“Last Night Scribe had,
The strangest dream,
He’d ever had before…”
Simon said Scribe had to type that. Apologies to Mr. Paul. (Who actually borrowed it from someone else as a “cover” for their first album.) It’s just a JOKE, please don’t sue him for compromising your Art. Oh, DAMN, here comes Garfunkel. Everyone, quick, HIDE!
Older than even Scribe, Old Man McCain, O’Bama and previous, but not that previous, candidates on stage. Right now it’s down to the man idiots would rather we refer to as a half breed, and the Crooked Talker who takes orders from halfwit Junior. (Scribe is being too kind. Maybe one millionth of a wit?) It’s a game show like atmosphere. A huge wheel spins and lands on the category…
“…sexism.”
A zillion mad female monkeys point at the candidates and screech at them. They pull at their eyelids while bouncing on their heads, unzip their flies, give them wedgies: anything to get the most attention they can no matter how ridiculous.
As the noise comes down to the level of a thousand cats being dragged over hot coals, the wheel is already spinning again. Spinning wheel got to go round…
Excuse Scribe, he thought he was eating a BLT while typing this, but somehow managed to barf up a BS&T instead.
The wheel stops and the Bob Barker like voice woofs out…
“Ageism.”
Trumpeting elephants stomp on stage, crushing any intent of having a real debate or discussion.
Wheel is spinning again, towards the direction sign, on the straight and narrow…
Curses. That BS&T sandwich is really kind of sticking with Scribe. He certainly can’t say, “You made me so very happy…” Where’s his industrial strength Nexium?
Round it goes. Scribe rides a painted pony. Let the spinning wheel… oh, please stop it! Scribe has to write this! Do they do exorcisms for those who might be possessed by David Clayton-Thomas? Or the group’s founder, Al Cooper? (No relation to D.B., one assumes. But some of those lyrics on the real first album are so depressing it might make you want to jump out of one without a chute, or a swing, or a seesaw, but maybe holding really heavy monkey bars so the end arrives a little quicker…)
Wheel stops on… “racism.”
A herd of angry donkeys… (Is a group of donkeys a “herd,” Or are they heard? If a flock of donkeys stomp though an unpopulated forest are they “heard,” or are they just jackasses for doing so?)
A herd of donkeys… are you annoyed by the interruptions yet?
A herd of donkeys clumps on stage and over the head of John McCain. Unfortunately they don’t knock any sense into him regarding being Junior’s bitch.
On and on the game goes, where it stops… well, it never stops. This is how politics go these days, and it ain’t no dream. Scribe’s dream was about midget clowns serving purple ice cream sundaes with huge cherries on top. Scribe wishes it was reality. Except the clowns.
Too many of damn clowns already in office, running for public office, and a real nasty one at the top of the junk pile.