What do you think about an image consultant?
What about a plastic surgeon?
I take exception to that remark. I’ll have you know that my profile is one of the handsomest of any currently seated at my desk.
And were it to stand?
My profile would be one of the handsomest currently standing at my desk.
Well that doesn’t stand for much.
My profile stands for other things as well. Hope, Honesty, Charity.
I suspect you’ve been seated for quite some time. I can’t imagine any of those three crossing your threshold.
Hope, my campaign manager, was in earlier this hour to brief me on strategy. Honesty is in here much of the day tuning up speeches, checking facts, and urging me to follow my instincts when politically effective. And every morning, Charity (looking rather more thin and pale each day) is in to brief me on our financial position, which has yet to change from the inception of my campaign. Call me old fashioned, but I stand for each when they enter my office.
Oh, my apologies, I thought you were referring to the three in the abstract.
I was.
Nevermind. Forget I said anything.
Shouldn’t be too difficult.
Last week, while operating under the psycho-political auspices of my campaign manager, one M. K. “Ultra” Billheimer, notorious Lagerfeldian and refugee of the Joint Intelligence Objectives Agency’s secret program, Operation Nippleclip, my campaign team (good ‘no’ women, all of them, despite persistent advances) have decided upon (at no little expense to them, if you hear them tell it) a party identity they believe so universal, so all-encompassing, that it will likely take my campaign from here, to the presidency, then into the future of the American Political Machine. Its name, the Party Party.
About this I was at first skeptical, as is usual, and I immediately leveled two objections (both hanging rather crookedly over the mantle). The first was at the improbablity of the existence of a future of any kind, especially mine (“imagine the disappointment”…“could’ve had the world as his oyster”...“so much promise”...“his poor parents”...“all that money wasted,” &c, &c.), and the second, at the American Political Machine, whose future the two-party system devoured years ago.*
Woefully, both objections tended to deflate the hopes of the staff a little more than I had expected, and I, facing another dispiriting and underproductive workday, made the fool mistake of trying to explain my position (rather than bring the whip down).
“Though I encourage such things here in the office,” I said, “I do not wish to be the herald of truancy, public drunkenness, or nudity around which an exhausted, jaded populace gathers to avert making meaningful changes to their own lives – that is unless they happen to be buying the drinks and the nudity is thoughtfully presented, say, in the style of Marcel Duchamp. Besides,” I reasoned, “the party image should tend toward an awayness; a radiant, imaginary warmth to which the masses can intuitively attach themselves with checks, bank drafts, money orders, bonds (junk or otherwise), credit cards, pensions, endorsed social security checks, life insurance benefits, jewelry, bullion, gold teeth, postage stamps, and loose change.”
From the small gathering standing before me there rose a collective groan (“imagine the disappointment”...“could’ve had the world as his oyster”...“so much promise”...“his poor parents”... “all that money wasted,” &c, &c.). Sensing danger, Herr Billheimer, dressed in a tailored but traditional Bavarian hunting costume, stepped between this light dissention and myself and, pointing his Luger skyward, successfully fired three bullets into the ceiling (assumedly saving the final five to use on himself in the event of capture).
“Vee must not unta-ezzztimate ze powa uv qvasi-rreligious mysticism unt pahaps grraal mythology to captivate ze subconscious uff ze poor unt lowe middle classes. Alzo, parrade ooniforms. Pahaps a dark lahvender obergruppenfuhrer foh Herr Aztor, mit ze fur ahckcents on ze cap, ze collah, ze belt, und ze cuffs. Und foh ze ladies, somzing in ze style of ze Black Vidows from ze exploitation mahstervoork, ‘Ilza, She Volf uv ze SS.’”
It is the policy of this campaign to run its internal operations in the most democratic manner befitting the nation in which we live. As such, when important policy decisions need to be made, I usually make them unilaterally, without consulting any of the employees or volunteers. But, this fit of hortatory wonderment so further upset the staff that, to quell the riot peaceful protest brewing before me, I was forced to consider their measure for a vote. Here the floor was opened for debate.
Taking the podium (which we keep on hand for just such an occasion), I filibustered for a full 36 seconds over various pork-barrel indecencies amended to the proposal, including competitive wages, expense compensation, mandatory breaks, health insurance, ergonomic work spaces, maternity leave, paid vacations, and indulgentia menses, forgiving time-of-the-month related distresses on party hours. It being that ‘time,’ and that ‘time’ being synchronized among the women, I was seized upon by the mob and unceremoniously thrown down in the short, aforementioned period. Had it not been for a genetic ability to hold fast (my parents were trapeze artists, their love was highly strung) the podium would have quickly eluded my grasp and I been thrown down without it in less than 20 of those 36 seconds.
On extricating myself from the rubble, I called a point of parliamentary procedure and demanded that the group proceed along well-established rules of order. But here the motion hit an impasse. One for which I can only blame myself. Had I decided not to spend on whiskey the larger portion of campaign monies set aside specifically for the purchase of Robert’s Rules of Order, I would have had that familiar book on hand.† Instead, having imbibed the greater part of the apportioned funds, and at that time seeing little difference in anything, I bought at a steep discount a pale imitation of Robert’s entitled Bob’s Rules of Order (written, ironically, by my father).
As quickly as I could, I opened the book and began reading aloud. “Rule of order number one: when, in the morning, after you have woken up and washed your face, before eating breakfast, you must dress and make your bed. Certain provisions can be made to allow for variations in the morning routine, for example, waking up, making your bed, getting dressed, washing your face, then eating breakfast, or waking up, getting dressed, eating your breakfast, washing your face, then making your bed, or waking up, eating your breakfast, getting dressed, making your bed, then washing your face. But never shall it be permitted either to make your bed, get dressed, wash your face, or eat your breakfast before waking up.”
I’ll ask for my money back the next time I see him.
Needless to say, as is now required by the newly adopted charter of the Party Party, competitive wages, expense compensation, mandatory breaks, health insurance, ergonomic work spaces, maternity leave and paid vacations (which my entire staff decided to take immediately) are conceded. I have yet to find any legal (or medical) reference to the term indulgentia menses.
*The American Political Machine (a subsidiary of the National Security Administration, Inc.) asks that I here state, unequivocally, that it is satisfied with the status quo and would be happy enough to last in or near its present form until the oil runs out.
†To my enemies (and they are legion(aires)(both of them) who think they have caught me in violation of federally mandated laws regarding acceptable expenditures, i.e., the comingling the personal with the official, I contest that, with respect to the “irrespective test”, my drinking, a mere pasttime before the campaign in which I seldom (often) partook (pursued with zest), would (nevertheless) not have so increased “irrespective” of this campaign.
Since the campaign donations are not flooding in as my election team expected (thank you Mrs. Sylvia Argyle, recently widowed, for the canned goods), I yesterday decided to change the tack of this sinking ship and set a direct course for the gilt harbor of corporate sponsorship.
Now before you lash out at me like a woman scorned (e.g., Sean Hannity), allow me to explain.
After conducting demographic studies on voter support vs. annual income, our parent organization, the Al Astor Group, LLC, concluded that if one enters the field of politics for reasons of fiscal self-interest (as I have), then to honestly stump for the voiceless, the marginalized, and the economically disenfranchised is to commit a kind of campaign suicide. True, one can pay lip service to the mundane difficulties and day-to-day disappointments of the huddled masses, draw them into the inferno of false empathy, exploit their children for photo-ops, boast their concerns as one’s own, and shower them in golden but unlikely policy changes. But expectations for support of any kind must be classified as pure fantasy for the following reasons: a) these classes have no money to contribute, and b) they no longer vote.
To myself as political strategist (often confused with me), these insights are of paramount importance, as they imply for my campaign that a) I likely won’t be giving it a dime, and b) I likely won’t be voting, even for myself. And this is just the sort of poverty-bred apathy I entered politics to fight. Damn it if it isn’t the very core of my presidential platform. If this campaign was founded on anything, it was for the sole purpose of putting me into a tax bracket that has an interest, vested or otherwise, in voting. In fact, my goal as a (more or less) unified political force is to siphon enough of my campaign contributions through various relatives and shell companies to increase the likelihood that a) I will be giving substantially to my next campaign, and b) be voting for myself, twice.
Still, by the dictates of a rather weak piece of legislation referred to as Shays-Meehan, my campaign cannot now legally accept soft-money contributions directly from corporations. Only on an individual basis can one now gather (more) campaign money (than ever in history) from voters. But rather than mire myself and my campaign team in the unsavory business of gladhanding packs of wan, paunchy executives for bundles of discrete, $2800, hard-money contributions at miserable fundraisers, I have cleverly devised a subterfuge to (as we in the business say) ‘loophole’ these pesky statutes and collect large sums of money directly from corporate advertising budgets.*
What I propose is this. In return for advertising consideration (to be priced and delivered in swiss francs), I will offer the seamless placement of commercial brands into my campaign speeches, hand tailored to fit supporter demographics. Here is but a sampling of possible setups and slogans.
Wait while I cover my ears.
THEY PROCLAIMED TO ALL THE WORLD THE REVOLUTIONARY DOCTRINE OF THE DIVINE RIGHTS OF THE COMMON MAN. THAT DOCTRINE HAS EVER SINCE BEEN THE HEART OF THE AMERICAN FAITH. EXERCISE YOUR DIVINE RIGHT COMMON MAN. DRINK BUDWEISER!
Not bad.
Subtle, no?
No. But neither is most advertising. Nor is campaigning.
Here’s another, A POWER HAS RISEN UP IN THE GOVERNMENT GREATER THAN THE PEOPLE THEMSELVES, CONSISTING OF MANY AND VARIOUS POWERFUL INTERESTS, COMBINED IN ONE MASS, AND HELD TOGETHER BY THE COHESIVE POWER OF THE VAST SURPLUS IN BANKS…NOW YOU TOO CAN EXPERIENCE THIS COHESIVE POWER WITH CITIBANK’S FREE ONLINE CHECKING!
Much better, li’l Ogilvy.
Wait, I have more.
I’m not sure I can stand more.
THE BEST THAT WE CAN HOPE FOR CONCERNING THE PEOPLE AT LARGE IS THAT THEY BE PROPERLY ARMED. SMITH & WESSON... GET YOUR PROPS.
'Props.' That’s ‘street,’ right?
‘Gangsta.’
That style is still popular-ish. But it too shall pass. Have you thought of something more ‘fad proof?’
How’s this…MAN IS BORN FREE AND EVERYWHERE HE IS IN CHAINS, UNLESS HE HAPPENS TO BE RIDING ON A SET OF MICHELIN SNOW TIRES.
That's better. And when the oil runs out?
ONE DEATH IS A TRAGEDY, BUT A MILLION DEATHS IS A STATISTIC. WILBERT-CHANDLER BURIAL VAULTS, FOR THE DEAD IN BETWEEN.
Death. A perennial. What about taxes?
EVEN THE NEW WORLD ORDER CANNOT GUARANTEE AN ERA OF PERPETUAL PEACE. BUT WHETHER OLD WORLD ORDER OR NEW WORLD ORDER, LOCKHEED-MARTIN CAN HELP YOU KEEP IT ALL IN ORDER.
Ah, “cost-plus" military contracting. $2.3 trillion and counting missing from the Pentagon, why not make some of that yours?
In that same spirit I have, THOSE WHO CAST THE VOTES DECIDE NOTHING. THOSE WHO COUNT THE VOTES DECIDE EVERYTHING. DOMINION VOTING SYSTEMS, FOR ELECTIONS TOO IMPORTANT TO TRUST TO THE MAJORITY.
Ingsoc it to me, Big Brother. What about something specifically for the ladies? You know…half our consumer base.
YOU CANNOT MAKE A REVOLUTION WITH SILK GLOVES, BUT YOU CAN BE THE LIFE OF THE PARTY IN CHANEL.
Hmn.
No good?
Stalin and high fashion? On second thought, that might work.
There is one other.
Ok, but with a little more drama this time. Try raising your arms in the air.
Ok. Ready?
Arms up. Higher. Action!
I HAVE TAKEN MORE OUT OF ALCOHOL THAN ALCOHOL HAS TAKEN OUT OF ME! THANK YOU SCWEPPES TONIC!
[applauding] Suddenly, I'm overwhelmed by thirst.
* While this technique is perhaps a conflict of interest, a bog of double-dealing, and a violation of one or more federal election laws (all elements critical to a successful presidential campaign), I would like to go on record as its pioneer and state in no uncertain terms that it is protected by U.S. Patent # 10%4ME, currently owned and leased to this campaign by the political action committee Conspiracy to Elect Al Astor, and that if any other politico is found using this same or suably similar intellectual property, royalties are to be paid to it (i.e., me)(in small unmarked bills) as “consulting fees”, lest it (also me) unleash the saber-toothed litigators of Shyster & Pettifog, Ltd., to legally separate said politicos from that fair and just potion of their “funds raised.”
I would like to announce my candidacy for president of the United States. I’m throwing my hat into the ring.
Not that hat I hope.
The fight is on and I’m stripped to the buff!
Careful. You’ll lose the fundamentalist vote.
So be it. The current state of affairs demands action.
True. Yet, somehow, I suspect you’re hardly an alternative.
I’ll have you know that despite efforts to the contrary [opening my empty wallet] I remain beholden to no corporate or intelligence agency interests.
Beholding you now, I can see why that is. Where did you get that awful suit?
This? Just something I threw on.
It’s something you should just throw out. But more importantly, don’t you think it a little late to start campaigning? How will your grass roots propagate before the election? After all, it takes time to grow a constituency large enough to sell out to the higher bidders on K Street. Though to your credit, you seem to possess the manure necessary for their quick cultivation.
Why, thank you. I aim to be some of the freshest dung around.
What will be your campaign platform?
First I’ll prove that I’m a man of the people by using the traditional soapbox. This one here was left to me by my uncle, Alexander Flatus Astor, long-running alderman of the 2nd ward at Grapes of Wrath Asylum for the Perpetually Dyspeptic. Once I’m flush with campaign donations, I’ll graduate to the standard dais.
This outfit is already a soapbox. One which, I remind you, no one feels particularly close to. How do you plan to win hearts and minds?
By the traditional methods of course—false empathy, empty promises, propaganda, and the indiscriminate quotation of my political forbears during speeches and interviews
Go on. I’ll be your sounding board.
It was we...
Nope. Stop. Step up on the box. Now, a little louder. Pro-o-oje-e-ect.
IT WAS WE, THE PEOPLE; NOT WE, THE WHITE MALE CITIZENS; NOR YET WE, THE MALE CITIZENS; BUT WE, THE WHOLE PEOPLE, WHO FORMED THE UNION. MEN, THEIR RIGHTS AND NOTHING MORE: WOMEN, THEIR RIGHTS AND NOTHING LESS.
Wait a minute. Are you using this as a ruse to pick up women?
I BEG YOUR PARDON, SIR!
I can understand entering politics for money, but companionship? You do know politics attracts the worst kind of sociopath? It’s hardly the place to seek an unhealthy romance, let alone a healthy one.
[whispering] Shhhhhhhh. [toward the door] ARE YOU IMPLYING THAT MY POLITICAL MOTIVATIONS ARE IMPURE?!
No. I’m stating it directly.
Keep it down.
What?
I think someone heard us. [pointing] I think there’s someone listening at the door.
What are you doing?
[quietly moving toward the door] Defending my false integrity. I can’t let that kind of misapprehension leak to the press. Can you imagine the Post headline; “Astor Enters Presidential Race for Pussy!” My campaign will end before it starts. You remember what happened to Gary Hart. You know what this country is like. Especially the Evangelicals. It’s as if they don’t like women at all.
They probably don’t read the Post either.
[speaking toward the door] YOUR INSINUATIONS HAVE OFFENDED THE MEMORY OF MY NOBLE ANCESTORS!!!
Have you been drinking?
No. Come over here, by the door. ROGUE!! SUCH ASPERSIONS WILL BE VENGEANCED! Just play along.
Have you lost your mind?
IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS POLITICALLY EXPEDIENT, I CHALLENGE YOU TO A DUEL! [A loud slap]
You hit me!
It’s just a glove.
It’s full of change.
Oh. Sorry. THERE IS PLENTY MORE WHERE THAT CAME FROM YOU SCOUNDREL. SHALL WE SAY PISTOLS AT DAWN?!
I can’t believe you hit me.
It’s okay. I think they’re gone now. Thank you.
No one cuffs me.
Not even for something like a nice, cushy cabinet post?
With a young secretary?
If you like.