The Culture Bunker
by William Ham
illustration by David Coscia
Beer and Loafing on the Campaign Trail ’96
Part Three: Eerht Trap
The Story So Far: Nothing happened. Get on with your lives.
It was a moment that those fortunate enough to be present will always remember. The rumors had all been quashed, the questions all answered. The man who had aroused such great interest by the critics, the pundits, and the youth of America had finally arrived, and with every word from his mouth, every movement of his body, a legendary, nay, mythical moment was born. None could believe they were actually there, basking in his unearthly glow and mystical, yet very human, presence. The only word for the feeling it inspired in us all was awe.
But enough about Elvis’ 1968 Comeback Special. Lanx Pernod, the Party Party’s candidate for president, had arrived on the proscenium of the Timothy Leary Wing of his national campaign headquarters, ready to discuss his unprecedented, revolutionary election strategy of intercourse, intoxicants, and insanely loud music with the members of the press who had assembled at his request. The crowd cheered, and I would have too if I weren’t so worn out from cramming all that exposition into one sentence. Pernod basked in the adulation, striking various messianic poses (blessing the masses, standing with arms outstretched and palms bleeding, and changing a bottle of Evian into a carafe of Boone’s Farm Strawberry) and erupting into an elaborate Tina Turner impersonation, climaxing by getting slapped around brutally by one of his Secret Service agents, who apologized and brought him flowers and a brand-new mink stole afterward. Or at least that’s what my notes say.
He then sauntered up to the mike and addressed the crowd. “Assembled juicers and pipe-suckers of the press, I would like to begin by thanking you for coming to the press conference/mass bender this evening, but my handlers have advised me that gratitude makes me look like a schmuck, so I won’t. I do hope that all of you have been able to sample the food that’s been supplied to us tonight by E Pluribus Yum-Yum, the finest Latin caterers that kickbacks can buy. I’m told that the potatoes non grata are delicious. And before I forget, I want to mention that my candidacy has been sponsored by Drøølenbrau, The Deposed Figurehead of Beers, in exchange for a promotional announcement and the conspicuous placement of their product on the executive desk during any and all addresses to the nation should I be elected. Without further ado – all previous ado, of course, having been made possible by a generous grant from the Mr. Ipecac bottling company – I will open the floor to any questions.”
The floor had no questions, so it was quickly closed back up so the reporters could have their turn.
“Mark O. D’Beast, Conservative Satanist. Independent parties have had a particularly rough haul this election year, what with the Procrastinator Party candidate postponing his campaign indefinitely and the Donner Party nominee eating all of his delegates – what makes you believe that your party stands a greased stripper’s chance at a Hell’s Angels convention of succeeding?”
“I’m glad you asked that question, Mark. Actually, I’m not, but I’m hiding my utter revulsion at your very existence behind a carefully-constructed façade of partisan benevolence. You see, while both of the major parties have many advantages that we do not, ours is the only political party at the national level that has coasters with our name on it, not to mention a bonus for registering of a coupon good for 35¢ off a super-sized order of fries at all participating Cholesterol Huts. I hope that answers your question. Next?”
“Jerry Mander, Car and Nothingness. You have yet to take a stand on some of the more controversial issues. What, for example, is your position on abortion rights?”
“Simple,” Pernod replied. “I don’t believe it should be restricted to women. Next?”
“Olive Loaff, Inanity Fair. Isn’t that last line merely a variation on an old Woody Allen joke?”
“Ms. Loaff, babe, I have always taken a very strong position in favor of conservation. Now, I could have come up with a clever quip of my own, but that would have contributed to the depletion of our national humor resources. The press has taken great pains to cover up this fact, but at the rate we’re going, America’s supply of puns and one-liners will be dried up by 2006. Jim Carrey alone is putting a strain on our facial contortion and butt-crack related comic resources. And I need not remind you of what fart jokes are doing to our eco-system. We must conserve our wit now before we’re forced to import all our gags from… England.”
“Collective gasp!”
“Besides, I think the kid who writes this column is running out of ideas. Next?”
“Uhhh… Acapulco Goldwyn, Wasted Times. Like, is Floyd comin’ out soon, man? ‘Cause the Endust is startin’ to kick in an’ my lighter thumb’s gettin’ calloused from all my practice. I gotta see the flyin’ pig, dude!”
“Well, son, as President, I hope to ensure that concerns like those are well-tended to. Although I’m not really sure what a whiny-voiced ’60s sitcom barber has to do with my campaign strategy. Next?”
“Eric Claptrap, Rhetorical Inquirer. What is the sound of one hand clapping?”
“I’m not going to answer that. Next?”
“Dr. Phawl Dupp, Fun With Polyps. What do you intend to do about the health-care crisis in this country?”
“Dr. Dupp, I am categorically opposed to health care.”
This caused quite a stir, but Pernod remained unruffled. “Please! Please! All that stirring is very distracting! Keep doing that and I’ll start to ruffle and it’s not a pretty sight. You can pass the spoon around if you want, but just listen.”
Silence prevailed. Pernod shifted his stance (manually), cracked the Presidential seal on a fifth of Aaron bourbon, took a deep swig, wiped his mouth on his pants and spoke.
“Health care is a scourge on our nation worse than violent crime and the continued popularity of Zima combined. Listen to pro-health rhetoric and you’ll realize how negative it is. Everything’s ‘anti-seizural’ this and ‘anti-biotic’ that… Lanx Pernod is the pro-biotic candidate. The reason is simple: Microbes, germs, and spirochetes comprise a heretofore untapped constituency. Imagine the trillions of votes a viral rights candidate could receive. I stand before you today poised to become the nation’s first Chief of Staph!”
The crowd erupted in cheers and applause. Adulation filled the room as adulation will if you don’t leave the seal on the jar it’s contained in, and leave it within reach of the cat. (Never mind, move on to the next sentence.) The cynical pundits and pun-dipped cynics who arrived that evening to eviscerate the candidate (most of them figuratively) were now upstanding members of the Pernod camp, straining at the tight-fitting fabric of our society, ready to penetrate the gates of conservatism, part the lips of liberalism and…
(Mental note: never use Spanish fly as a coffee substitute again.)
Anyway, the erec – I mean, election would be firmly in Pernod’s grasp if this was any indication. And yet a creeping sense of unease descended to chill my spine. No, wait, that’s the left hand of the reporter from the Roman Fingers. Still, I was beginning to feel a sense of disillusionment I hadn’t experienced since I found out that all of Henry Rollins’ tattoos are press-ons. Didn’t Hitler start this way, telling the dispossessed masses exactly what they wanted to hear and appealing to the worst, darkest places in their souls? Or am I thinking of Merv Griffin? Whichever, everything became blindingly clear. Some might call it satori, others might say that I should stop drinking MSG straight from the bottle. I had heard about moments like this – moments when you suddenly know your place in the universe, moments when you realize that the letters in your phone number spell out “sniff me”… It was a moment of utter, absolute sobriety. So that’s what they’re like. I had to know something and I had to know it now before this starts bleeding into Kerry’s piece on the next page. As I raised my hand, I could feel all my reserves of lucidity and articulation mustering their full capacity. I was ready.
“Next?”
“Pork-derived surname, Lollipop. Who’dya think yer foolin’, Mr. Poopy Pants?”
Pernod began to shake worse than Bob Hope on a vibrating bed at the Motel 6.
“Uhh… well, heh heh, I… you see, the… I think, uh, mood rings might be coming back… I, oh, geez, hey, is that a baby deer behind you?… I…”
He flung the microphone down and fell to his knees, sobbing and bashing his head against the stage. “What bash was bash I bash thin bash king bash? I’m bash a bash to bash tal bash fraud bash!” He continued on in this vein for a couple of minutes and I was sure we were witnessing the end of both Pernod’s political career and the elegant convexity of his forehead when… something happened. The crowd began to clap along with the cranial thuds. The drummer for the Love Term-Limited Orchestra picked up on it and soon the whole band joined in. In short order, the entire room was cheering and clapping along to the beat, a thrilling moment even if the beat in question made the average dirge seem bouncy. Even I was caught up in the moment – so what if he’s a potential fascist demagogue? He rocks! Pernod stumbled to his feet, surprised and elated, and staggered back to the microphone. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. That was a piece of my own composition entitled ‘Ow!,’ a work I intend to perform at my inaugural ball provided I can requisition the proper padding. Well, I believe we have time for one more question.”
“Jim Amusinglastname, Some Magazine. What time is it?”
Pernod chuckled and checked his watch. “About quarter past ten.”
“SHIT!” exclaimed the crowd. Expeditiously, they began to file – well, run screaming like little girls – out of the Leary Wing.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Pernod implored.
“Sorry, dude,” L. Salvador Dollee from Andalusian Dog Fancier magazine called on his way out the door, “your fifteen minutes were up fifteen minutes ago! You’re passé!”
“Yeah, scumwad,” Hap E. Faice from Agreeability This Week said, “your fuckin’ head games distracted us! Now we’re all gonna be late for Necronomicon on Ice!”
“Sacre fuque,” mumbled Jean-Luc Téte-Noire, “and to be thinking that I have been given up my place on ze Maginot line dancing team for this!”
Within moments, the place was almost completely empty. Even the Secret Service and Pernod’s backing band tossed aside their professional obligations and much of their clothing to hop a ride with Ben Besey’s Hairy Shanksters, whose psychedelic Lincoln Town Car had just passed by on its way to another of their Electric Geritol Antacid Tests in one of San Clemente’s hippest retirement facilities. When the dust settled, only Pernod and myself remained.
“What happened?” he asked, dazed.
“We’re a fickle target group, Lanx,” I shrugged. “You can’t predict which way our fancies will turn. One day you’re on top of the world, the next you’re on the scrapheap with the original MTV VJs and all the groups that made Sassy’s Cute Band Alert back in ’93.”
“Hmm. Maybe I should consider this a life lesson.”
“Nah. But I would look into infomercials if I were you.”
I ended the evening at the bar, cheering the ex-candidate up with a drinking game of my own invention involving a dram of straight vodka, an acetylene torch and a deck of pornographic tarot cards. I won’t tell you how it turned out, but I will say that, for a supposed populist, he certainly has a lot of credit cards and some really nice shoes. Come on by some time and I’ll show you.
