I don’t know about you, but I find the political ads on television these days refreshing. At least we have something to look at beside ads for ambulance-chasing lawyers. (I try to find the silver lining in every cloud.)
In case you haven’t figured it out yet, the earnest, look-you-in-the-eye promises the candidates are making don’t mean squat. If and when they get elected, they are going to do whatever their leadership tells them to do or otherwise they won’t be around long enough to locate the privy and will have to come home and find a real job.
The real reason the vote seekers want you to turn off reruns of Dr. Phil long enough to go cast a vote for them is so they can go to Washington, make a lot of self-serving speeches in empty chambers and eat a lot of free meals off of fawning lobbyists. Then they can come back to the Rotary Club and talk about what a big mess Washington is — as though they aren’t an integral part of the mess.
But all of this reminds me that I run for reelection, too. Every week. And you don’t even have to turn off Dr. Phil. You vote with your opinions and my job is to meet your expectations, whatever they might be. One of my admirers (and I have so many) told me she used my column — face up – as a training aid to house-break her new puppy. I get warm all over thinking about that.
Another reader told me that he wouldn’t use my column for his kitty’s litterbox. I’m not sure how his kitty felt about that but he enclosed a photo of a one-finger salute to be sure I knew how he felt. I thought the discussion of his feline’s ablution habits was quite enough.
I found out later that Mr. KitKat is in fact a part of the burgeoning film industry boondoggle in Georgia which means I have probably lost my opportunity of starring in one the next tax-giveaway productions to be shot in our fair state. A shame. I look so much like Brad Pitt. I could have been a star.
But, undaunted, I continue to seek your approval and promise that if you will reelect me as your modest and much-beloved columnist I will continue my vigorous crusade to oppose broccoli in all its forms, meaning you can put all the cheese or butter on the stuff you want. It is still broccoli and I’m still not going to eat it.
Unlike the predictable Johnny-One-Note pundits who are hidebound in their political opinions, I promise to make you read into at least the third paragraph before you figure out who my target is.
It may be chardonnay-sipping liberal weenies who oppose separate bathrooms for boys and girls lest we destroy their self-esteem but who have no problem with potential terrorists disguised as poor, downtrodden immigrants sneaking across the border illegally and making the rest of us pay for the privilege.
Or it could be some Bible-thumper who believes women can do anything a man can do except preach the Word of God in the pulpit because of something the Apostle Paul said a couple of thousand years ago. Incidentally, Paul also suggested women keep their mouths shut (1 Timothy 2:12). Good luck with that at my house.
If you are still inclined to vote for me, I promise I will take the views of the multi-millionaire headbangers in the National Football League on any subject beyond why they let a sure touchdown pass slip through their hands about as seriously as a talking frog.
Once I am reelected, one of my first acts will be to investigate why Sen. David Perdue of tony Sea Island, Georgia, who is richer than Croesus, wears a denim jacket with the collar up over his button-down dress shirt in his TV ads. If he is trying to look like a good ol’ boy, why not a sprig of alfalfa or a dip of Copenhagen under the lip? I would ask his staff but the only time they call me is when they want a campaign contribution.
OK, enough pandering. I want your vote. I need your vote. Otherwise, I may suffer serious mental stress because of your rejection. That means there is a strong possibility that one day you could turn on your television and there I will be — whining about you to Dr. Phil. Neither of us wants that.
You can reach Dick Yarbrough at email@example.com; at P.O. Box 725373, Atlanta, Georgia 31139 or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/dickyarb