Dare
To Be DULL Apparently this presidential election is going to be different. In an effort
to avoid the ritual dullardry of old fashioned primaries, caucuses, and political
conventions, the powers-that-be decided to accelerate the process-that-is
this time around. After high-level overnight meetings modeled from the Vatican's
Pope selection system, two anointed duelers have already emerged to compete
for my heart and mind: George W. vs. Al G.
Hmm, I mused, with suitable high-minded detachment, before another imperious
hand of electronic empiricism slapped my sullen face further. Angry and now
hurt, I aimed my remote with extreme prejudice. But before I could zap, another
nasty info-quark took another nasty slap at me ...
Mindful of the growing public appetite for entertainment, political organizers
apparently sculpted the 2000 contest with a built-in dramatic twist: Al G.
and George W. would present themselves as everything the other is not. Specifically,
Al would be stiff and sometimes stuffy (who invented the Internet?) with barely
a ribald tale to tell, while George would be loose and sometimes sloppy ('Kosovites'
live in Kosovo?) George would try to cover his cocaine tracks, while Al would
wish he had any to expose.
Sipping lattes and Poland Springs later near NYU, I talked this over with
some of my stylishly depressed friends. (Last week, we expelled an imposter
found among us caught laughing as if happy) We all agreed that if we cared
at all - quickly reminding each other that we emphatically did not - that
we'd sort of like to turn George into Al, and Al into George. More precisely,
we'd like to give George some of Al's smarts and give Al some of George's
fun. The idea must have hit a nerve. One among us even volunteered that such
a shift might convince him to consider shelving his variously contingent suicide
plans.
That's when I mentioned the latest contender giving Al a run for Democratic
money. Big mistake. Faces fell and goatees wilted. Former senator Bill B.
entered the conversation with a thud. What a dullard, all agreed. He's got
some nerve, we nodded, showing up in the campaign with nary a questionable
Buddhist fundraiser to raise an eyebrow. Mid-west born, New Jersey bred, from
the NBA to Capitol Hill, he can't seriously imagine that we could seriously
imagine him as a presidential candidate? Face it guys, we wanted to tell all
these silly presidential pretenders, in a country on the cusp of 24 hour World
Wrestling Federation TV, and boasting comic talents like Connan O'Brien and
Jean-Claude Van Dam, we've already got more leaders than we know what to do
with. Why pile on?
We all peered off in distant directions, our pallid faces incredulous that
anyone needed convincing of such obviousness. That's when I felt a sudden
patriotic sense of duty pressing me to action. To save my friends and me from
an even more quickly accelerated sense of personal irony, I decided to explore
a new, improved, and much more considerate election system.
With voters from 7-11 to our sullen coffee shop in mind, I agreed to build
a political model that offers the country what it so richly deserves - a presidential
election involving scant reading, lots of fun, and a reliable time schedule.
That is to say, I took current trends to their logical extreme.
Out to grab the public with the commodity we all cherish most, here's the
character-balanced election contest schedule I've constructed so far:
· BATTLE OF THE WITTY WHITE GUYS/ 2000 · BATTLE OF THE WEIRD WHITE GUYS/ 2004 · BATTLE OF APPARENTLY COCAINE LACED WHITE GUYS/ 2008 · BATTLE OF THE CLEVER BLACK GUYS/ 2012 · BATTLE OF WHITE PEOPLE WHO'VE LITERALLY BEATEN EACH OTHER IN THE
PAST/ 2016 All candidates must begin the election contest with a 60 second "improv'
battle of the mimes," in full Marcel Marceau clown garb, before moving on
to additional tests of global leadership. Also, each candidate must select
a suitable female running mate, able to prove herself through a series of
wet T-shirt, mud wrestling, and funny car contests.
Lest you worry that I'm ignoring our most experienced political players and
needlessly hurting their feelings, rest assured that I would ask George W.,
Al G., and Bill B., to serve among the judges. Mindful that I might then bore
my core audience, I mean voters, I would ask each judge to don inappropriate
headgear. I'm wondering about a Bullwinkle cap for Bill, a graduation cap
or fur Viking crown with horns for George, and one of those plastic hats with
beer can holders and drinking tubes on each side for Al.
Note that judges and candidates must wear requisite starched lobster bibs
designed to snap loose and slap their face whenever they mention something
overly insightful or telling.
Me? Careful to boost my profile and cut myself in on the financial action
that would undoubtedly follow, I'd insert myself as a tuxedo clad, 70s coifed,
Mr. Microphone in hand, M-C, cheerfully deducting or awarding contest points
based upon a team's ability to amuse and/or titillate voters.
The whole election would take place on one well advertised, entertainment
packed Sunday afternoon. Imagine a Super Bowl style televised extravaganza,
replete with a Diana Ross half-time show featuring semi-naked cheerleaders
high-kicking beneath a sky full of high-speed daredevil helicopters, attempting
dangerous maneuvers through multi-colored smoke bomb explosions, timed to
the frenetic blasts of the latest lyric-free industrio-rock club beat.
The name of my election spectacle - "Dare To Be Dull."
Go on, I'd chide candidates at the beginning of each round, to the approving
roar of the assembled crowd, just try to think of winning anything here without
amusing us first - I dare ya'. Before long, the whole world would catch on,
with the Russians first to join the act operating a heavy-metal version of
the U.S. contest.
Think of it, I thought, we'd lead the planet with a new, world class export,
to rival our magnificent film industry. I'd go down in politico-tainment history
as a hybrid Bill Gates-Thomas Jefferson-Michael Eisner of millennium democracy.
Don't you think?
That's when I heard a strange noise ... It was the unmistakable squeal of a
TV test pattern. I didn't know there were such things anymore. I sat up, stretched,
then rubbed my eyes. Only the glow of that test pattern shed light in my darkness.
Guess I'd dozed off, absorbing all that damn information. Where's the remote
when you really need it?
The race is
on. My TV said so. Surfing for a suitable video playmate to accompany my music
videos, I stumbled upon some valuable information. Insulted, I quickly reached
for the remote to find a new station. But before I could zap, I learned more
...
Steve Martin vs. Dennis Miller
Bobcat Golthwait vs. Drew Carey
Jim Carrey vs. Robin Williams
Eddie Murphy vs. Chris Rock
Pamela Sue Anderson vs. Tommy Lee
Xandor
Copy Boy In-Chief
Copyright © 2001