The President's Pickup is late.
It wasn't the grassy knoll. It was astro-turf.
"Poison the bastard's food when he isn't looking."
-- Attila the Hun's wife on domestic tranquillity
You may have noticed the weekly lies.com columns aren't coming out weekly. Between you and me, I think the editor may be selling this information to Carville before it's published. I was hoping we could catch him in the act but I fear he reads these articles before they're published but that's not important now. He'll realize his mistake soon enough when he's trying to claw Carville's ice pick out of his back. What is important is that I must deal with the Web Widow.
I'm willing to cross Buchanan. I will take on the Clintonistas. I'll sleep sitting up with my back in a corner and a loaded 45 in my lap to deal with Carville but I will not take on my wife (and if Micro$oft Word tells me "spouse" one more time, I'll will personally liquidate Bill Gates' stock). She didn't like last week's column and wants me to apologize.
OK, I'm sorry Clinton doesn't stand for anything. Now on with the story.
The constellation Orion is rising over the dashboard. Leaning back into the darkness, I can admire the three stars of Orion's belt over the steering wheel. I should have suspected a problem from the beginning. When I picked up the car, a mechanic was standing next to it and handed me the business card for a 24 hour tow service. While I'm trying to get this four wheeled beast out of the truly hideous mud of Arkansas, let's see where our politicians have left us stranded this week.
This week the campaign train seems to be made up of only press cars and cabooses. Follow me though this seemly endless collection of interconnecting cars as we try to determine why a campaign stretching from Washington, DC to Florida is parked on the side rails.
Clinton, clearly positioned on both sides of all issues, is in the first caboose parked in front of the White House next to the First Pickup. While he's suggesting it's too soon to start political campaigning, the DNC is running attack ads against Dole. Carville is tearing his hair out. OK, if he had any he'd be trying to tear it out. For now he's reduced to attacking the hair of those who have driven him into this frenzy. Al Gore announced he'll haul the liberal mantel of the presidency into the 21st century and the minority leaders of the House and Senate have already declared victory. Carville knows this is the kind of dumb ass thing the Bush campaign did to lose the White House. I assume my emails needling him about every tactical error his campaign makes are not improving his mood either. Carville was last seen on the White House lawn ripping out the President's press secretary's tongue.
Dole, in the last caboose, is in Florida in search of the fountain of youth. It's not clear if he teamed up with Ponce de Leon or is just hanging out in a state populated by retirees to look younger. Moving on to Pennsylvania, Dole makes a token appearance to collect his victory. To prove age wasn't an issue, he rushed back to congress to compromise a few bills with the Bill of DC but left behind the Bill of Rights. Passing the "Terrorism Bill" gave the executive branch the power to declare anyone a terrorist and suspend their constitutional guarantees. This is just the thing to drive Buchanan and his following of pitchforks over the edge and into a third party.
Buchanan returned to Missouri to relive the glory of his last victory. He doesn't seem to be sure if he's on this train or not. He's sent form letters to his supporters asking what train he should be on. Should he bring his pitchforks to the convention or toss them into a third party? In Pennsylvania he didn't pickup any delegates but back in New York, Al D'Amato almost sold him for a fine price during the Jackie O auction bidding frenzy.
Alan Keyes and Bob Doran were found by the FBI in the Unabomber's shack. Despite being escorted to Pennsylvania, they appear to have become victims of the Philadelphia Experiment. They've disappeared again and no one has heard from them since. I'm doing my part to get their pictures put on some milk cartons.
Speaking of the Unabomber, the word on the street is Al Gore asked the President to pardon the mad bomber and appoint him head of the EPA.
The Democrats have circled their campaign train inside the beltway. The First Lady's finger prints have shown up on documents she said she hadn't seen. Her lawyer suggested she may have reviewed them during the '92 campaign but she can't recall. In an extraordinary display of completely missing the spin on this story, some of the denser talking heads used the "So what! They are her records" defense. Forgetting the White House originally took the position that the records were done by third parties and she knew nothing about them. Carville sits in a corner calmly telling himself, "I don't have to reelect her, only him."
I've discovered a great land deal. It's called Castle Grande. That's Spanish for "The Big House" or "Federal Penitentiary." I not sure which. I'm having a hard time hiring a descent translator here in Arkansas.
Castle Grande is this great idea. It's a trailer park, micro-brewery and radioactive waste dump all in one. Coming online at Castle Grande doesn't mean being linked to the Internet. It's not cable TV. No, it's having a tap straight from the brewery.
This is an idea ahead of it's time. Imagine a blanket of trailers covering the land. Each one with a satellite dish pointed to the sky picking up the latest reruns. The best daytime TV shows leaking from the open windows of every trailer. Cold beer running from every tap. The green glow of radioactive waste making night lights unnecessary. Yes, this is truly a vision of future.
Despite unrelenting phone calls to the McDougals and the White House, I've been unable to get on this escalator to heaven. The return calls are only denials and threats of Dobermans chewing off my nuts and the Secret Service throwing what's left in jail. David Hale is willing to talk to me but I don't believe he's the man who can sign on the bottom line for this deal.
Unwilling to let this opportunity of a lifetime slip from my grasp, I find myself on an Arkansas hillside in the middle of the night.
The rental people claimed the editor refused to pay for a four wheel drive with surround sound stereo and climate control but we know they were lying. He would never leave me stranded in a Geo, up to my axles in mud -- but it's all worth it. I've staked out the best lot in this development. The view of the HBO satellite is perfect.
I've fought my way though red neck hell to retire in trailer park heaven.
Corrections to last week's column:
Next week's episode: "That Whitewater keeps on rolling." or "Carville's campaign out of the closet."
The URL that brings it all together: American Political Cartoonery Home Page