Saturday, July 31, 2004

Homeland Security Campaign

The trunk of the limo looks like a portable drug awareness kit. We have heavy duty containers of viagra, levitra, xanax and a series of vials revealing enough no-doz and vivarin to keep the President's Homeland Security Task Force awake and ready to bounce at the first trouble, at least until November 3rd. There's a galaxy of colors to feed the FoxNews tracker - elevated, slightly serious and political alarm - so it's best to keep no one asleep at the switch.

"There's something caught in your teeth," the Secret Service agent said to the Neo-Con President-in-Waiting. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't notice your smile."

I pop a xanax with a frantic gulp of this Starbucks double-shot and shift myself from the rubber tube, padding an otherwise painful stretch of hemorroids. Campaign. I'm on a campaign. For that freaking little shit. Now that goddamn idiot savant is sitting on the ranch down there smiling. Why New Mexico? My legs are shaking again. Look at them! They are shaking violently, and my fingers, glasses and pants are full of latte! I see three solutions:

1) Call Ridge and make him raise the level to red, so that these people won't think I'm retarded.
2) Make the attendees take a loyalty oath, so that they take my appearance too seriously to notice.
3) Shut up and stop smiling.

"Prostate surgery."

It's as good an opening line as any.

"Pardon, sir?"

"Prostate surgery. Don't you think it would hurt?"

"Very sorry. I haven't a clue. Are you considering it?"

"No, this is about Kerry. I think he had it done. About three years ago. I am thinking that these people will connect the dots. I know this is New Mexico, but they all aren't Mexicans here. What's your background, son?"

I grin so heartedly my neck is sweating. I understand it might have been best to go straight to Reno.

The man next to me speaks English too. Into his combo camera, Palm Pilot, mobile phone, MP3 player. I wonder what those Japanese will come up with next? His travel agent really messed up his hotel reservations. In his own, somewhat Spanish, words he tells them exactly what he thinks of this mistake. When he clicks off he looks at me, shifts his head and smiles, aware that a standing Vice President and CEO was listening. I can't offer a wider grin than the one I am already grinning, so I hold it and voice my sincerest apology.

"Fucking bastard."


I'm grinning. He's smiling. His smiles even more, and it seems like watching me amuses him. I state a nice comment about the weather with another grin, and my eyes tell him it's alright to enjoy the moment. I like making people feel happy and secure. I've got him now. It's not really okay to stare at people smiling like that. I keep grinning, now he thinks we're friends. We're not, so I ask him, in a distant way:

"What are you smilling about? Do you think I'm funny?"

"No. Not for a second. Sorry."

Once again I guess that I should shut up, and consider whether these people will actually vote. I give up. Why all these Hispanic people? And why are they so small? He speaks Spanish to the man opposite me, the man that smiled at me. He answers him in Spanish. Even though he spoke English in the phone. Everybody seems to speak either, Spanish, English or this other primal language they speak on MTV. Then the grinning idiot calls his wife, and suddenly he speaks something like Russian or Albanian. I think she's got someone on the side. Maybe she screws this guy's attorney. Maybe some regular guy like Wolf Blitzer pleasures her from time to time. But we all consider it part of the job; we're stand-up guys on this campaign, tolerant, like small gears in a huge political machine, chanting a catchy phrase, clapping in unison, so the viewers at home feel safe and secure.

If I close my eyes I see the pretty colors, and they are on Fox with Brit Hume.

Just then a small Navajo-looking bitch starts to spit at my feet. This can't be happening. She can't be spitting. I open my eyes. There is no way to make her stop that doesn't involve an element of direct confrontation, so I stand perfectly still and let her spit so that a Secret Service agent can pistol-whip her. The crowd is giving me silent, understanding looks brimming with sympathy: "Another activist, oh yeah, they can be annoying, We see you've got a situation on your hands there, Mr. V.P., we wish you luck." So they stare at me. Every one of them. All at once. Ignorant white-thrash, sickening stock brokers, crisp trial attorneys and neurotic school administrators, all of you, stumping with me for the cameras, grunting and snorting.

I try to think about some social dilemma to comment upon. I can't. I'm not able to think about much at all. Everything seems so transient and I think I might stay in Reno for a couple of days. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I'm going to Reno, I'm escaping, hiding at the crap tables for a while. Should I pop another xanax before speaking to the throng? Maybe. Maybe not. No. The time goes quicker this way, the message important. What was my target demographic? Was there an ethnic message for New Mexico? Why did Rove send me here anyways? I can only think about red dice, padded green felt, my stance on gay marriage and Dewers on the rocks.

Hey, why is everybody smiling? Everyone except this little crazy Navajo bitch? I allow myself to ponder better thoughts for a moment. Crown Royal. The Sierra Nevadas. Hannity and Colmes. Greta Van Susteren's thighs. I realize how pleasant it is to talk to cute girls, and look around to see if there are any under the age of thirty. Nopes. Just the same wrinkled PTA chimps and church huggers. I wish I had some pepperspray. Maybe a bullhorn and an excuse.

I start to speak. I wonder if we can stop at a 7-11 on the way to Reno. They sell these little packets of herbal energy tablets that may hold me over for the ride. But right now, people are smiling at me. Swaying, with a patriotic grin on my face, glasses streaked with latte on them. It's really getting desperate now. At the end of the day, it isn't really about the polls. Screw the personal touch, the positive local news coverage of these rallies will bring some more people aboard. Latte on the glasses.

The campaign is like a safe and secure womb that cares about me, and even I made a contribution. A willing giver I am. I am grinning through the best of intentions. There is only one re-election, and it happens to be mine.


Post a Comment

Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]

<< Home