Dangerous Thoughts

Presidential politics…a blood sport, an evil trade, a strange, seedy world of misfits, blowhards and charlatans. A politician’s smile worms its way into your wallet.

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All alone. White computer screen.
Noise outside. A door slams. Footsteps approach.
A knock at the door. It’s a Thought.
Harmless enough. Come in, I say. It does.

It has family, friends, clingers, handlers.
They pour in, take up residence.
Oops. ‘Politician,’ a pernicious thought.
Thoughts morph into words. Words become flesh.


I type. The words propagate wildly upon the blank computer screen. Their relatives begin to show up. Voices everywhere. Who’s saying what, to whom, about what? A merry-go-round of confusion.

Thoughts are dangerous. They dwell in dark canyons, dead-end alleys, in dungeons without windows, with door signs, ‘No Exit.’ Thoughts deceive.

The carnival of presidential candidates stake tents on the front lawn. They set up sound stages and side-show antics. The campaigns are beginning. The once-pristine landscape becomes a cheesy amusement park. Vendors of cheap elixirs, bit coins, lapel pins and lotto tickets, all promising free money, follow the court jesters.

A rock-star bus arrives. It’s gilded, shimmering in 24 karat, emblazoned with gigantic red ‘T’s.’ The door bursts open. A long red carpet rolls out. A man in Armani steps off wearing a red baseball cap. It reads, “The Anointed.”

He’s wrapped in a purple cape. It’s trimmed with diamonds. His coiffeur carries the cape’s train. An audible gasp emanates from the assembled crowd. A loudspeaker blasts, “Behold, your king, your king.” People bow.

He twirls an emerald-encrusted mahogany cane and gestures benevolently to the throng, flinging gold key chains to the hysterical crowd of voters.

From the shadows the Evangelical apparition emerges, shouting, “Blasphemy, blasphemy.” He’s subdued by goons in black suits and returned to Arkansas in a box.

Scattered throughout are scores of candidates with small tents, garish facades and smaller bankrolls. Combined, their poll ratings register the IQ of a tadpole.

The Low Country candidate gasps fumes of the past. He even looks guilty, like he just kicked his grandmother.

The IRS pariah? He has a long practice of doing the wrong thing and has the voice the size of a marble. He consoles the Wisconsin Wizard who has fallen flat like an old tire.

The Ohio wannabe? Ha. What good can possibly come from a state that boasts Harding and Grant? C’mon, folks.

Listen, the show’s getting good. Tickets are still cheap. Buy one, take the ride. It’s a guarantee of a front-row seat to view the decadent display of human degradation called a presidential campaign.

The Anointed King eyes the ‘man of low energy’ and, his counterpart, The Cuban. Misery loves company. His Elvis-like lips hurl angry expletives at them. He sneers his contempt for the dead air that surrounds them. They stand stunned, emasculated.

Look, fresh from the bayous. It’s Bobby, riding in on an elephant, tossing peanuts to the men in the rear who scoop up the mess. His bullhorn screams, ‘Katrina, Katrina,’ reminding the would-be Dynasty Maker of his brother’s torrid affair with the Cajun lady. Louisiana is famous for femme fatales.

New Jersey’s choice leans on a weak reed. The NJ Housewives have better odds. The Kentucky senator stands in the shadows with cheat sheets. He’s memorizing ideology which, according to most, is thinner than the gold on a Vegas weekend wedding ring. The Anointed ignores them.

The Anointed swaggers over to the two cowboys from Texas. They’re anxious to reconcile differences, talk deals. A pair of buzzards circles silently overhead. Such creatures can smell carrion before it even dies. The men irritate The Anointed slightly less than a gnat.

Whipped up by media hype, the crowd goes ballistic when The Anointed struts into the center ring of the circus. Joe B, the clown and equivocating contender, tongue-lashes the Socialist but suddenly discovers he has again impaled himself on his own tongue.

Quietly crawling up from the smoldering ruins of Secrets of State is the Queen of Duplicity, smug with hubris and a face as expressionless as dough. She’s dressed in a gold lame pants suit from Goodwill, looking tired and old and not much use to anybody.

The two square off. The Anointed snarls. The Queen smirks. Her fangs flash. The pair’s nouns and verbs explode with venom and rage, mano a mano combat.

Somehow my words stop flowing. The final details remain shrouded in mystery.

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Thinking about politics is dangerous. So are predictions. Will it be a King, a Queen or a Doctor? You decide.

My opinion? Not enough buzzards to go around.


Bud Hearn
September 1, 2015