Adaptive Curmudgeon

I recently mentioned that my telephone, which should ring no more than once a fortnight, is ringing off the hook.  It’s entirely calls from mindless political drones, ignorant political robots, and an occasional innocent machine mistreated by political drones and robots.  Plus several calls where I got to be one of the ten sane people who hang up on pollsters for every moron that speaks to them.  (How can a phone poll in 2012 be anything other than anachronistic?)

I also mentioned that it was mostly one sided.

6. I feel a little unbalanced.  Almost like some minimum wage / volunteer Republican flunky should call so I can rudely hang up on him too.  So far the stupid party hasn’t been that stupid.  Well played sirs!

Of course they’re not called the stupid party for nothing.  Three calls today… each from the Republicans.  Here’s how it went:

Call #1

“Hello this is the local Republican party asking you to vote tomorrow…”

“I sure am.  I’m gonna’ vote me a new Obamaphone.  Did you know Romney is in league with the NRA and they want everyone to own machine guns and rape trees?”

“Well sir I don’t think….”

“Free phone!  Yahoo!”  (Click)

Call #2

“Hello this is the supporters of candidate Z asking you to vote for him and also the whole party line…”

“Oh god no!  I’m a gay vegan yoga instructor and the thought of you snake handling wierdos in power makes me weep on the dash of my Prius.  Did I mention I’m gay.  Really extra gay.  I’m going to find out where you live and get married there.”

“It’s not like that.  We’re inclusive of all…”

“I’m going to get married to my pet lizard.  In a pagan ceremony.  In the park.  At full moon.  Naked.”

“Uhhhh…”

(Click…I couldn’t think of any more and the poor guy was too earnest to lie to him any more.)

Call #3

“This is the state Republican party reminding you to vote…”

“Vote?  When?”

“Tomorrow.  The election is tomorrow.”

“Good grief how the time does fly.”

“So you’re undecided?”

“Yep!  Who do you think I should vote for?”

(This got the guy really excited.)

“Well I’m happy to tell you that…”

“You see I had no idea there was an election…”

“But I’m trying to tell you that…”

“Because I haven’t been outside since March…”

“But you can still vote…”

“And I was dropped on my head…”

“I can help you register…”

“And I’ve been in a coma.  And living in a cave.  And I don’t have a radio, or TV, or computer….  And I can’t read.  And I haven’t spoken to another person in years.”

“Sir?  You’re messing with me aren’t you?”

“You’re a bright boy.  You should get a better job…”

“I’m a volunteer.”

“…with better pay.”

(There was a pause on the other end of the line and a sigh.  I think I’d broken his young idealistic heart.  But he didn’t give up.)

“Well perhaps I can ask who you’re voting for?”

“You can certainly ask.”

(Another sigh.)  “And you’re not going to tell me.”

“Excellent deduction.  Now say thank you and hang up before I’m forced to taunt you a second time.”

“Uhh…  Thank you?”

“And thank you too!  Next time we meet, which should be never, I hope you’re getting paid to work.  Also Merry Christmas!”  (Click.)

Sometimes you get precisely what you need but the road there can be ugly.  I think, in many ways, large and small, America is getting it’s shit together; and I’m pleased to see it traverse that ugly road.

Here’s what gave me that happy thought; in a moment of weakness I pondered a local (State) constitutional amendment.  I’ve been desperately avoiding election news (which is a lot like living in 1970’s L.A. and avoiding smog).  I’ve also been trying to avoid writing “just in time” posts because this will all be a moot point tomorrow.  (Though in the long term it’s very important).  But I’m giving in to weakness on this particular idea; that America’s system was intended to be self correcting and we are seeing it play out in real time technicolor.

No, I’m not talking about the content free narcissistic mirror who dropped out of space with less backstory than a b-grade novel to sweep the 2008 elections.  Nor am I talking about the squeaky clean semi-RINO pinhead who wishes to supplant him.  I’m talking about votes.  More specifically; counting them.

Back in the stone age when phones had rotors and I had hair, it was generally accepted that presidential votes were mostly, sorta’, with caveats, fair.  Everyone knew that Chicago was rigged (and water is wet) and Americans will cheat when they can.  Somehow it didn’t amount to much.  Nobody worried that Hoover got to be president by hosing the naive challenger Alfred Emanual Smith by recounting 1,600 hanging chads in Florida six times.  It just didn’t play that way; Americans could damn well count.  It was something we were proud of.  That’s why America went apeshit on Nixon.  Our nation was willing to elect an evil scheming bastard but we weren’t willing to tolerate the idea that he spied (not fixed votes mind you… just spied) illegally on his opponents.  We found out and kicked his sorry ass to the curb.

We played hard but the rules of the game were fixed in advance.  Then, gradually, we turned into big whining pussies.  Well not all of us, but a significant number.  We got in the habit of “determining voter intent”, “interpreting the uproariously named ‘hanging chad'”, and trying to make sure nobody, no matter how clueless and disconnected, could vote.

One of our two shitty parties turned this into their home court advantage.  The other shitty party bent over and let it happen.  It is now commonly accepted by folks on the right that their members must win not merely in fact but a few extra points to avert “the margin of cheat”.  They are dead certain that in any very close race there will be a recount.  And every recount is a chance to cheat.  And every cheated recount always goes one way.  The script is always the same.  A couple boxes of highly democratic ballots will turn up in the back seat of a 1974 Buick parked in a back alley in the most statistically crucial voting district.  The box will be filled with strange ballots seemingly originating from undocumented Bolivian indigents who live under a bridge, haven’t driven a car (legally), never filled out a job application (which requires ID) or paid taxes or rented a video or bought Sudafed or got a fishing license or basically done anything anywhere at all.  They’ll have voted for Mickey Mouse or all of the above or maybe not actually have finished the selection; but if you squint your eyes just right and wish real hard; 89% of them voted for the nearest Democrat.

Being a numbers oriented guy the empirical evidence is that there’s a cheat going on.  Being an American I want the count to result in an irreversible, final, and indisputable decision; up or down, win or lose, right damn now and no bullshit.  Nobody cares what I intended to write on a tax form or lottery ticket purchase.  In all things non-recount what you wrote is what you wrote and if you blew it then no soup for you!  Elections decided on hazy subjective intent deduced by Ouija boards and hope fill me with disgust.  It’s corrosive to our nation.  The party that wins that way knows deep in their heart what they’ve done and act exactly like the insecure little whiners that they’ve become.  The party robbed of that which they honestly earned loses hope and become (understandably) irritable.

Why am I saying this?  Because last week I drove through an ignorable little piece of frozen Viking territory called Minnesota.  Browsing the paper (yes, you caught me wallowing in the filth I should avoid) I noticed their “Voter Id” Amendment.  The handy internet gave me the text:

“…All voters voting in person must present valid government-issued photographic identification before receiving a ballot.  ….  All voters, including those not voting in person must be subject to substantially equivalent identity and eligibility verification prior to a ballot being cast or counted.  …”

Hmmm, said I.  What could have caused the bluest of blue states to put such a thing on the ballot?  Then I remembered back in 2008 when Minnesota had an epic 8 month Senate election.  Republican Norm Coleman won the Senate seat in a narrow squeaker.  No, wait!  There was a recount.  Yep, he still won.  Wait!  Another recount.  Still Coleman.  Wait!  Another recount!  Still Coleman?  Dammit; we can do this all day.  Another recount.  Plus some lawyers beating the hell out of each other.  Plus immense hand wringing on the part of the mysterious disenfranchised masses who seem to vote entirely for one party.  How can that be?  Are there no disenfranchised idiot Republicans who can’t seem to submit a complete and readable ballot?  Shut up Curmudgeon!   We’re recounting again.  Ah ha!  The Democrat won!  We’ve got the vote we intend to inflict on the people so our work here is done.  Suck it Republicans!

And so it was in 2008; when the votes were recounted until 8 months later Minnesota was represented by a proud and clearly elected Stewart Smalley.

Al Franken: Math is hard. Sometimes you need eight months to count to the right conclusion.

Which brings me to exactly 4 years later.  Minnesotans are about to (depending on the results) fix the living shit out of the recurring perversity of bullshit election recounts.  If it passes Minnesota will have it written into their State constitution that you cannot vote without coming up with at least as much documentation as you need for a fishing license.  The era of recounting will not be over but the “margin of cheat” will have been massively reduced.  Our Viking brethren are only one of many states taking pains to cut the shit and count fair and square.

I set down my paper and wandered out the door to pay for my $4 fuel and continue driving through this great nation.  (Is it not a modern miracle that I can leave the land of ice and be 600 miles away by sunset?)  As I often do, I felt proud of my Nation.  We make mistakes but we correct them.  Good luck to those hearty Minnesotans who not only endure winters that make people’s blood freeze but they’re taking a meat cleaver to the modern insanity of “count until a certain party wins”.  Our nation, for all it’s faults, is adapting.

A.C.

P.S.  Of course the amendment could fail.  But I have an inkling that people who can shovel snow at -20 degrees aren’t likely to puss out on counting.

P.S.2. I’ll also admit that being impressed with an amendment is unusual for me.  I like constitutions to be short, sweet, and with as few words for lawyers to misconstrue as possible.  I’m usually opposed to virtually any amendment on any constitution anywhere (there would have been no Prohibition or Income Tax if I’d had any say in it).  This may be one of the first State Amendments I’ve really liked.

In the last hour my secret, unpublished, do not call, rarely answered, “often the ringer is off and I usually won’t answer it even if it isn’t” phone rang twice.

My phone usually goes days without ringing.  (Is that not awesome?!?)  This week every couple of hours some random evil robot drone calls my phone trying to detect the pickup so it can add me to their list of “live” numbers.  For the last two calls I was expecting a business call so I had to answer.  One was the Democratic Party and one was a State Employees Union.  Both were hung up upon (is that a verb?) faster than you can say “get bent”.

Some observations:

1. I live in a state so blue they’d vote for Trotsky if they could.  If the left is calling my ignored hinterland with it’s six voters and nine tractors then something is afoot.  There are less votes here than a minivan in a mall and our biggest concern is raccoons raiding the chickencoop.  Are the walls really coming down around them that much?  I smell desperation.
2. I haven’t picked up the mail but I’m assuming there’s a truckload of negative advertising pamphlets.  Mostly from one side of the spectrum.  I smell fear.
3. I’m very busy on a project.  No time for their insipid chit chat.  No time to even reach for my air horn.  Get off my lawn.
4. Here’s a hint (that works for both parties).  Govern wisely and you won’t have to be groveling before the big day.  It’s better to have karma on your side.  Also cramming for the final exam is supposed to end once you’re a grown up.
5. Has anyone with an unlisted phone on a do not call list actually voted in favor of the douchebag that called them?  How could that possibly work?
6. I feel a little unbalanced.  Almost like some minimum wage / volunteer Republican flunky should call so I can rudely hang up on him too.  So far the stupid party hasn’t been that stupid.  Well played sirs!

I wrote earlier that negative advertising had changed (or at least influenced) my decision making process. A sack of dull I’ll refer to as Candidate A has opponents who are determined to bury my house in negative advertising.  I can really support a guy who’s managed to piss off entrenched interests so completely.

Today my mailbox had another metric ton of political blather.  Two were political that were positive. Excellent!  Here they are (I might be paraphrasing):

“I’m candidate A and I’m awesome.  I ran my own business and got filthy stinking rich.  Then it bored me so I took up a new hobby of defeating incumbents and hammering the shit out of everyone who wants tax dollars. I’m also trying to come up with a numberset that will allow me to cut taxes while still balancing the budget. Math is hard but I’m sure it has to do with division by zero. Vote for me and you won’t get a damn thing from the government. Also your taxes will only go up if they tear out my beating heart and stab it with a pen full of red ink.”

“I’m candidate C and I’m more awesome than the other guy. I’m going to get your town more money for schools and stuff. Unicorns will pay for it. Math is easy.  You just pretend that what you want to be true… is.  Also I’m going to shit on private schools and home schoolers because fuck them!”

How’s that for the democratic process?  Each candidate got sear words in my eyes and try and convince me. Good for them. Candidate A promises damn near nothing… which is an attainable goal.  Candidate C is offering free crack and magic.  Well played gentlemen. Candidate C; you lose and thank you for playing.

But the mailbox wasn’t done.  There were four more ads and they were all negative:

“Candidate A refused to raise taxes last summer so our spending on roads was delayed.  He blows goats!”

“We’re cops and Candidate A cut funding for our cool crime fighting gear.  He’s obviously trying to get you robbed and beaten by hordes of maniacal criminal masterminds who have turned to mayhem specifically because us noble cops lack enough cool stuff.  Did we mention we’re cops?  We’re totally bitching cool.  Also if we don’t get our stuff you clueless hayseeds are going to be attacked by the Russian Mob tonight.”

“We’re hospitals and you’re going to die now.  You’re going to die because Candidate A didn’t give us more unicorn money.  You deserve ass cancer for that!  I hope you’re happy.  You useless piece of shit.”

“This is the cops again.  Remember us, the awesome studs that keep you from getting attacked by space pirates?  We demanded more crime stuff and Candidate A wouldn’t spend the money.  That bastard!  We’re going to hold our breath and stamp our feet until you give it to us.  Also we’re going to give you a ticket for not wearing a seatbelt, swearing in front of puppies, and swimming within one hour after eating.  Also did we mention we’re cops and totally non-political so you can trust us completely.  You wouldn’t want your car towed would you?”

……

Me doth think they protest too much.

I have revised my earlier support for candidate A.  I’m was going to vote for him.  Now I’m going to build a shrine to him.

Many years ago the media was atwitter about a strike of TV writers.  I remember joking that it’s like the neighbor’s dog formally announcing it will henceforth no longer crap on your doorstep without a cost of living increase.  Or maybe it’s like the tagger who spray painted your car demanding better work hours?  How could a strike actually work?  TV producers could presumably scrape up whatever trust funders they found lying on the floor of an average college English department, shake them out until they found a few that were at least literate, and keep taping.

After all, this was the media with a business model based more on Gilligan’s Island than Masterpiece Theater.  At the time of the “terrible strike” TV was already out of ideas.  My rabbit ears antennae reported that the entire industry was based on 68 iterations of cop and lawyer shows; all of which were terrible.  An already worn out Simpsons was the only hint that writers occasionally crafted a product instead of hammering keyboards; and that was a damn cartoon.

I found the whole thing amusing.  TV had been called “a vast wasteland” decades ago and it had steadily declined.  I was supposed to worry about “creative talent”?  How much worse could it get?

Well I was wrong.  It got worse.  Scripts slowly went from insipid to non-existent.  Who knew I’d look back on Home Improvement and marvel that it had actors, plots, and lines?  Who knew I’d someday watch repeats of guys catching shellfish?

The suck continues.   Without steady exposure the change is more disconcerting.  I’m shocked when I quarterly turn the thing on and see that it’s dived beneath the lowest bar I’d imagined.

This is a problem because I’ve been working extra hard lately.  When the work day has been a shit sandwich even a Curmudgeon might decide to fall into the warm sedative of television.  The problem… and this is key…  is that TV now so bad that I can no longer stomach it.  I had a beer and an hour to kill.  How could they fail so deplorably?  Taki’s Magazine summed up my experience in today’s quote of the day:

“I want to enjoy TV, but every time I open my mind, a TV executive in LA takes a dump in it.”

Indeed.  I have no problem with video as a media.  I just dislike being treated as less intellectually capable than… say… livestock.

Then the article delivers the kill shot:

“Remember in Idiocracy when Mike Judge predicts that Ow! My Balls! will be the top show in 500 years? Well, about 495 years early, the ‘nut mutilation guy’ has emerged as one of America’s Got Talent’s most popular guests.”

It can’t be!  Idiocracy was supposed to be in the future.  Many generations of stupid removed from the place where I live and work.  Howard Stern and Sharon Osborne clapping with joy watching a guy taking a ball peen hammer in the shorts?  NO!  This is NOT true because it can’t be.  I live on this planet… there’s nowhere else to go.

Ugh…  guys catching shellfish really was the “deep stuff” wasn’t it?

I keep my TV on a leash but I can’t stop political advertisements from showing up in my mailbox like some sort of expensive and depressing alien slime mold.  This year one of the local elections has gone full retard.

It involves a guy I’ll call “Candidate A”.   During the last go round Candidate A brutally defeated the incumbent.  I’ll refer to that incumbent as “Candidate B”.  Candidate B promised me cheaper broadband, green technology jobs, better weather, clean white teeth, a pony, and a handjob.  (Well the last one might be a slight exaggeration.  Only a slight exaggeration.) Candidate B came to my house and groveled most politely.  She drove a Pirus and discussed everything from farm subsidies, a local clinic, freaking anything she could think of…. to get me to vote for her.  I kindly and politely told her to get her free crack off my lawn and decided I’d vote for anybody with a pulse who wasn’t Candidate B.  (If she ran unopposed I’d write in Frank Zappa.)

Candidate A, who won, appeared to be dumb as a box of rocks but he promised me absolutely nothing and seems to have done less.  Well done sir!

This go round I’ve been getting negative political advertisements from both sides.  Candidate A is now the incumbent but apparently this district is still hotly contested.  Every day my mailbox has the same shit.  “Candidate A clubs baby seals”.  “Candidate C, the new challenger to Candidate A, is made entirely of evil.”  “Candidate A once raped my dog…it could happen to you.” “Candidate C is a robot made by unions and built in Detroit.”

One day I got four negative pamphlets.  Three from incumbent Candidate A and one from plucky challenger Candidate C.  I’d had enough.  I made my decision.  “The incumbent, Candidate A, has spent too much money sending shit to my mailbox” I declared.  “Anyone who’ll waste his own money that much shouldn’t be within arms reach of my tax dollars.  He has lost my vote and I shall burn an effigy of him on the front lawn.”

Whew.  It’s hard making informed decisions.

Then Candidate C went totally apeshit.  One day I got three negative ads; “Candidate A is a secret gay mafia assassin”, “Candidate A causes the Plague”, and “Candidate A sets libraries on fire.”

“What the hell,”  I moaned, “I already decided to vote for Candidate C, “now that tool is muddying the waters by blowing metric shittons of cash sending crap to my mailbox.  Does he enjoy losing?  Doesn’t he realize he’d win if he’d just shut his damn piehole?”

The next day there were four more from Candidate C.  “Candidate A runs over nuns with his truck.”  “Candidate A was hatched in a Nazi laboratory.”  “Candidate A likes disco.”  “Candidate A shot the tooth fairy.”

I also noted that the negative ads missed the mark for me.  Accusing your enemy of annoying unions, being in favor of voter ID, cutting spending, and liking guns; this is supposed to make me dislike the guy.  How?  Have his enemies even seen the hinterlands where I live?  Or do they drive Volts and therefore can’t reach this far from their home habitat of cities and cubicles?

My kitchen table had accumulated seven glossy mass mailers in 24 hours.  Or, as I calculate it, one dose of asshole every 3.4 hours!

I changed my mind.  Anyone who has pissed off folks so much that his enemies send me a glossy printed character assignation every four hours?  He must be doing good!  It takes style and flair to be that hated.  I could kill, gut, and eat the neighbor’s horse and they wouldn’t bother to send seven consecutive fliers accusing me of being a duchebag.  Candidate A has enemies with deep pockets and lots of spare time.  Exactly the kind of person who should hate me too.  I tip my hat to him.  He infuriated entrenched interests for (as far as I can tell) doing nothing but wearing a suit and looking stupid.  That’s awesome.

I’m now a committed voter for Candidate A.  Negative campaigns work!

After a while the three kids returned. One was silent; possibly pondering homework on Christmas. The other two were in a heated argument. One was shouting that Mrs. Obama had banned deserts. He insisted she should be blasted into space and also the president should have ketchup thrown on his head. The other responded; “you can’t say that about the president.”

A pitch over home plate cannot be ignored.

“Gentlemen!” I interjected. All three stopped; eager to see what stupid thing I was about to say. This was going to be awesome.

“Did I hear one of you declare what one can and cannot say about the president?” I asked gravely. “That is absolutely not true. This isn’t Russia.”

The kids looked blank.  Whoops; I forget. Russia isn’t what it used to be. This launched an internal monologue:

Remember the old days when Russia was the indisputable demonstration of socialist totalitarian evil? A source of James Bond villains, guys to fight Rocky, and nincompoop spies who try to blow up flying squirrels? This shared cultural reference kept our National mind out of the gutter.  It seemed silly to flush our thriving capitalist economy down the crapper when Russia was intent on vaporizing Baltimore.

Remember Nikita Khrushchev pounding tables with his shoe and shouting that some schmuck in the UN is “a jerk, a stooge, and a lackey” and a “toady of American imperialism”?  They just don’t make them like that anymore.  It gave a clarity to things.  (Vladimir Putin tries.  He’s practically Darth Vader.  But Russia no longer resembles Modor so he can’t carry on the full tradition.  Give the guy a break.)

Now it’s different.  America is actively trying to emulate the EU while it burns.  Were modeling our economy after a place that formerly had shortages of toilet paper. Even the Chinese embraced capitalism.  Now those bastards own us!  How did we become the jockey that won the horse race and decided to kneecap his mount?

Back on track I continued. “It is long standing tradition that Americans do indeed insult their president. We do it often and loudly. It is not only your right, but your duty to trash this and all future presidents.” I paused to let that sink in and then started the rest of the sermon. “For example, I am not only free to assert that Obama is a clueless moron and Romney is a pencil necked geek but it’s the right thing to do.”

The kids smiled. I had a true teachable moment on my hands.

“Some of the insults are traditional, like calling Romney a ‘pinhead’ or Obama a ‘wanker’. But it’s best if you can come up with something unique. Homer Simpson said…” The kids nodded. They didn’t know Russia but they knew Homer. “…he said that the French were ‘cheese eating surrender monkeys’. That was superb.  You should aspire to that kind of insult.”

“However, Mrs. Obama, is not an elected official. The first lady is just someone who hangs around without a day job. I’ll admit she’s got some good qualities.  She’s got huge biceps and looks like she could bite a cinder block in half.  They should turn her loose on Vladimir Putin with a bull whip and a blowtorch.  But she’s not really in the government at all.  She’s more like the government’s groupie.  She didn’t win an election so she’s irrelevant and pointless.” The kids smiled.

“The school lunch tragedy,” I emphasized this last word, “is a result of the entire Federal Government’s bad behavior. Its is not just because the First Lady is selfish and wants all the cookies for herself.” The kids had never thought of this. I could see it on their faces.  What had she done with all the cookies? There must be a warehouse full of them somewhere? They would never forgive her now!

I continued. “So if I wish to call the first lady a ‘monster that hates children’ or even ‘scarier that a bout of the plague’ that simply isn’t factual.” Though it sure was fun!

Mrs. Curmudgeon was desperate to get me out of the building.

“The bureaucracy is at fault. So you should save your anger for bureaucrats.”

The kids blinked. How can you dump ketchup on a bureaucracy? Undeterred I kept going with the civics lesson.

“So here are some choice words you might want to remember…”

Mrs. Curmudgeon, gave certain visual clues to indicate she would murder me if I continued. I stopped. Sorry kids, the lesson had been canceled.

“Well I suppose that’s something you’ll have to figure out yourself.” The kids looked disappointed.

I couldn’t help skate a little further.

“Look in the dictionary. That’s the printed thing that happened before wikipedia. It’s in your school library.” They nodded, apparently the kids knew what ‘library’ and ‘dictionary’ meant. Excellent!  There was still hope!

“Look through the dictionary for quality insults.  Really go for it. Calling someone a ‘jerk’ lacks style.” The kids nodded. This was a new concept but they got the idea. “Put in some effort and go for a really big word or even a whole phrase. That confuses stupid people. If you’re lucky they’ll confuse your teachers too! Don’t forget that insulting politicians is your civic duty.”

The kids agreed that this was a good idea. Then one kicked the other in the shin and chaos broke out again.  The moment was over.

I was proud. I’d done my part for America. I had helped pass wisdom on to the next generation. As to the debate, even Mrs. Curmudgeon got bored and we left. As far as I could tell, the only people still watching were three guys paying Pokemon. Remember this on election day; dorks playing Pokemon.

And that, folks, is as true as anything you’ll hear on CNN.

As the debate droned on, a group of three hefty men carrying hefty ring binder notebooks arrived. They plopped down near the TV and watched the debate with rapt attention. They were youngish but old enough that any parent who kicked them out of the house would be justified. They were dressed in slightly dorky attire. They might have jobs but they probably didn’t have girlfriends.

“How nice to see those fellows watching the debate.” Mrs. Curmudgeon observed.

“They’re bookies.” I said. “The notebooks are their oddsmaking charts. Political betting is very hip these days.” I continued.

Mrs. Curmudgeon restrained herself from throwing a meatball at me.

“In the old days bookies used laptop computers. With the advent of the iPad they had to revert to pen and paper. Trendy iDevices squander all their computational power on social media and Angry Birds. “ I paused, enjoying myself. “Paper is just as good anyway. It’s a little known fact that John Glenn learned his slide rule skills for the Saturn rocket program as a bookie in Gary, Indiana…”

The waitress interrupted my musings.  “Could you turn the sound up.” Mrs. Curmudgeon asked.  She was desperately trying to ignore me.  The kids headed off to play a video game.  I ordered a drink. “Your cheapest red wine please.”

My hearing isn’t as good as Mrs. Curmudgeon. All I heard was Mitt and Barack mumbling.

“What are the bars?” Mrs. Curmudgeon asked. She pointed out two bars going up and down at the based of the screen. Line graphs, like the blue lines in hockey, are presumed to be a male concept.

“The yellow one seems highly variable. Also I noticed it goes down whenever Obama’s lips are moving. I’m going to say it’s the stock price in Hong Kong where the markets are still open. The green one? I’m not sure. It looks pretty flat. Maybe it’s the number of months before Greece goes supernova?”

I liked my explanation. Mrs. Curmudgeon, committed to reality, moved closer to the TV. To her disappointment I followed. I started reading a local paper. “Hey they’ve got Marmaduke…”

“Can’t you pay attention like those nice fellows up front?” She waved her hand at the three guys who were idly flipping through three ring binders without moving their eyes from the TV.

I couldn’t hear most of what was going on so I added my own local commentary. “The guys up front are reviewing ‘binders full of women’.” I explained.

“Well they’re not acting dumb like you…” Mrs. Curmudgeon observed (correctly I might add). “Why not act mature like them.” Sigh… she was right. Deflated I watched the politicians ramble on the screen.

Then one of the guys turned a page and we both saw that it was filled with cards from a role playing game. Possibly ‘Magic the Gathering’ but for all I know it was Pokemon. Mrs. Curmudgeon glared at me; daring me to insert a punchline about the mature gentlemen so fully involved in the deliberative process.

Wisely, I shut up and gulped the last of my wine.  (This was the smartest thing I did all evening.)

Straining my ears, I heard one of the two politicians prattling on about public education. (No mention of desserts!). Text on the screen said the question had something to do with Benghazi.

“Do we have public schools in Libyia?” I asked.

Mrs. Curmudgeon thought this was funny. Whew!

Then I realized the line graph scrolling across the bottom of the screen was approval ratings from males and females. I pointed this out to Mrs. Curmudgeon.

“Why do they separate out reactions from men and women?” She asked.

“Where do they put the sensors?” I added.

Mrs. Curmudgeon wrinkled her nose. I was about to say something socially unacceptable.

“This is an important scientific matter.” I began. “They’re reporting statistical aggregations in real time. This is crucial.” I paused thinking of the next joke. “Clearly it would have to be a sex based sensor array to differentiate the two data streams. Possibly something like jumper cables for women. Maybe a conductivity test for the men?”

I liked this idea. “Sir, put your nuts on this metal pad. It’s for America.”

Sometimes I don’t care if anyone laughs at my jokes. “We’re with the TSA.” I crack myself up.

“Shush…” Mrs. Curmudgeon was annoyed.

“The equipment is banned in Kansas of course. But it’s a popular group activity in San Fransisco.” Tragically something this creepy probably exists. Ugh…

I wasn’t out of jokes yet. “Imagine the possibilities. They could measure the actual wattage of Chris Matthews ‘thrill up the leg’.” I was loving it. Comedy gold!

I couldn’t have asked for a better evening.  But the fun wasn’t over yet…

The kids were still pointing at Michelle Obama on the TV and complaining loudly that she was screwing up their desert menu.  Clearly it was time to inject some reason into their angered frenzy.

“Did you know she’s going to take away recess too?” I asked.

The kids gasped.

“Yep. No dessert and no recess. School all year round.” I was on a roll.

“Even on Christmas?” One had eyes wider than saucers.

“Homework on Christmas.” I added sadly.

Mrs. Curmudgeon stopped my fun. “Don’t listen to him kids,” She explained “he has dementia because he’s old. And stupid.” She looked at me. “Very extremely stupid.” The kids laughed. My spell was broken. Now they were going to wind up playing bongos in Berkley. Oh well; I’d tried.

“What did you do that for?” I said. “I was just warming up to explain Obamacare’s new involuntary organ donation program. It was going to be epic!”

“You’re going to get arrested.” She explained (as if I wasn’t willing to risk jail for a good joke).

“But it’s Halloween season! What’s Halloween without zombies? Organ donor zombies. I just made that up. Isn’t that the coolest idea?” Just then the pizza arrived and the presidential debate started. This spared me a detailed explanation why I should keep my mouth shut. (Which is good counsel that I regularly ignore.)

I’ve read too many conflicting analyses of the last presidential debate so I’m here to set the record straight by telling you what I experienced.

It had been a long day so I was worn to the bone and feeling loopy. Plus, for no particular reason we were keeping track of a trio of ‘as yet undeveloped proto-adults’ (otherwise known as ‘children’).  We ate dinner at a nearly deserted pizza joint with two TVs. One TV played football (this is required by law). It was on mute and being ignored. I considered asking for the remote so I could switch to the cartoon network. Maybe Phineas and Ferb would be on.  (I suppose the kids would like this too but the cartoon idea was all about me.)

Mrs. Curmudgeon pointed to the other TV. It was playing the “pre-game warmup” to the presidential debate. It was too far away to hear and I couldn’t see well either. Perfect! All I could recognize was a big red stage and Michelle Obama looking very angry. I don’t know why I mention that because Mrs. Obama always looks angry.

The stage reminded me of a boxing ring. I started singing “Two Tribes” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood. “Hey, Mrs. Curmudgeon, remember that music video where Reagan body slammed Gorbachev in a boxing ring?”

“Shhh…” She was trying to listen.  The kids, meanwhile, were occupied with crayons.

The waitress brought ice water and I popped an aspirin for my tired muscles.

“Headache?” the waitress asked.

“Imploded spleen.” I responded.

She paused; deep in thought. “I practice martial arts.” I added. That should clear things up.

The waitress brightened. “Kickboxing?” She was a fan.  Oh no.  I hate kickboxing.  I had to defuse the situation by referring to something as far removed from it as possible.

“I’m a grand master of origami.” I replied. “I’m also a student of krav maga and  prana bindu. My chosen weapon is the stapler.”

The waitress smiled and left. I would remember to give her a big tip. She was gifted in the art of ignoring morons. Mrs. Curmudgeon, God bless her, sighed in resignation at being married to one.

Meanwhile the kids sprang into action. “That’s her!” One pointed at Michelle Obama on the TV. Michelle looked like she’d enjoy snapping a puppy in half.

I hate to see kids get involved in politics. They’ll have a whole lifetime to learn that adults are lying weasels; no need to speed the process. Also they’ve been hopelessly brainwashed by public schools. “I suspect the kids are Obama fans… that pleases their overlords at the school administration.” I stage whispered.  An already frustrated Mrs. Curmudgeon tuned me out.

The kids were jabbering excitedly and pointing at the screen. I watched them with a sinking feeling. The poor bastards were getting communism lessons every day in school. When they were older they’d get the bill for the solid gold iron lung every baby boomer wants. Then the cold hard truth would settle on their shoulders. They will eventually wish they’d been born somewhere with a brighter economy; like Bulgaria.

“She took our dessert!” One of the kids shouted; clearly enraged.

What an interesting surprise. I knew about the Michele Obama’s “Eat Healthy Food Because You’re A Serf Who Shall Obey Me” school lunch program. I hadn’t considered its effect on innocent kids. Talk about unexpected consequences. Now the kids loathed all things Obama. How much leftist indoctrination had been squandered just to seize a kid’s dessert?

“I hate her.” Shouted one of the kids. It was a teachable moment!  Time to seize the day!