Oops. It’s catching.
“Why?” I asked.
“To make money,” he said. “How’s this one?” He stared at my computer screen. “His two strands of hair slide about the top of his head like a blond tumbleweed balanced on a greased basketball.”
I couldn’t find the words to respond.
“Or this,” he said, “He stopped and thrust a water bottle in his mouth like he was a member of a NASCAR team gassing a racecar.”
My mind began to sink like a bowl of unleavened bread.
“Here’s a beaut,” he said. “His horn-rimmed glasses, bought to make him look smarter than he is, wrap around his empty head like a training bra on an eight-year old.”
“Are you doing what I think you’re doing?”
“I am aware,” I said, “that the first presidential debates are happening this week.”
“Cut the stuff,” I said, seeing through his ruse. Actually, the fact that he had assumed a shape perfectly imitating that of legendary political guru Karl Rove had been my first clue.
“This week?” he said feigning surprise. “Then they will need similes like a Kardashian needs a photo op.” He stopped and typed into my computer.”
“I,” he said, “will sell the candidates similes through my new company. He scrolled the computer. “Here it is: Similes To Facilitate Understanding.”
“Uh,” I said. “Have you thought that name through?”
“Check out this one,” he said, ignoring me. “He waddles up to the microphone like the Pillsbury Doughboy approaching a hot oven.”
“Or this,” he said, reading again. “He slams his Bible on the Constitution like a blacksmith pounding a U -shaped metal plate nailed to a horse's hoof to protect it from being injured by hard or rough surfaces.”
“I think,” I said, “that you might do well to run that through your Galactic Universal Translator again.”
“My GUT works like a finely tuned sausage grinder,” he said. “Now here’s a good one.” He read again, “He hates government like a drunkard hates a rehab clinic.” He smiled. “Good, eh?”
I didn’t say a word.
He continued. “He avoids mentioning his brother like a man with a strange woman’s name tattooed on his arm.”
I raised my eyes heavenward. “Is this ever going to stop or am I stuck in a loop like a bad computer string?”
“Listen up,’ he said. “You might learn something.” He read, “He stands out in that crowd like Beyoncé at a DAR convention.”
“Would you please stop?”
“He has that wild crazy Nouveau-Texan look in his eyes like a dog locked up in a butcher shop with no place to go to the bathroom.”
“He traded away his soul to the Koch Brothers like an ad-man selling a jingle.”
|I really don't get the clown simile.|
I thought clowns were supposed to be happy. - C.W
“Hey,” he said. “I like that. Maybe we’ll use it. Now for the clincher.”
“You all remind me of a group filing in for a Chuckles the Clown Memorial Service.”