200. Slogans

“Sloganeer?”

“Yep.”

“Sloganeer? Really?”

“You heard me.”

“And what,” I said, “is a sloganeer?”

“It’s a person who writes slogans,” C.W. said. “I’m writing political ads now.”

“And why?”

He thought for a moment. He had assumed the shape of a cub reporter, complete with dark-rimmed glasses and a pocket full of pencils. He held a reporter’s notepad. He looked quite serious. “Somebody needs to,” he said.

I said, “So how is it going?”

“Great he said. “Want to see some of my work?”

“Why not?”

He picked up a file folder and pulled out a sheet. It was an ad featuring a full-face photo of a man in his late fifties, smiling broadly at the camera with an American flag behind him. Across the bottom, in bold type was written, “Tired of Taxes? I’ll fight to eliminate them. I’ll work for you and not for Obama.”

I stared. “Uh, C.W.,” I managed.

“Pretty good huh? He really liked it.”

“Uh, C.W.”

“Want to see more?”

Uh, C.W., do you know what office this man is running for?”

“Makes no difference to me, but which one?”

“County coronor.”

“Great. Here’s another.”

This one was simple. It just had the word “Benghazi” sprawled across it in every imaginable font of every imaginable size at every imaginable angle. Behind it was an image of President Obama. I swear the man’s skin tones had been digitally darkened until they glistened. It was an ad for an obscure state representative in the northwest corner of our state.

I was speechless. He handed me another.

“This one has a sound track,” he said with pride, handing me several sheet with the President’s face on each. The first said, “My opponent wants you to think he hates Obama.”

“Then the sound track kicks in,” C.W. said. “Ever hear a song that goes ‘Once, twice, three times a lady?’”

“I have tried my best to forget it with no luck.”

“Just change it to ‘Once, twice, three times the hatred.’”

I looked and on each succeeding sheet was a reason.

- He didn’t even grow up in one of the real states.

- He was too good to attend a regular college like your kids.

- He married a black woman.

The last sheet said simply, “I know hatred. Vote for me.”

I put the sheets down in disgust. “C.W., I said. “I’m ashamed of you.”

“What for? Because I want to be rich? Look this one.”

It showed an overweight man in army fatigues and combat boots holding a serious looking rifle. The caption read, “Against abortions? Vote for me.” It was an ad for county assessor.

C.W. pointed to it and said, “He says that one has produced some sizeable contributions.”

“I know this man,” I said. “He has had six children by five wives and has been arrested dozens of times for not paying child support. He is also under investigation for kiddy porn.”

I'm really proud of this one. I call it
"I don't need no stinkin' law books, just my
little friend here." - C.W.

“That’s what is so great about the power of my ads,” he said. “He is way ahead in the polls now.” He pulled out a sheet showing a woman in full battle gear holding an assault rifle and promising that she would do away with affordable health care if elected state Auditor.

I slumped and said, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure. What do you want to know?”

“I’m not sure Cost Rica is far away enough. Can humans live on the planet of Falloonia?”

 

 

 

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