My work pre-dated the style of many top television shows today. Where they leap back and forth and maybe even sideways. And you are sitting there thinking, just tell me the story in a straight line. 1992. Left my parents house. A little eerie how the politics remains much the same. And sometimes we reach the end of the line. That was the year Barker Ajax left. Left his trailer behind. – JDW
Well, the Democrats manage to keep the usual contingent of braying asses out of sight. Hiawatha is glowing. Wow, this is great. Looks like Hilary Clinton has just flipped the Big Bird on national television. Public Broadcasting as a matter of fact.
“PUT A SPIN ON THIS, YOU RIGHTWING DINKS.”
For a moment there, I was lost, but then I began to see a change was indeed taking place. Women were indeed taking power, and all the more power to them, I say.
Besides in the end the two winners were white guys much like me.
Tophand had his mind made up moments after Perot pulled out. “I am voting for any one of those bastards ain’t an incumbent,” he confided through Smother. “I am also voting for all the women.”
It’s a forgone conclusion, he’s not voting for Mr. Bush. “I wouldn’t hire the man to wash my car,” Tophand explains. “Couldn’t trust him to do the job right. Wouldn’t believe a word he said.”
The rich hired an actor to play the role of a cowboy statesman, to entertain us while they looted the banks and stole our cattle.
Have a note that just says: DRIVE-BY HUNTING. An economic development trial balloon in Florida maybe. Ranchers allow tourists to poach from their cars. If they want to just see wild animals, they can always go to a zoo.
Maybe an independent production for one of those cable sports channels. Create your own franchise monopoly. AMERICAN HUNTING LEAGUE. Market the concept as professional wrestling with live ammo. The Kentucky Long Rifles vs. The South LA Bloods/Crips All-Stars. Honolulu Hit Men vs. Motor City Mechanics.
Sponsored by the National Rifle Association.
Back on the Interstate, I am getting passed by buses pulling trailers.
Not long after we left our Founding Celebrities, I finally get my fill of Hiawatha’s constant driving from the passenger seat. “Turn here. Shift the car. Pass these people. Pull over here. Turn the car off.”
And she gets angry. Then she cries. Then she shouts at me when I point out a herd of wild donkeys, when all I am trying to do is drive the van. And live my life and be her partner and do the best I can all the time.
Well, it’s not good enough.
Or it’s not fast enough,
or it’s not in the right order.
I have to draw the line someplace
Draw the line, my feral ass.
I’ll do it when I think of it.
I’ll do it when I think the time is right.
I’ll do it when it seems the smartest thing to do.
I’ll do it when the situation calls for it.
I’ll do it when I get around to it.
I’ll do it when the mood strikes.
I’ll do it when I’m damn good and ready
Because I am driving the van.
“I am not trying to bust your hams,” I tell her.
“And I am not trying to break your balls,” she tells me.
Then she cries.
Manipulative bitch.
“I heard that.”
“No, you didn’t.” Bitch. “Because I didn’t say it.”
“What are you saying?”
“Don’t try to run my life.”
“I’m not trying to run your life,” she screams.
“Then don’t do it. Don’t run my life.”
“You’re free to go.”
“I say that’s bullshit. Bullshit, I say. Tell me I am free to stay. That’s what I want to hear.”
“Is it really?”
“Sometimes I don’t know. Sometimes I think I want to be free to stay or free to go or free to come back.”
Just then I looked up to see a sign: TAKE ROUTE 47. LEAVE YOUR TRAILER BEHIND.