Sunday, January 14, 2018

408: Gifts For Politicians

C.W. as what? You would never guess.

A clown. Yep. He waddled in wearing those big floppy shoes that clowns wear. He eased across the floor, feet flopping like a couple of beached groupers. Lip makeup covered half his face and orange hair sprouted in all directions from his face. His attire was equal to the task.

“What the …?”

“Greetings Earthling,” he said. “Did you hear the one about the preacher who got confused and told his youth congregation to go all the way for Je …”

“Wait. What’s going on here?”

“Then he called for the hymn, ‘Oh Why Not Tonight? to be followed by the first and last verses of ‘Almost Persuaded.’”

“Stop it,” I said, stifling a guffaw. “Can you tell me what’s up?”

“They say the congregation had nearly doubled within a year.”

“Will you stop? That’s not funny.” But I was laughing so he paid no mind. “What is going on?”

“I’m ready to make an ad for our new business.”

“What new business?”

“Gifts Reviving Ornery Politicians Everywhere.”

“Say what?”

“Our motto is ‘Don’t mope. Grope.’ Catchy huh?”

“You’re going to have to explain this to me.”

“It’s as simple teaching a dog to sing,” he said. “And you don’t need the whip and wienies.” He laughed. So did I.

“I’m confused.”

“Have you noticed,” he said, “how sour and heinous so many politicians are these days?”

“Well, …, come to think of it, yes.”

“What kind of laws do they make when they are ‘in the mood’ so to speak?”

“Not good ones.”

“What kind of things do they say when they aren’t happy?”

“Mean and spiteful?”

“So what’s the solution?”

“Beats me.”

“Ah,” he said. “It’s time for them to GROPE. Imagine you have a senator who wants to invade some country simply because it’s there and he’s a sourpuss.”

“I think we have one of those.”

“Bingo! So here we go. You just send off to our company and buy a gift for him, one complete with our logo and a note saying ‘Have a happy GROPE,’ and watch the change.”

“Our company?”

“We’ll get to that later. Now what gift to we send to said senator?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“A banjo, stupid. It’s a scientific fact that one cannot frown, think evil thoughts, and play the banjo at the same time.”

I nodded, and an image of John Agar and movie monsters came to mind. “It just might work.”

“For tough cases we’ll switch to accordions, Myron Floren-sized accordions.” I chuckled at the thought.

He continued. “Can you imagine Trey Gowdy wanting to persecute someone while he’s playing “Lady of Spain?”

I had to agree. “He wouldn’t even want to go after Hillary again.”

Correctamundo. Now, imagine that we had a president who hated everyone who wasn’t related to him or had loaned him money.”

“That’s not hard to do.”

“Well, teaching him to GROPE is the answer, by jingo.”

“He might already know." I smiled, but C.W. didn't. "Anyway, go ahead. How so?”

“Ain’t you never heard of a ‘whoopee cushion’ dear boy?”

This one made me laugh just thinking about it. “That just might keep us from becoming a third-world country.”

“A what kind of country?”

“Never mind. You have my attention. Go on.”

“Suppose some dour evangelist, say the son of a famous preacher even, decides to become a spokesman for some political party and starts advocating divisiveness and hatred toward the other party.”

“That could happen for sure.”
Happy politicians make better laws. - C.W.
“How’s he going to look after he begins to GROPE?”


“Can you imagine preaching hatred while you are tap dancing?”

“Oh stop it.” It took a moment to get the image out of my head, but I finally stopped laughing.

He took on a serious look, or at least as serious as could imagine in his current shape. “We’ll have some subsidiary products for victims of politicians as well.”

“How so?”

“Have you ever had to suffer Fox ‘news’ on the telly while you are in a waiting room and you can’t find the remote?”

“Oh yes. That’s why I carry ear plugs.”

“Some pals from Falloonia have developed something better for that—an app.”

“What does it do, change the channel?”

“Oh, better than that.”


“It’s called a ‘Remotely Activated Fart Transmittal.’ Can you imagine RAFT’ing a vice-president while he’s in the middle of denouncing someone?”

This time I couldn’t stop. He kept on, but my cackling drowned him out and I couldn’t see him through my tears.

I gained a moment’s composure. “We’ll call it ‘Penceification’ and make a fortune.”

This cracked us both up.

See also:
Delta Dreaming
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