The Culture Bunker
Beer and Loafing on the Campaign Trail ’96
Part Two: To Be Announced
by William Ham
Illustration by David Coscia
The Story So Far: In eighteenth-century Malaysia, a brace of monks, excommunicated from the church for stealing the Pope’s cap and using it to store clam dip, bear witness to a mysterious ritual involving the sacrifice of ten virgins to Bucky, the malevolent god of cut-rate turkey parts. However, the bumbling, near-sighted native called upon to perform the ritual misreads his work order and captures ten Virginians instead. Meanwhile, Lord Ringworm slathers his manservant with corn syrup and… what? This story? Jesus, does anyone care? I was under the impression that people only buy this magazine to see if Dokken has a new album out or something. I mean, honestly, they should start printing this column on two-ply tissue so people can get some real use out of it… what? Finish the introduction or I don’t get paid? Ooh, big man. Yeah, I wouldn’t want to go without that surface-mail stamp I’ve had my eye on…all right, all right, I think it’s about politics or some crap like that. Can I go now?
I followed the smell of unscented incense to the Leary Wing, my palms sweating so profusely that the mole on my hand that everyone says looks like Charo, appeared to be weeping. My days of youthful insouciance have long since gone – understand that you’re dealing with a man who finds it difficult to have a wet dream about someone without taking them out for at least three dreams beforehand. These days, the company of my nominal peers, not to mention the man who may be our next president, fills me with high-octane anxiety and brings on a significant loss of viscosity. I’d say I felt uncertain, but I’m not sure if I should. I’m so nervous I can barely indent the next paragraph.
Whew.
I stood hesitantly at the entrance, listening to the already-swinging sounds of revelry within. Pernod obviously invested a lot of lucre in this event to provide swings for the press like that. The best we can usually manage is the occasional jungle gym, and that was more for demonstration purposes at last year’s Sexual Athletics press junket. (I still believe that the Olympic Committee lost out on a good thing in rejecting the cumshotput.) Be that as it may, I resolved not to let my reticence get the best of me, especially since the previous six columns I had written about standing hesitantly in front of doors inside of political party headquarters had met with mixed reviews. I squared my shoulders, knob firmly in my grasp, and used my free hand to turn the door handle. I went in.
The scene was breathtaking. One of Pernod’s campaign workers noticed and passed me his oxygen mask. When my lungs returned to their proper capacity I was able to drink in the sights surrounding me. Strobes flashed everywhere (much to the consternation of the reporter from the Epileptic Review, though the contingent from Modern Breakdancing and Seizure Mocking Quarterly seemed entertained). Pernod’s campaign song (“Caught With The Meat In Your Mouth” by the Dead Boys) played at a deafening volume from the banks of speakers set up on either side of the runway, where a procession of supermodel citizens and libertarian libertines took turns modeling the latest crypto-fashions from Von Ribbentrop’s Secret. The dance floor was filled with carousing correspondents and jitterbugging journalists by the score. There was a small incident when the National Affairs And High-Tech Cutlery reporter from the New Jersey Post-Mortem had a bad Ecstasy reaction and got into a brawl with his plaid sportcoat, but quick thinking by security guards and a few squirts from their high-powered Love Hose squelched the mini-mélee most swiftly. Got a few laughs, too.
My anxiety dribbled from me almost as quickly as the whiskey and okra juice spritzers from the bar (although the anxiety made less of a puddle) and, seized by abandon, I launched into what I considered the most appropriate dance for the occasion – the world-renowned Dance Around the Issues. Very simple, really – just a bold half-step forward followed by a sheepish retreat and a denial you ever made the first step. A few minutes of this and you’ll gain new respect for the stamina of our elected officials (not to mention calf muscles that feel like old beef jerky). Imagine doing this for two terms. I think I now know why Nixon had so much trouble with his legs. As the song finished, I thought it prudent at that juncture to assay the advanced version of the dance – the same as the original, but with an added third step in the direction of the bar (a move known in some circles as the “Teddy”).
I propped myself against the bar (actually, the bartender, but he seemed to enjoy it) and ordered. “An Economic Prosperity on the rocks, please.”
“Okay. It’ll be a few minutes, though. It takes a while for it to trickle down into the glass.”
“Fine. I’ll just have a few of these government cheese doodles and right-wing beer nuts while I wait.”
“Zut alors!” the man beside me cried out. “I am being here only a day and already I am disbelieving this country.”
Hmmm, let’s see. Drunk, mumbling, barely articulate, hasn’t washed in what smells like a month… “Excuse me, are you Mickey Rourke?”
“Ha! But I would be wishing that I were being such a man. I am thinking that his Harley Davidson et le Homme Marlboro is the Citizenne Kane or Cinderfella of our time. No, I am French. Jean-Luc Téte-Noire. I will tolerate your existence.” He offered his hand and wiped it on my shirt. “I am being come here to corvair the politicking of the Etats-Unis. I am writing type for Paris Snatch. It is political and intellectual journelle avec pousée, oui?”
“Whee. So what’s your take on our political system?”
“I am thinking the philosopher Roget said it best when he said ‘I cannot abide, accept, bear, brook, go with, lump (Informal), stand (for), stomach, suffer, support, sustain, swallow, take, tolerate it.’ Usuallement, that is me saying. This man Pernod, he is drumming differently in March. He is – how you say – la merde.”
“I had no idea he was so popular overseas.”
“You would be thinking he would be popular underseas? No, I am telling you he is not. His viewings on abortion has split the mollusk vote, and the plankton are supporting of Buchanan.”
“No surprise there.”
“I am come here in hoping that he will last at least into September.”
“So you think his message will have a greater impact if he holds out that long?”
He laughed. “No, I do not offer an intercourse about that. I am just wanting an excuse to be here long enough to see the Laborious Day telethon. Ooh, the thought of watching Monsieur Lewis for eighteen hours straight is making me want to spank my pink croissant like it is a child who will not finish his cigarette. I am ignoring you now.”
Jean-Luc walked away, offhandedly paying tribute to one of his country’s greatest leaders by punching me in de Gaulle as he went. My Economic Prosperity arrived soon thereafter, which I found predictably hard to swallow. “Gak!” I gakked. “I wanted this Economic regular, not voodoo!”
“I categorically deny your allegations, sir. Obviously there’s a credibility gap here.”
I was on the verge of adding several inches to his credibility gap with my artfully-concealed penknife when suddenly a hush fell over the room. Napalm Death’s version of the 2001 theme played (though since it was only four seconds long, they had to play it several times to maintain the suspense). A spotlight illuminated a lone figure on the stage. He spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, libertarians and tarrying liberals – put your hands together if possible for the Speaker of the House of Love, Soul Representative Number One, the Hardest-Working Man At His Extension… LANX PERNOD!!!”
The sight of Pernod as he walked onstage, backed up by the sweet, soulful, tax-deductible sounds of the Love Term-Limited Orchestra, was beyond words. Good thing, really, ’cause I’ve run out of column space again.
Next Issue, Part Three: “Wasn’t This Only Supposed To Be Two Parts?”
