Hot Dog!

If I were a much better American, deeply engaged with the political process which selects the optimum persons to lead us and guarantee that we remain the free-est people who have ever been, I suppose I'd be disturbed about the continuing candidacy of a fellow who is a serial photographer of his own sausage and transmitter of the resulting images to young ladies who, presumably, did not want them.  I'd think his candidacy detracts from the solemn dignity of the mayoralty of New York City.

But I'm not, and I don't.  I think it's great!  Sure hope he wins!  Vote Weiner!  Hot dog!

Similarly, a responsible American should have deplored the governorship of Jesse "The Body" Ventura.  And, no doubt, responsible Americans did.

But not me!












And then, speaking of governors, there was Jesse's co-star from that 1987 cinematic classic, "Predator."  Who could abide the idea that so high and responsible a public office as the governorship of the most populous administrative subunit of the monolithically-welded United State of America was infested by a 'roided-out bodybuilder and action-movie box office sensation who was said to have required his female co-stars to provide him with plo jops?

I could, that's who.  Ahhh-nuld!  The Governator!  U-S-A!  U-S-A!

And, speaking of plo jops, remember the 1990s?   When our glorious maximum national leader, the Imperator himself, had to wag his finger at us and emphasize the fact that he did not have sexual relations with that woman, Miss Lewinsky?  Which was true, of course, given a suitably-exotic parsing of the term "sexual relations," but ... never mind.

I certainly do not wish to offend partisans of the Democratic flavor of the imperial ruling duopoly, so let's give equal time to Bubba's successor in The Exalted Office of the Presidency.  Yes, indeed, Dubya: a great War President, but only human.  He was, in the end, just one man.  I'm sure he could have defeated any single opponent in a fair fight, but, you know, early in the historic first term, one night Demon Rum and an Evil Pretzel ganged up on him, and carpet-burn city ensued.  Nobody laugh, now!  Actually, there's no need for anyone else to laugh, because I'm giggling enough for any ten normal, responsible people, thinking about The Decider, fuzzily trying to reconcile the biochemistry of ethanol to Newton's law of universal gravitation.  But that's just the way I am: irresponsible.

Wait.  Let's back up for a moment.  I'll make a self-aggrandizing claim here: I think it isn't so much that I'm irresponsible, as that I harbor the childish notion that things probably ought to look like what they really are.  Looked at the "cash" in your pocket lately?  Yeah, it's starting to actually look like something that's based on the full faith and credit of the United States government, isn't it?  You know, the same way that puddle of vodka-puke in the bar parking lot reflects the full sobriety and good judgment of the drunk who deposited it there.

I started to compare the new-version hundred-dollar bill to Monopoly money, but ... really, the Monopoly version looks a little more dignified and grown-up, to my eye.

If we are to be ruled by murderous buffoons -- and why, after all, should we expect anything to change now? -- they might as well look like murderous buffoons.  Although I've sworn off voting, maybe I should go to work as campaign manager for Dwayne Elizondo Mountain Dew Herbert Camacho. Doesn't he look like a dynamic leader to you?  A new kind of President for a new century, that's what we need.

Hot dog!!!