I have been spending some free time pondering the possible Democratic presidential tickets.
I know what you’re thinking: is he still on those narcotics? (If you missed the story, I recently had a pain-med adventure that involved a dentist who literally went at me with hammer and tongs.) (But at least it wasn’t a hammer and sickle, which is what we’ll get if Bernie gets control over our health care system.) (HA!)
I am thinking about the various combinations of Dem Prez/VP combos because I find them all fascinating. And by “fascinating,” I mean simultaneously hilarious and horrifying.
I trust that the sophisticated CO nation understands the horrifying part. If any of this crop of ne’er-do-wells wins next year, tuning in to that inauguration is going to be like watching a baby carriage rolling in slow motion directly into the path of a speeding 18-wheeler on the interstate.
(For those of you who may not have majored in Interpretive Dream Symbolism, in this analogy the baby carriage would be my beloved United States, the baby would be an actual, adorable human baby – although she’d be clutching all of my hopes and dreams in one of her pudgy little fists, and my 401K in the other – and the speeding semi would be the doomsday administration of whichever leftist loon the Dems and MSM — but I repeat myself — managed to drag across the finish line.)
But as horrible as the general election would be if the Dems were to win, their primary debates are going to put the “high” in “high-larious.” I can’t wait!
The black ones will be sneering at the white ones, and the women will be scowling at the men, and Beta will come rolling in on a skateboard like a doofus. Bernie will lose a hearing aid, and Biden will grope a moderator. Either Amy Klobuchar or Kirsten Gillibrand will call Liz Warren “Sitting Bull” under her breath, and because Lizzie can’t tell the two of them apart, she’ll start calling them “Hillary 1” and “Hillary 2.”
Which will be fighting words, so with any luck, a three-way white-lady wrestling match will break out. Cory Booker will command them to stop, but as he stands astride them with his hands on his hips, yelling, “I am Spart-“ he’ll be interrupted by one cankle shooting out of the scrum and catching him in the crotch, after which he’ll hobble off stage like Spartacus’ cowardly manservant, a character so nondescript that his name is unknown to history.
Harris will sidle up to Bernie and offer to sleep with him if he’ll put her on his ticket as VP – a political stratagem that is known in California political circles as “pulling a Kamala” – but he’ll be shaking his hearing aid in frustration, and won’t hear a word she says.
Biden will trip over Beto’s skateboard and fall into Bernie, and both of them will immediately break a hip. Beto will take advantage by stepping through the mass of writhing idiots to the microphone, where he’ll begin gesticulating wildly as he recites a word salad made up of equal parts of randomly selected paragraphs from Jack Kerouac, a madlib of socialist talking points, and AOC’s dream journal (but I repeat myself).
It’s going to be like 4 months of Christmas, mixed with Wrestlemania 25 (“This Time It’s Personal – and the Personal is Political!”) and April Fool’s Day!
Once the primaries are over, and the Democrats have chosen a “winner” (and never have scare quotes been any scarier), the VP derby will begin.
Traditional political analysts, when mulling presidential tickets, consider ideology (a hard-liner and a centrist might be the most electable combination), age (a combination of older/experienced works well with younger/energetic), or geography (a VP from a key battleground state might tip the balance if he could bring along his home state).
But not me. Because at times I’ve been called @hilariousgenius, and at other times Martacus, and at still other times, Martino. (Okay, that was only in high school Spanish class, where I may have been called a lot of other names too. But I wouldn’t have known that.) (Because I don’t speak a word of Spanish.)
But I have NEVER been called a traditional political analyst.
Which is why I have my own, idiosyncratic ways of choosing a dream ticket.
For example, I am tempted to pull for the Whitest Ticket In History combo: Warren/Gillibrand.
Or the best alliteration ticket: Biden/Beto.
Or the least ethnic putatively African-American ticket: Kamala/Spartacus.
Or the double-barreled ethnic fraud ticket: Beto/Warren. (an Irish Hispanic and a translucent Iroquois) (#wemustneverstopmockingbothofthem)
Or the “never-worked-an-honest-day-in-their-lives” ticket: Sanders/Beto. (But also, really, most of them.)
But perhaps my favorite dark horse ticket would come down to the coolest-sounding pairing: Hickenlooper/Buttigieg.
“Hickenlooper” is so goofy-sounding that I admire the guy just for having any career at all. Because a name has traditionally made a huge difference in how someone is perceived.
You expect a woman named “Sophia Loren” or “Brigitte Bardot” to be smoking hot. You expect a guy named “Michael Stonebreaker” to play linebacker at Notre Dame. You expect someone named “Albert Einstein” to be the intellectual opposite of AOC. (Also, in a coincidence that I’m almost too modest to point out, you expect a guy named “Martin Simpson” to be a smoking hot, linebacker/genius.) (Take that, tropical-disease-name-sounding Idris Alba!)
It usually works in the opposite direction, too.
Nobody was going to watch a tough-guy western starring Marion Morrison, so he became John Wayne. Women weren’t likely to swoon over Archibald Leach, so he became Cary Grant. No one was going to vote for Willard Romney, so he became Mitt. (As it turns out, not enough people voted for him anyway, but that’s probably because “Mitt” is not such a great name. Also, he’d had his spine surgically replaced with a slinky, which did NOT help.)
And before you can raise the Arnold Schwarzenegger objection: he’s the exception that proves the rule.
(Fun Historical Naming Fact Digression: Hitler’s dad was the illegitimate son of a woman named “Shicklgruber,” and he and Adolph came very close to being stuck with that name. Which would have changed history, because no gang of rowdy Germans in a beer hall could ever have plausibly been induced to shout out the salute, “Heil Schiklgruber!”)
Where was I?
Oh yeah: Hickenlooper’s little buddy, Buttigieg.
Wow. I don’t know anything about the guy, except three things: He grew up gay. In the Midwest. And his last name started with “butt.”
Therefore, he’s got to be tough as nails, and I want to like the guy. Not since the great Johnny Cash told the story of the Boy Named Sue has there been a name as guaranteed to get a youngster toughened up.
So as I was writing the above, I thought that I’d research Buttigieg a little, because maybe he’d be a Dem who might not be awful as president…
First of all, I was devastated to learn that his last name is disappointingly pronounced something like, “Boot-edge-edge.” (Though I’d probably say that too, if my name had an obvious “butt” in it.) At least his first name isn’t “Jeh.” (Because if you spell someone’s name to look like “Jeh Butt-a-gig” but insist that it’s pronounced “Jay Boot-edge-edge,” I don’t care if he’s the newly discovered son of Ronald Reagan – I’m out!)
Secondly, he’s another cookie-cutter leftist, supporting the usual disaster-producing policies: Medicare for all, the Green New Deal, forced increases to the minimum wage, etc.
So we’re back to square one: all of the Dem candidates are as crazy as outhouse rodentia, as we used to say in my small Midwestern town, when parents were in earshot.
But the primaries are going to be all the more entertaining because of it.