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Wednesday, May 29, 1996

The President's Pickup is Late

It wasn't the grassy knoll. It was astro-turf.

"Poison the bastard's food when he isn't looking."
-- Attila the Hun's wife on domestic tranquillity

You may have noticed that my weekly columns aren't coming out weekly. Between you and me, I think my editor may be selling this information to Carville before it's published. I was hoping we could catch him (my editor) in the act, but that's not important now. He'll realize his mistake soon enough - when he's trying to claw Carville's ice pick out of his back. There's only one thing that's important now: dealing with the Web Widow.

I'm willing to cross Buchanan. I will take on the Clintonistas. I'll sleep sitting up with a loaded 45 in my lap to deal with Carville if I have to but I will not take on my wife (and if Micro$oft Word tells me it's "spouse" one more time, I will personally liquidate Bill Gates' stock). She didn't like last week's column and wants me to apologize.

OK. I'm sorry Clinton doesn't stand for anything. Now on with the story.

The constellation Orion is rising over the dashboard. Leaning back in the darkness, I admire the three stars of Orion's belt over the steering wheel. I should have suspected a problem from the beginning. When I picked up the car, a mechanic standing next to it handed me the business card for a 24-hour tow service. While I'm trying to get this four-wheeled beast out of the truly hideous mud of Arkansas, let's see where our politicians have left us stranded this week.


The campaign train seems to be all press cars and cabooses. Follow me though it as we try to determine why a campaign stretching from DC to Florida is parked on the side rails.

Clinton, clearly positioned on both sides of all issues, is in the First Caboose, which is parked in front of the White House next to the First Pickup. While he's suggesting it's too soon to start political campaigning, the DNC is running attack ads against Dole. Carville is tearing his hair out (or would be if he had any). For now he's reduced to attacking the hair of those who have driven him into this frenzy.

Al Gore, for example, who has announced he'll haul the liberal mantle of the presidency into the 21st century. And the minority leaders of the House and Senate, who have already declared victory. Carville recognizes this as the kind of dumbass thing that lost the Bush campaign the White House. I assume my emails needling him about every tactical error aren't improving his mood, either. Carville was last seen on the White House lawn ripping out the Presidential press secretary's tongue.

Dole, in the last caboose, wanders Florida in search of the fountain of youth. Maybe he's decided that hanging out in a state populated by retirees will make him look younger. Moving on to Pennsylvania, Dole makes a token appearance to collect his victory. To prove age isn't an issue, he rushes back to DC to compromise on a few bills. Passing the "Terrorism Bill" gave the executive branch the power to declare anyone a terrorist and suspend their constitutional guarantees. This is just the thing to drive Buchanan and his following of pitchforks over the edge.

Buchanan returned to Missouri to relive the glory of his last victory. He doesn't seem to be sure if he's on this train or not. He's sent form letters to his supporters asking what train he should be on. Should he bring his pitchforks to the convention or toss them into a third party? He didn't pick up any delegates in Pennsylvania, but back in New York Al D'Amato almost sold him for a fine price during the Jackie O. auction.

Alan Keyes and Bob Doran were found by the FBI in the Unabomber's shack. Despite being escorted to Pennsylvania, they appear to have become victims of the Philadelphia Experiment. They've disappeared again and no one has heard from them since. I'm doing my part to get their pictures on some milk cartons.

Speaking of the Unabomber, the word on the street is that Al Gore asked the President to pardon him and appoint him head of the EPA.

The Democrats have circled their campaign train inside the beltway. The First Lady's fingerprints have shown up on documents she said she hadn't seen. Her lawyer suggested she may have reviewed them during the '92 campaign but she can't recall. In an extraordinary display of completely missing the spin on this story, some of the denser talking heads used the "So what! They are her records" defense, forgetting that the White House originally took the position that the records were created by third parties and she knew nothing about them. Carville sits in a corner calmly telling himself, "I don't have to reelect her, only him."


I've discovered a great land deal. It's called Castle Grande. That's Spanish for "The Big House" or "Federal Penitentiary;" I not sure which. I'm having a hard time hiring a decent translator here in Arkansas.

Castle Grande is this great idea. It's a trailer park, micro-brewery, and radioactive waste dump all in one. Coming online at Castle Grande doesn't mean being linked to the Internet. It's not cable TV. No, it's having a tap straight from the brewery.

This is an idea ahead of it's time. Imagine a blanket of trailers covering the land, each one with a satellite dish pointed at the sky. The sound of daytime TV leaking from every open window. Cold beer running from every tap. The green glow of radioactive waste making streetlights unnecessary. Yes, this is truly a vision of future.

Despite unrelenting phone calls to the McDougals and the White House, I've been unable to get on this escalator to heaven. The return calls are only denials and threats of Dobermans chewing off my nuts and the Secret Service throwing what's left in jail. David Hale is willing to talk to me, but I don't believe he's the man who can sign on the bottom line for this deal.

Unwilling to let this opportunity of a lifetime slip from my grasp, I find myself on an Arkansas hillside in the middle of the night.

The rental people tried to tell me that my editor had refused to pay for a four-wheel drive with surround-sound and climate control - but I knew they were lying. He would never leave me stranded in a Geo, up to my axles in mud. I've staked out the best lot in this development. The view of the HBO satellite is perfect.

I've fought my way though redneck hell to retire in trailer park heaven.


Corrections to last week's column:

  1. Both Keyes' and Doran's campaigns have filled my in-basket with emails denying they've disappeared and claiming I've kidnapped them.
  2. The Web Widow has filled my ear with complaints about the previous column and assured me it will not happen again.

Next week's episode: "That Whitewater keeps on rolling" or "Carville's campaign out of the closet."

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