A line in the politician’s speech made everyone do a double
take at the rally.
“He had a lot in common with both Jesse Owens and Adolf
Hilter,” the candidate said, then continued on about the man he was talking
about.
Thoughts on Twitter instantly became a flood …
“He was once in Germany?”
“He’s skinny?”
“He’s a black Jew?”
“Who is this amazing runner/genocidist?”
All his campaign manager could do was shake his head and
sigh. This moron constantly put his foot in his mouth because he had no idea
what he was ever talking about. Here we were, in a room filled with 14 to 18
year old high school kids. None of them knew who either of them were either,
most likely, so hopefully, nothing would come of it.
A beep on his phone, at that moment however, allowed him to
no longer live in this fantasy.
“There’s already YouTube video of it,” a text from his
tech-savvy guy at the campaign offices said. “It’s been view 4,000 times in two
minutes. And linked to the Huffington Post and TMZ.”
It was going to be a long night, he thought to himself. He
started to wish he’d pursued his father’s line of work – circus clown. But the
jokes on that one were way too easy. He heard them every time he saw his
ex-girlfriend who followed her passion and ended up owning a bar in New
Orleans. She hated that town when he used to talk about it. Then she moved
there. And unlike him, stayed there.
He saw her three years ago when the candidate he was working
for then was running for president. He stopped in New Orleans and got drunk at
a bar in the Marigny. He won the popular vote there. Not many other places.
But, he did do better than Mondale at least.
“Why are you still doing this?” his ex asked him the night
after the election. They always screw up. Or maybe you always screw up?”
“You know me too well, hon,” he said.
“Scary ain’t it?”
“Not really. You found out how full of shit I was the easy
way.”
“Easy?”
“Yeah, I left. You didn’t have to be disappointed by me
right in front of your eyes.”
He hadn’t seen her since.
And now he was sitting there watching another candidate
flame out. This was supposed to be an easy one. A quick speech about the good
of athletics and education. Now, he was talking about Hitler and Osama Bin
Laden and Jesse Owens and Ric Flair all in the matter of 3 minutes of talking.
“Why didn’t I get a teleprompter for this?” he asked out
loud to no one.
“Because you’re an asshole,” a voice behind him replied. He
knew before the last syllable was out of her mouth who it was – Graina Johnson,
the other candidate’s advisor. He fucked her one night after a rather intense
debate between the two candidates about 7 months ago. She wasn’t a very good
fuck, but neither was he. They were drunk. He woke up the next morning and she
was gone. A week later, news leaked about his candidate’s out of wack credit
card debts. As he watched the news scroll across a television screen while he
read the morning papers, he knew exactly where the “evidence” of this “massive
coverup” about the candidate’s finances – from his God damned desk. He’d left
those accounts, which he’d just paid off with his own money, sitting out that
night. And she saw them.
The polls shifted that week. From his candidate being up 11
percent, to his candidate being down 4 percent (plus or minus 3 percent). But,
he quickly put out the statements with paid off balances – which conveniently
had the date of one day before the statements that were on his desk – he’d
printed them off with the balances still intact so he could get paid back later
– and soon his candidate was back in the lead since the “leak” was obviously an
attempt “by my opponent to attack my finances, when it is pretty obvious that I
do not have any credit card debts.” The two fucked again the night after
that. This time, in a hotel. This time,
he didn’t take anything, even his wallet or cell phone, to the encounter. The
sex ended up being quite good.
So good, they made a pact to fuck every week – every Wednesday
to be exact – the rest of the campaign. It proved to be a difficult task, one
that ended up putting the candidates in the same place on a lot of Thursdays,
something one intrepid reporter caught on to and took a photo for TMZ of the
two meeting in a Motel 6 one night. He ended up paying that guy $44,432 to hush
him up. An amount so specific, he had to ask.
“My credit card debt,” the sleazy photog said.
He wished he could pay off his credit cards so easily.
