The simplest toy, one which even the youngest child can operate, is called a grandparent. – Sam Levenson
Primary day in the banana republic rapidly approaching. Air waves swamped by political ads. Made the old man pine for some of those dinner-time bladder sling promos.
The young redhead went to bed early because he insisted on watching cable news and yelling “You lie!!” at the television. Like that Joe Wilson at the State of The Union.
I am going to read a book, she said, and kissed him on a grizzled cheek. You might try that yourself, she said.
He watched her walk away and thought how lucky he was.
The old man had five grandchildren.
He was fine, virtually untouchable, not much could hurt him. And he could always disappear. Could always vanish.
But the five grandchildren were just young kids.
Little pups and he worried about them. He worried about their futures and the world in which they would have those futures.
Looking a little worrisome right now.
When his handler had told him a gated enclave in Central Florida, the old man was okay with that. He was not a fan of ice and snow and cold. But after far too many years stuck in this abyss, the Sunshine State, he was prepared to, he didn’t know, do something serious, something crazy.
The old man had watched Rubio since the punk crawled out from whatever manhole he had stolen from some disabled veteran. Little Marco’s ‘great American tale” is a load of manufactured rubbish. In Florida, the really junior Senator is known as El Grubio. Little Marco is a crook and not even particularly good at it.
The old man remembered a barrister’s ad in the Tampa Yellow Pages, right there with the phone number, An Honest Lawyer. A bit of an oxymoron perhaps.
The old man had that thought as he saw brash red, white and blue campaign signs. “TRUSTED.”
Have you ever actually listened to Ted Cruz?
“You lie!!”
The old man’s mouth gaped open when his governor [now a Senator] was rumored to be a possible vice-presidential nominee. No, really. Talk about your Manchurian candidate. This kleptocratic robot was obviously planted here by Area 51.
Lucille Ball should’ve been President long before these people.
His wife, in that sweet careful way when she tried not to piss him off, suggested his profanity had become louder and more frequent. Lately. The old man blamed his swearing on the candidates and their campaigns.
That delusional midget in North Korea rattles his nuclear swords and our prospective leaders are talking – publicly – in televised speeches about genitalia.
The old man had big hands, YUGE hands, and big feet, too, but even so, not quite right for Leader of The Freakin’ Free World. True, he had been married three times, businesses gone bankrupt and was a bit of a unrequited egotist, but still.
Think about it, folks.
The heads of two nuclear powers meet, maybe at a Chipotle.
Can you imagine The Donald facing off against Kim Il Dong in The Battle of The Hair-Dos?
Hold it! What about pay-per-view?
That’s it.
Just try to look on the bright side.
