310. Qualifications

“You just never listen to a word I say.”

“Sure I want you to stay,” I said, attempting to perform a complicated maneuver in Photoshop.”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” he said.

“I’m not being mean,” I said, grasping the pen on my Wacom tablet and making a line.

“I give up,’ he said. Actually, I suppose I should say ‘she said,’ for C.W. was in one of his rare shapes as a female: a shapely, attractive lady of her late forties dressed in casual clothes, sneakers, and a baseball hat with a long ponytail hanging through the back. “What cup?” I said.

A pad of papers came flying through the air, almost hitting me. “What the …?” I yelled.

“I’m serious here,” he, she, yelled.

I finally looked up. “I would have never guessed. “What about?”

“Qualifications for president.”

“Whose president?”

“Your country’s.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well you have to be a natural-born citizen. That leaves you out, I’m afraid.”

“No,” silly,” she pouted. “I mean what they were talking about on TV the other night, the part about ‘hands-on’ and all that.”

“Oh,” I said. “You mean knowledge of foreign policy.”

“No, they didn’t mention that.”

“What then?”

“The part about the size of things.”

“Oh, you mean the fiscal deficit.”

“The what?”

“The trade inbalance?”

“Never heard of that.”

“The size of our military?”

“Is that an issue? They didn’t discuss it.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

“Not me … them.”

“Them who?”

“The people or things regarded as suitable for, or likely to receive, a particular fate, treatment, or position.”

“The candidates?”

“That’s what I said. They spent most of their time talking about who had the biggest.” Then she, waited.

“The biggest what?” I said, and immediately regretted it.

“Hands.”

Realization burst, as Kipling might say, ‘like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay,’ and I was stunned. She crossed two shapely legs and waited.

“Uh, C.W. … , “ I began.

“Carolyn Wilhemina, if you please. And don’t tell me that the size of their hands referred to their capacity for empathy. They don’t fondle that emotion at all, it appeared to me.”

“I won’t,” I said, suppressing a laugh.

“Or intellect. They didn’t seem to want to insert that into the discussion.”

“Right.”

“Or their religious convictions. They certainly didn’t want to wave that at us.”

At that point, I had no other option but to explain it to her.

“You must be joking,” was the response.

“Sadly,” I said. “I’m not.”

“And you call yourself civilized?” Then she stopped, obviously remembering something. “Is this what Mrs. Big Dope meant when she referred to them as ‘bank-strutter wannabees?”

“I think the expression is,” I said, “bank-walker .. . bank-walker wannabees is what she said."

“Never heard of that.” There followed a pause, and I could tell his Galactic Universal Translator was churning. “What on earth does it mean?”

If this is the party's method of determining who
is most qualified to be president, isn't there a
simple way to find out? - C.W.

“It’s an old country expression,” I said, “referring to the days when young boys would assemble on a pond bank, take off all their clothes, run as fast as they could, and jump in the water.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“There was always one, you see, “I said, “who wouldn’t run for the water straight away.”

“What would he do …?” she began, Then, she understood, “He would …”

“The bank-walker,” I said.

“Oh my god,” she said. There was a long pause, and then she added, “Are they really that willing to stick it to the American people?”

“It appears so.”

“Is there a chance that such tactics could prove limp before the election?”

It was only then that I realized he was pulling out one of his frequent jokes and trying to impress me with it.

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