When I turned 18, I bought a pack of cigarettes, a few
lottery tickets, some pornography, and made a list of all the fun things I could
do while in the voting booth. Things like asking loudly for the soap, chanting
“USA! USA!” the whole time, making high volume defecation sounds, and writing in
absurdly implausible candidates like “Spiderman” or “Dennis Kucinich” topped the
list. Realizing now that I am going to have to use an absentee ballot, that
list has become one of those disappointing failed expectations about the future,
like “hover cars” and “robot ninja police squads.”
I don’t see filling out an absentee ballot as sufficiently
rocking the vote. Pulling a lever, now that’s a vote rocker. I’m lite rocking
the vote, maybe even easy listening the vote. If I’m going to choke back the
vomit and vote for this Skull and Bones pedigree military expanding hound dog
resembling Democrat, then I at least want a damn lever.
So, I took the issue to the Republican National Convention
in New York City and demanded some answers. Bearing a sign that read, “Absentee
Ballots Should Come Equipped with Small but Functional Levers!,” I took to the
streets. Whose streets, you might ask? Our streets, I soon learned.
I tried to go right up to Madison Square Garden to air my
two part grievance: that I don’t have a fun lever to vote with and that Lenny
Wilkins hasn’t been fired. I was ready to demand answers. The police were
ready to demand credentials. I showed Officer Thug
the note card that said “PRESS” in bold, Franklin Gothic Medium type that I had
pinned to my “Lick Bush” hat. Officer Thug then proceeded to beat me
mercilessly with his signed copy of Mark Fuhrman’s autobiography, intermittently
stopping to tell me why he thought that holding the 2012 Olympics in New York
City was a good idea.
Not being allowed within forty-five miles of Madison Square
Garden only added to my duress. While wandering the city, looking for the
Civilian Complaint Review Board, I came across Don from the Illinois
delegation. Don was standing outside his hotel waiting for a taxi. He told me
how great it was to be able to get out and see New York City. I found this
interesting, being that if he had actually gone out and seen the city, he would
have seen half a million people in the streets telling him to get the hell out.
Or at least half a million people yelling arrhythmic, somewhat incoherent
slogans in the general direction of Madison Square Garden. When Don says he
“saw New York City,” he means he saw maybe 42nd street – and by that
I of course mean the inside of the theater where it is playing. After a quick
game of pick-up basketball in Marcus Garvey Park, Don and I parted ways.
I walked back downtown and came upon Madison Square Park,
where I saw five cops surrounding two bearded guys playing hackey-sack. They
were watching the men intently, as though the hippies were about to detonate
their hackey-sack dirty bomb or light up a cigarette in an outdoor café. I
approached the officers and told them that I was looking to file a civilian
complain about police misconduct, the lack of miniature levers, and the Knicks’s
poor offensive cohesiveness. Officer Jackoff
then arrested me for blocking the sidewalk – “try not to take up so much space
next time,” was his admonishment.
I was then held at Pier 57, or “Manzanar on the Hudson.” I
was pleased with my surroundings, a style I’d describe as Fascist Minimalism.
Fortunately, someone had a portable TV, and we were able to watch some of the
Convention.
I enjoyed Arnold using his Terminator catchphrase, “I’ll be
back,” to refer to September 11th. That’s almost as tactful as him
ending a eulogy with “Hasta la vista, baby.” Then the Bush twins came out to
speak. I thought it was a bold move for them to come out drunk; it added a
little fun the evening. My favorite part was when Jenna said that she was going
to reveal embarrassing information about her parents on live TV and then said,
“Our parents’ favorite term of endearment for each other is actually Bushie...and
Dad misled the nation into an illegal and imperialist war.” Spoiled drunks say
the darndest things.
Going to the Convention protests made me feel a little
better about not having a booth in which to vote and about my decision to vote
for the evil of two lessers. The situation is not what I thought it was going
to be, so I have to adapt. I’m voting for John Kerry not because I like him,
and not even because he is “anyone but Bush.” I’m voting for him because, in
this dismal situation, for me, it comes down to the human toll, and I am willing
to set aside my political views to help prevent the humanitarian disaster that
is a Bush re-election. I am adapting by voting for Kerry, but still protesting
against the corporate oligarchy for which he stands. Similarly, though I will
miss using a lever, I am adapting by using the absentee ballot, but still making
high-volume defection sounds.