Election Results

Today, in our living room, my two boys held an election. About twenty stuffed animals ran for mayor. They were quickly whittled down to four finalists, mostly by our terrier running off with some of the losers. (Isn't that always the way?)

The final four consisted of a chicken, a fish, a dog, and a gorilla. Each gave a speech. The fish, being out of water, had a bit of trouble and died of asphyxiation at the podium.

The gorilla started out smoothly but lost his composure when he had an inconvenient itch that just couldn't wait. It was a bit of a turn-off and, if it isn't already, is sure to be a hit on Youtube.

The chicken clucked something unintelligible, flapping her wings like the sky was falling. Most of the audience didn't speak chicken so they didn't understand. Too bad, since she might have made sense if she could reach them somehow.

The dog napped through the other speeches, spoke last and promised everyone cake. Sadly, that was all it took.

My question to Scruff, the worn, old dog who won, was this - how could you promise everyone cake when food isn't allowed in the living room? How could you make such a promise when you knew from the start that you couldn't deliver?

As a stuffed animal, Scruff wasn't talking. He appeared angry and a bit creepy. Maybe he was missing his nap. I'm guessing he hadn't thought his actions through this far. Just get through the campaign, promise what you need to, and fix it all once you're in control. Arf.

I'm sure we'd never let that sort of thing happen, right?

The Candidate Who Came to Dinner

The same blizzard that welcomed John F. Kennedy to our highest office welcomed me to this world. At the time, people worried that putting a Catholic in the White House was a huge mistake. Washington would be controlled by Rome, and Kennedy would be nothing more than the Pope’s pawn. Pretty soon we’d all be packing Rosaries and banned from eating meat on Fridays. This silliness amazed me.

I don’t want to be amazed like that anymore. Now we have a woman and an African American running for office, and some people running to cover their ugly, deep-set fears with flimsy excuses. Look deep - if you’re voting against (or for) someone simply because of gender or race, you need therapy, not a voting booth.

Honestly, I don’t want to know what a candidate does at home, how bad a bowler he is, or whether she can kick back shots with the guys. At what point do we finally say, “I don’t care if the next President of the United States is a transgender mandrill – somebody give me a shot at a decent life?”

The candidates confuse the issue more by pandering to our base commonality. “I’m one of you,” they purr. No, you’re not, and we’re happy about that. We could never survive the rat race that is Washington. We’re hoping one of you can.

Sometimes private choices give you a peek at what a candidate's future intentions might be. For instance, did they marry for money? If that’s the case, maybe that candidate will marry big oil. Gas is quickly approaching $4 a gallon – at what price ignorance? But at least he’s white, you may think, if not say. If we decide one of the most critical elections using racist or sexist bias, we deserve what we get. If we can’t look beyond looks, we are most certainly doomed.

Has it really come down to which is less worse – a woman in the White House, or a black man in the White House? Are we really that shallow? This is the part where you yell, ‘No!’ Unless, of course, you're uncomfortable with a woman telling you what to do. If that's the case, I hope you enjoy cereal for dinner, because after paying for gas, that's about all you'll be able to afford.

False issues cloud the real deal like so many messy snowflakes. But I will tell you one thing -this candidate WILL be coming to dinner. The next President will decide how often you have a nice steak, or have to settle for a cheaper cut of meat. Picking the President based on primordial fears may be the cut that gives you indigestion.

Choose wisely– you may have to eat your vote. And that's no bologna.