The question often arises. How did The Great Man get his party’s nomination in the first place? Nobody had won enough delegates to win the nomination. Not Knock-knock Jones. He was a regular knock-knock joke. Not Proud Tobeme. Nobody really liked him. They just voted for him so Knock-knock wouldn’t get the nomination. Not Maynard G. Everybody knew what a lazy s.o.b. he was.
The convention was deadlocked. I mean it was deadlocked. Fifty-seven ballots deadlocked. With the fifty-seventh ballot, it was obvious that the Do Naughties did not have a candidate. It could have been the fifty-sixth or it could have been the fifty-eighth. No, it had to go and be the fifty-seventh ballot. On that particular ballot, the fathers and the mothers of the party realized their truck was stuck in the mud and they weren’t digging it out. No matter how hard they tried. The candidates had cruzzed along and failed to k.o. the convention.
They sent for one of the Party’s Wisest Old Men, the one whom everybody in the Party owed their political education to. The one they called The P. E. Teacher. Even though his name was Big Al Fresco, he was full of hot air. He had been full of hot air for years and wouldn’t let it out. Someone suggested they try to prick him with a pin and let some of it out. “We tried that. It doesn’t work,” the Comeback Kid came back.
Al had been around so long that he knew McKinley personally. Of McKinley, he liked to say, “Now there was a President who knew how to President.” All because McKinley went alfresco with Big Al Fresco.
Big Al looked around and he looked around, and finally, there was just the right man. He was standing on the convention floor in his top hat and monkey suit all uncomfortable because everybody was looking at him.
When Big Al first proposed the idea to the Party Elders, they were none too ripe about it. They needed a heap of convincing. And convincing is what Big Al did. After all, they didn’t call him the party’s Convincer-in-Chief for nothing.
“What we need is a good old fashioned nineteenth century President.”
Someone popped out, “What about the Robber Barons?”
“Oh, they make a good barbershop quartet, but not a president.”
That’s when Al came up with the final nail in the coffin. “Take out your twenty dollar bill. Who is there?”
“Andy Jackson,” they all said.
“Now look out on the convention floor and tell me if you see Andy Jackson out there.”
They did. It was kinda scary the likeness of the man in the convention hall with none other than Old Hickory looks. He was none other than the Man in the Monkey Suit, P F Sneeze from Weazel Sneeze. With his long white hair and his impressive face, he looked like a president. Looking like a president had always been the defining reason someone was nominated for president and often won. “That’s our man.”
“A pig farmer from that wasteland they call Weazel Sneeze?” Straw Hat challenged. “You have to be kidding.”
“That could be his theme song,” Big Al said. “A Pig Farmer from Weazel Sneeze, You’ve Got to Be Kidding.”
Straw Hat smiled. “It is kind of catchy.”
“How does the a pig farmer deal with Congress?”
“He doesn’t. He ignores Congress. This man ignores everybody, including his wife.”
The P Es on the balcony agreed. Pig farmer or not, P F Sneeze was their man. Anybody that could ignore Congress and not get run out of town deserved to be President.
When Al asked P F to be the Party’s Nominee, P F responded with “What if I win?” Isn’t that what all of the nominees ask?
Well, P E went to work persuading.
“You get your own song.”
“But what if I win?”
“It’s ‘Hail to the Chief’.”
“‘Hail to the Chef’’? I am not very good at cooking.”
“No. ‘Hail to the Chief’. You’ll be the Chief. And people will stand up when you come into the room.”
“But what if I win?”
“You get your own song, “Hail to the Chief,” your own plane Air Force One, free room and board for four years, and think of the prestige. All for doing nothing for four years. And after all those meddling presidents we’ve had over the last 100 hundred years, the American people will love the change. We’ll return to the good old days of the nineteenth century when it was every man for himself. It’ll be great.”
“But what if I win? What about international politics?”
“National and international politics are nothing more than local politics under an assumed name.”
“But what if I win?”
“You just show up. No, you don’t even have to show up. Have the First Lady, that B S Pudding we’re always drooling over, and we’ll take care of it all for you. Have her show up.”
That settled that. He was to be the nominee. No, I mean it. The Nominee. It was written in the stars that he would be the nominee. You could almost hear the Hallelujahs coming out of the heavens and lighting on that convention center.
“Just one final question. Is there anything in your resume that would bug people’s eyes out?”
“I don’t have a resume. I have a pig farm.”
Next Week The People’s Choice