Politics in America 8: When the Circus Comes to Town

It’s like Buggs and the Looney Tune Gang used to say, “On with the show, this is it.” The choo-choo came around the mountain, Old Bicuspid. Yes, it was that same famous mountain where General Beauregard T. Abouttopop lost the Battle of the Other Side of the Mountain to General Hoppingmad. Yes, the choo-choo came ‘round that mountain.

Mayor P F Sneeze steadied himself for what was to come. He had never ever been on a train. He was almost sure the ride would make him sea sick. But there the train was, standing in the station, all red and beautiful like. It was the Delegate Special.

B S Pudding kissed her Honey good luck and have a wonderful time. It was such a good kiss that P F couldn’t follow his usual protocol. He didn’t ignore his lady love. He kissed her back. It was such a kiss that B S just about swooned and fainted. She didn’t but she just about did.

As the whole town was hip-hip-hurrahing, P F stepped into the train car. He took his seat in his cabin. He found himself sitting in the lap of Luxury. It was not that the suite was great. The girl’s name was Luxury and P F was actually sitting on her lap.

“Get off me,” Luxury expressed herself as the train was building up enough choo-choo to boogey out of the station.

“I am sorry, Ma’am,” the Mayor said, standing up and taking his hat off to show his southernly manners. He took his seat across from the lady and kindly asked, “Are you a delegate?”

“I am,” Luxury responded.

“This is my first time delegating,” P F said with a smile. He smiled because he didn’t know what else to do.

“My third time,” the woman said. “There’s nothing to it. You just show up. Raise your hat when you’re told. Then go home with some swag. You’ll be getting the red carpet treatment. It’s like the Academy Awards for Politicians.”

“The Academy Awards?”

“Yes indeedy. The PEs will be handing out all sorts of awards. The Award for Best Delegate. Best Favorite Son. Best Candidate with an Ax to Grind. My ex-husband two-husbands-removed won that one two conventions ago. I got to say he was a smoothy, that one. Then there’s even Best Song. That will be the Presidential Candidate’s theme song like ‘Don’t Stop’ was Bill Clinton’s.”

P F had never been to an Academy Awards Ceremony. He had never even seen one on tv. He didn’t even own a tv. So he wasn’t sure what it were. It sounded like an occasion to take a snort. If it was an occasion to take a snort, it must be mighty fine. Just in case of an occasion like that, he had brought his own jug. No city licker for him. No city licker could compare with Dr. Pudding’s Own Home Brew. That he knew.

If all his fellow delegates were as nice as Miss Luxury, P F decided he was bound and determined to enjoy sit on their laps too. It would be a dereliction of duty not to.

In the meantime, he and Miss Luxury discussed deep political things. Like the weather. Like being an early riser and a late riser. Like the surrender of General Lee to General Grant. She was for it, he was agin it. Like the nature of a bowl of grits. Then they discussed the weather some more. They were having a fine old time. From time to time, a fellow delegate would drop by their cabin to see what was cooking.

“Did you know that Dinah is in the kitchen?” one feller asked.

“Did she rise up early in the morning?” Luxury asked and waited on baited breath.

“She most assuredly did. The captain wanted her to blow her horn.”

“She does play a mean trumpet,” Luxury said.

“Sad thing is they caught her in the kitchen with someone strumming on an old banjo. You know what they were playing on that banjo?”

“I do not,” Luxury said, then asked P F, “Do you know?”

P F shook his head. He did not know.

“Fie, fi, fiddly I o, that’s what,” the delegate in the straw hat said.

“You don’t say,” Luxury said.

“I do say,” Straw Hat said.

Then Straw Hat was gone. He was in hog heaven. The Do Naughty Convention was the only time the wife let him out of her sight. He was making the best of it.

Luxury said toodley doo and went on her way. You know the way the way Luxury always go. Sliding right through our hands. The good Lord giveth and the good Lord taketh away.

Alone and by hisself, the Mayor dropped to his knees and prayed a little pray, then ended up pleading and cajoling and begging real real hard. “Please, God, don’t let me screw up.” Of course, that has been every presidential candidate’s prayer since George Washington showed his teeth on television. They always screw up.

Before P F knew it, lickety split the train was pulling into Convention City Station. There were party colors everywhere. There were ticker tape parades. There were cheerleaders.

The Delegates stepped off the train and into a parade, all fine and dandy in their monkey suits and top hats for the male persuasion and white gowns and tiaras for the women folk. They walked into the Convention Center, the cheering crowds cheering, the exciting music musiking. It was going to be a wing ding daddy of a time.

There was just one little thing that kept the whole darn event from being the best darn political convention since God let the animals out in the Garden of Eden. The Do Naughties did not have a Presidential Candidate.

Next Wednesday there’ll be a hot time in the old town.

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Politics in America 6: Leaving Town

Chapter 6
Getting the Puck Out of Dodge

So P F was off to Snort Holler with B S for some new duds. Right there in the middle of Snort Holler, on Main Street to be exact, was the four story local outlet of Welmarties. It had everything. Not only could a customer buy a monkey suit, they could buy a monkey to go with it. With its motto, “We got ‘em”, it out-costcoed Costco. It out-ikeaed Ikea. It was where the Snort Set went to get all their snazzies. You wanted to made up for a coffin, it was the place to go for your made-uppers. It was The Place.

It looked like P F was not going to get his new duds until hell froze over and the Cubs won the World Series. That is, if P F had anything to do with it. He did not. With a poke here, a poke there, everywhere a poke poke, B S, with a bit of get along lil dogie,  had P F moving along nicely.

P F Sneeze liked his new clothes, even though they were from Snort Holler. His ever-loving wife, B S Pudding, had been right. He liked them so much he wouldn’t take them off for a week. Thing was that when he got home the pigs did not recognize him. They took one look and they stuck their heads in the mud as if they were ostriches.

‘Course the Snort Holler College of Agricultry had initiated a study about pigs imitating ostriches. There had been the theory in them parts for nigh on forty-four years that pigs could breath out their tails. Being an alumni with a degree in pigology from the Snort Holler College of Agricultry, he had got his edumacation the hard way. By correspondence course. He knew how important this study of pig behavior was. This now proved beyond a shadow of a doubt. Pigs breathed out their tails. The experts still were not sure how pigs breathed in but a half full glass is so much better than a half empty glass. And it’s better than no glass at all. Everybody knows that.

The only thing that finally got P F out of the monkey suit was his drawers. The new drawers were just way a little too tight. His way-down-theres couldn’t breathe. And fellas, you know what that is like. When he finally came to the conclusion that admiring hisself in the mirror was not worth the smothering, he took the suit off. That was absolutely the only way to get his drawers off, B S assured him. Besides it would give her the opportunity to find out if there was gold in them thar hills. Like they say, seeing is half the battle to believing. And once his Knickerbockers came off, she believed. Thank God, she was not a woman to sweat the small stuff.

After a bit of breathing, and B S using that brand spanking used washing machine P F bought her, he readied hisself for the Big Tent in the Sky Do Naught Political Convention. P F duded hisself up so much there was a rumor that went around town. Elvis was back and right chere in Weazel Sneeze of all places. That big Hunka Hunka Burning Love was all the rage in them parts. Just the thought of him coming to those parts was ‘nuff to make the ladies of the town have fainting sessions. You ain’t heard a Southern Belle say, “I have the fevahs” till you’ve heard the ladies of Weazel Sneeze say, “Elvis.” It’s not what they are saying. It’s how they are saying it. And they say it like Jesus done come back and raptured them.

And now Elvis was coming their way. They just couldn’t wait. Imagine their disappointment when they discovered that it was just a rumor. Elvis was not alive. He had not come to Weazel Sneeze. It was just like they said. Elvis was still in Someplace, Kansas where he and Michael Jackson had opened up a laundromat.

No, it was just the Mayor making his way down to the train station. He was going to follow the Yellow Brick Road and go off to see the Wizard. And the munchkins were at the station to see their beloved Mayor off. It wasn’t that they cared one way or ‘nother about the Mayor going off to the Convention. They weren’t. It was just another way they could celebrate with Doctor Pudding’s Own Home Brew. They would do anything for a snort. Even go down to the train station and wave bye bye to their Mr. American Pie.

Next Wednesday, Chapter 7: Party hardy with a chicken in every pot.