Once every four years, a dozen or so Ivy League alumni get together and pretend to care about that wasteland to our north New Hampshire. With the Democratic presidential primaries looming, New Hampshire, the land of flannel and missing teeth, has exploded onto the national stage.
Television screens nationwide depict candidates sharing burnt coffee at 1950s diners with befuddled might-be-voters, 89 percent of whom are named Jed and drive pick-ups adorned with shotgun racks and antlers. While these images do warm our hearts, the issues are of key importance right?
Wrong.
A constitutional amendment passed 10 minutes ago now mandates that all candidates must not take any stance on any issue, under punishment of death by polling, which evidently involves a sphincter, a Gallup and a Zogby and is reportedly very painful.
In an attempt to avoid such an untimely demise, all candidates now sell themselves (on street corners if necessary) via tag lines something about themselves that will really resonate with American voters.
This morning I had the pleasure of interviewing several of the candidates over Wheaties in Fiji. To the best of my recollection the following occurred:
When asked for his opinion about the recent ban on partial birth abortions, Massachusetts Sen. John Kerry responded, ‘I fought in Vietnam.’ When pressed for clarification, he affirmed that he has abnormally big hair which he combs, mousses and blow-dries 17 hours per day. The hair is apparently still windblown from speed-boating in the Gulf of Tonkin.
In rebuttal to Kerry’s remarks, John Edwards proclaimed, ‘I am the son of a mill worker!’
Suddenly Dick Gephardt leapt onto the buffet table in an attempt to outdo Edwards’ proletariat background, announcing, ‘My father was a milkman!’ After some confusion he added that he would be willing to sell the rights to his name to Jenna Jameson to produce a movie, but only if he were cast as the milkman.
Joe Lieberman supported Gephardt’s movie idea with an, ‘Amen, brother!’ but was told explicitly by the Reverend Al Sharpton to ‘shut up before I beat your punk ass down.’
The Reverend’s proposition of violence peaked the interest of Gen. Wesley Clark, who, until this point, had been cleaning his bazooka. He reminded everyone he was the Supreme Allied Commander, which Howard Dean misunderstood to mean Clark was a rapper.
Clark advocated blowing up Samoa to settle the issue, but was interrupted by Carol Moseley Braun who informed our group that she was the female ambassador to Samoa. She also officially determined, once and for all, that she is actually a medically affirmed woman. She is also an honorary member of New Zealand’s Te Atiawa Maori people an honorary female member nonetheless! The Emperor penguins of Antarctica also offered her a membership during her time as ambassador there. Did she mention she was female? I hadn’t heard.
Amidst all this jibber-jabber about penguins and mill workers, no one noticed that Kerry was back to combing his hair. He fought in Vietnam, evidently.
Suddenly the door burst open and in ran a caped crusader. Who was this intruder? Kerry in a show of courage, much like he displayed in Vietnam, wrestled him to the floor. He later demanded another Silver Star for his valor but resigned to buying one with his Ketchup money.
Claiming to be Captain Penis Weasel, the intruder was babbling, ‘I lived in a car!’ After removing his mask we discovered Captain Penis Weasel was actually Dennis Kucinich, easily distinguished by the satellite dishes that had replaced his ears.
The Weasel claimed he and his family lived in a car during parts of his childhood. While the beauty of America is the fluidity of social mobility, I had one question. Weasel is the eldest of seven siblings, so how did they all fit? Especially with those ears!
Apparently anyone seeking public office today must be the child of a mill worker and milkman who is a tribal member with huge hair and lives in a car. Résumés are optional.
Cory Hardy, a senior in the College of Communication, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press.