She Who Must Be Obeyed voted today, and in so doing, exercised an inalienable right that I don’t have, because I’m an alien. Well, disenfranchised I might be, but that doesn’t make me disopinionated, which isn’t even a word, but like George W., I’m going to use it anyway.
I think I would make a great politician. I’m nice to nearly everybody, and I can talk for long periods of time without actually saying anything. I’m pro-choice, pro get-a-life, and pro-death, which means that everyone would have to vote for me at least a third of the time. If you factor in that nice Darth Nader man and the deceptively stupid Buchanan chap, this might be enough to win. But hey, I can’t run for a while yet, and realistic is the first thing that a future political giant should be, so this time, I thought I’d throw a little Bush-Gore golf match scenario at you, to see if I can’t help the swingers out there. Voters, I mean.
On the first tee, Big Al is starched and waiting, spankingly dressed in Dockers, and a brand new, but slightly too small Polo shirt. He is definitely going to get a nipple rash. George is in the parking lot, hurrying as he dresses from out of the back of a hail-damaged 1986 Ford F150 pickup. As he bends over to lace up a pair of his dad’s golf shoes, the crack of his ass peeks out through the gap between the top of his Wranglers and the lucky Texas Rangers T-shirt that Laura shrank, dadgummit! George is a bit like me, you know, one of those white men that looks like his backside has just fainted. Back up on the tee, Al is looking at his watch. He knows the rules. In match play, if you show up late, you lose the first hole.
George stumbles out of his cart, and pulls a laminated wooden Patty Berg driver out of his mom’s golf bag, but the whipping has come loose, and tangles around the head of “Old Faithful,” his Heinz 57 pickle putter. It takes him a little while to wrangle loose, but he makes it up on the tee just in time to see Al swing his oversize, titanium “Big Donkey” driver. The shot looks good for a while, flying down the right side, but it bounces dead left, and finishes behind a Bush. “Golly!” says George, “have you bin takin’ lesions? I’d sure like a shot with that thing, how ’bout it Hal?” Al tosses his head derisively and says, “There’s a three-day waiting period.”
George then tees up a yellowing ball with elastic hanging out of it, and after a couple of spasm-like waggles, takes a mighty heave, dealing the object of his desire a glancing blow off the toe, straight right into an Austin stone tee marker, from which it rockets backwards, hitting his adversary right in the Twins’ bullpen. Al tries to double over in agony, but due to the starch, has to settle for agony in a slightly bent over position. None of the Secret Service people offer to kiss anything better, and Tipper is nowhere in sight. At the local emergency room, Al finds he is insured for almost everything else.
George of course, plays a few holes anyway, but gets bored, and ends up shooting six dove, a sandhill crane, and a full can of Dr. Pepper, “just to see what’d happen.”
I have no idea which man should be President, but I do know with whom I’d rather play golf.