Coming In The Windows
Like Superman and The Green Hornet, even presidential contenders have lives away from the spotlight. Last Wednesday, in his alter-ego life as CFO of Pathogenes, Inc., candidate Bill had to scurry off to lovely Miami to attend to business. Pathogenes pharmacist Jim Marshall, his wife Carla and trail-boss Siobhan comprised the merry truckload of adventurers. Well….merry for a while.
Twenty or thirty miles north of the Ford Dodge escape hatch on the Florida Turnpike, central Florida’s notorious love bugs (plecia nearctica) were holding a rock festival. For the uninformed, these nefarious critters appear a couple times a year in serious numbers, mate and are joined in matrimony as long as they both shall live….at least that’s what it seems like. They have no predators because they taste like a combination of cod liver oil, fermented shark meat and anal sac secretions, or so I’ve heard. But we in Florida are resilient folk, and have become inured to these bi-annual invasions. So far.
On this occasion, the swarm seemed much larger, enormous in fact, and with each passing mile, the windshield darkened. Soon, it was virtually impossible to see through, making the driving risky. Rolling down the window and peeking down the road was equally unlikely without that octet of goggles thoroughbred racehorse jockeys wear on muddy tracks, one inside the other. Besides, the bugs get in your teeth and make your hair boggy.
Finally, the Fort Dodge Plaza appeared and we naively thought to advance to the automatic sprayer and wash off the detritus. Us and fifty other slow-moving vehicles. The rest of the place was swollen with cars and trucks wandering in all directions, looking for solace. The gas pumps were blocked with empty autos, the passengers now laden with water bottles, futilely scraping their windshields with the edges of credit cards. Gas station employees skittered about pushing wheelbarrows full of water with which travelers reloaded their bottles. It was a nightmare and progress was glacial. Eventually, I noticed a water source over in the exclusive semi area, undiscovered as yet by the thundering herd. We made our way over and eventually liberated the windshield. The grill and the rest of the front of the truck were still encrusted. We were sure we’d have to stop again but twenty miles down the road the storm abated. Returning the next day, the bugs had diminished by 75%, gone as quickly as they had suddenly appeared. Greatly relieved at this gentle twist of fate, we exhaled.
It was the worst of times, it was the best of times. And you were there.
Big Doin’s In Baltimore
On Saturday, believe it or not, the 144th running of the Preakness Stakes takes place at Pimlico Race Course in Baltimore, Maryland. The second jewel in the Triple Crown arrives hard on the heels of an unsatisfying Kentucky Derby, in which the winner was taken down for interference in the stretch and the colt who finished second retired to his dressing room with a bad cough. Neither of the two will show up in Maryland, which must be some kind of unhappy Guinness Book of Records miracle. Somewhere in the neighborhood of a dozen others will show up, however, and it is our sworn duty to sort them out. Our opinion and $5 will get you a cup of coffee at Starbucks, so don’t bet the farm on our accuracy.
We selected Maximum Security third in Louisville and we had Improbable to win. The former finished in front before being disqualified and the latter, galloping through the mud in traffic that would have made Atlanta proud, finally got open at the head of the stretch to finish fourth (after the disqualification). It was the first time in his career that Improbable was worse than second.
Depending on how you look at it, War of Will was either the culprit or the victim in the Kentucky Derby. One videotape asserts that Maximum Security’s rider Luis Saez came over in front of him at the far turn, almost causing jockey Tyler Gaffalione and War of Will to clip heels. Another tape shows Tyler driving his horse right up into the hindquarters of Maximum Security. The Churchill Downs stewards liked the first tape, took down the winner and gave Saez a 15-day suspension. Be that as it may, Gaffalione’s horse was really rolling when the interference occurred and despite all the foofaraw was only beaten two lengths for third.
Alwaysmining, the local hotshot with six straight wins at nearby Laurel, will have shorter odds than he might deserve. Always consider the competition level when handicapping, which in the case of this horse has not been overwhelming. Anothertwistafate is by Scat Daddy, which gives any racehorse a measure of credibility. A win here would be a big surprise but a lesser placing would not. On his best day and with good racing luck, Bourbon War is a possibility. Expect a strong late run. Owendale opened a few eyes winning the Lexington and seems on the improve.
Frontrunning Warrior’s Charge has won two in a row on the lead but will be seriously challenged early in this one. Signalman is a cut below these, as is Bodexpress, still a maiden, who will probably vie for the early lead. Trainer Steve Asmussen usually doesn’t waste his time on impossible dreams, but Laughing Fox is in deep here. Win Win Win was always far back in the Derby. Market King is Hall of Fame trainer D. Wayne Lukas’ token entry. Everfast, who has lost nine straight, may next be seen pulling a rag man’s cart.
1. Improbable.
2. War of Will.
3. Throw a dart at the program.
That’s all, folks….
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
