There was nothing erratic about his GUT today, though. He
had taken on one of his favorite forms, that of Todd, the TV pundit. From time
to time, as we discussed the weather, the latest book I’d read, or the current
report he was late in sending to the Fallooninan Elders, he would make notes on
a reporter’s notepad and smile.
“So,” I said, “I think in the end, Fitzgerald was presenting
the modern version of a heroic quest within the wasteland.” I waited while he
filtered this.
“I think I have answer to our problems,” he said, ignoring
my last. Outside, the rain continued to fall.
“What problems?” I said, peeved at his not paying attention.
“My new computer, for one.”
“What about a new computer?”
“I need one,” he said. “You know that.”
“So what does that have to do with Gatsby?”
“And that new car you’ve been wanting to buy for Mrs. Big
Dope.”
“C.W.,” I said. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“You know that trip you want to take to Southeast Asia with
your Navy buddy?”
“We were discussing literature.”
“Look,” he said. “I must depend on you sometimes for
transportation. I really need that new motorcycle we’ve been talking about.”
“But you don’t have a driver’s license.”
“And your poor wife is driving a ten-year old car.”
“She likes that car,” I said.
“That’s not what she tells me,”
“So what are you getting at?”
“Kudaclarupitti?
That is Falloonian for “What the hell do you mean?”
“Why are you mentioning all these problems?”
“Because,” he said, broadening his face into his best
television smile, “I have the solution.”
“And your solution is?”
“Simple,” he said. “Run for President.”
“You can’t run for President,” I said, with despair in my
voice, “you are an alien.”
“Not me, silly,” he said, “you.”
“Are you insane?”
“Not a bit,” he said. “You wouldn’t make that good a
candidate, but you would do. I’ve already started lining up donors. You’ll be
the ‘I hate mimes’ candidate.”
“Mimes?”
“All the other hate targets have been spoken for already.”
“C.W.,” I said. “This is idiotic on so many fronts. First, I
have this very checkered past. You know that.”
“No big deal,” he said. “I’ve already picked you a ‘Salvation
Date.’ It’s March 20, 2003. That’s the day you ‘got saved.’ Nobody can question
anything you did before then. Don’t you remember? We’ve discussed this. It
worked like a charm for that guy from Texas.”
My mind was racing. “Isn’t the day America began bombing
Iraq?”
“Seemed as good a date as any,” he said. “and it would strike
a patriotic chord. Now here is the deal. I’ve set up a campaign fund account, and
your staff will consist of Mrs. Big Dope, your mother-in-law, and me, all with
annual salaries of half a million of your dollars or so.” He smiled again. “Of
course the campaign will need things like computers, vehicles, and
headquarters. I’ve picked out a nice beachfront home in Key West, Florida for
that.”
“But someone like me could never be elected President.”
“Of course not,” he said. “Who would elect you President?”
“So why are you bringing this all up?”
“Because we could make enough money for the short duration
of your campaign to solve a lot of problems.”
“What problems?”
“The ones I mentioned earlier.”
“Those were financial problems.”
“So?”
“They were,” I said, “personal problems.”
 |
| It seems to me that all it takes for political disaster in your country is for enough people to quit listening and remain silent. - C.W. |
“So?”
“Look C.W.” I said, “a person in our country runs for
President because she or he wants to address the country’s problems, not
personal ones.”
“Since when?”
“Since, uh, … say, I said. “I’ve been reading this book
called One Hundred Years of Solitude.”
“Wait,” he said. “That gives me an idea. You could also be
the ‘I hate education’ candidate. That would get you donations from some real
rich people.”
“What real rich people?”
“Corporations.”
No comments:
Post a Comment