The blathering idiot was thinking about the Mayan calendar, the supposed end of days soon to be at hand, and of his recent failed run for the highest office in the land and asked himself: What polka goes best with the end of time?
Tag Archives: blathering idiot
The blathering idiot and Santa’s lap
The blathering idiot stood in line to sit on Santa’s lap.
“Do you really think this is a good idea?” the young mother asked of the man standing with her as they tried to control three squirming kids dressed in wise men outfits.
The man grunted.
“We can always stop.”
The young woman was very pregnant.
The man grunted again.
For some wishes there isn’t enough magic in Santa’s cap … or lap.
The blathering idiot had never sat in Santa’s lap when he was a kid. Since losing the election for the highest office in he land, he decided he would do some of the other things in life he had never done before. Sitting in Santa’s lad was the first thing on his list.
He did not tell anybody: not Zoey, not Xenia, not Lydia, not anybody.
One of the kids in front of him squirmed away from her parents and was toddling away. The mother ran after her. The mother had to pick the daughter up and bring her back, kicking and screaming all the way. It was then that the blathering idiot realized all three of the kids were girls. Still, they looked as if they had been dressed to be miniature wise men.
“Are you sure?” she asked again.
She was staring hard at her husband.
He stared back. He did nothing to help control the kids.
The blathering idiot could detect a cold silence between them as the line crept forward.
As they neared the head of the line, the kids increased their antsiness.
Then they were next in line. It had been almost thirty minutes.
The boy on Santa’s lap burst into tears. After two attempts to calm the young man down, Santa looked at the mom, who, slightly red in the face, stepped up from the other side of Santa’s thrown and retrieved her son.
An elf in a pea green costume with bells on the ends of his up curled show tips and a five o’clock shadow across his downturned chin, stepped up to the red velvet rope and unhooked it from one of the poles.
“Last chance,” the woman said.
“Next,” the elf said, stepping back, clearing the way up the two steps to the dais on which Santa sat.
The man hesitated, then surged forward.
The mother and the three girls followed. They walked up to Santa, the squirmy one still in her mother’s arms, and the other two fidgeting as they moved. Then, they walked past Santa as the man, the husband, the father sat in Santa’s lap.
Seeing the man plop himself into Santa’s lap and Santa struggling to handle the size and the weight, the blathering idiot no longer had a desire to sit in Santa’s lap.
“Santa,” the man said, “I want you to bring me a baby son for Christmas.”
Then the blathering idiot suddenly felt antsy. He couldn’t remember what he wanted to ask Santa for.
Filed under blathering idiot, Christmas, Photo by author, Story by author
The blathering idiot and The Pro-Accordion Party, part 10, the image
The blathering idiot had not done well in the one debate held on a public access channel in North Dakota. It had gone so poorly that nobody, even among the few Pro-Accordion Party supports in North Dakota remembered seeing him on the stage. Even the green Party candidate received more recognition.
The most notable thing that anybody could remember about the blathering idiot’s performance was that he had vowed to have accordion jazz music played at his inauguration. But even the one reporter covering the debate could not remember that it was him, the blathering idiot, who had said it. Only that somebody had said it and that it was the funniest line of the entire debate.
The blathering idiot had not intended for it to be funny.
But even Lydia had said it sounded funny to her, at least the way he had said it. Xenia said she had laughed out loud, time and time again, when she watched that clip of the debate on YouTube. That part of the debated was about t go viral, she said.
The blathering idiot did not think viral sounded good. He was pretty sure that meant terrible, but he was too afraid to ask. He was afraid that it would mean that his off-again, on-again girlfriend, Zoey, was right – that he would never amount to much.
That thought was still running through his head when the consultant walked into his motel room. He walked right up to the blathering idiot and said, “I have the answer.”
Lydia looked excited. Even Xenia looked a little excited. The blathering idiot did not feel excited.
“We don’t have much time, so we have to strike out in a new direction so we can stand out. You have to have a whole new image. Something that says: rugged, ready, pro-gun, pro-self-defense, professional in everything you do, which will appeal to the men, but also something that says, ‘I’m a man’s man.’ Chiseled features, rugged good looks. Something that will appeal to the ladies. And after all, they are the ones you really need to impress to get elected to the highest office in the land.”
The blathering idiot glanced at Lydia who nodded slightly. He glanced at Xenia who shrugged her shoulders as if to say all this boy-girl stuff was boring her.
The blathering idiot swallowed and said, “Okay. What do you have in mind?”
“A complete makeover.”
“Complete?”
“Exactly.”
“What will I look like when you’re done?”
“We’re done,” the consultant said. “You have to believe in this, too, or it won’t work.”
“Okay. What will I look like?”
“Do you believe in this?”
“I guess.”
“Do you believe in this?” The consultant’s voice was louder.
“Yes.”
“Say it again.”
“Yes,” the blathering idiot said.
“Louder.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, I believe!” the consultant shouted.
“Yes, I believe!” the blathering idiot shouted.
“Here, then,” the consultant said, “is what you will look like as a candidate after I … I mean … we complete your makeover.”
He slapped a photo in the blathering idiot’s lad.
For a second, the blathering idiot was afraid to look, but then slowly he tilted his head down and looked at the photo. What he saw in his lap surprised him, shocked him, and then sent a shiver down his spine.
He closed his eyes and hoped he would awaken in Oz or even Kansas.
The blathering idiot’s new image.
Filed under blathering idiot, political humor, Pro-Accordion Party
The blathering idiot and the Pro-Accordion Party, part 9, fund raising
The blathering idiot stood outside, behind a table with a few bumper stickers, buttons, and other items, including some holiday decorations. It was cool autumn morning. Leaves were falling. He could almost hear them. He turned toward Lydia at the table next to his. All three tables together formed a shallow U.
“Is this how it’s done?” he asked.
She smiled at him. “We are a small party with only a small name recognition. Until we become more well known, we won’t get the big money donors like the other parties have.”
The blathering idiot turned and looked at Xenia, his young assistant and the daughter of his off again, on again girlfriend. She was standing at a shorter table to his right. This was the fourth such event they had both been a part of this week. At none of the events did they seem to have much success.
She smiled at him, and then shrugged her shoulders. There were a few things on her table. She was actually selling more than he was.
He looked back at Lydia. “How much money do we have to raise today?”
“More than yesterday.”
“And how much did we raise yesterday?”
“Not enough.”
“That’s what you said yesterday when I asked about the day before.”
“And it was true then and it’s true now. These days, with outside groups being able to buy and run all kinds of ads on their own, campaigns need a lot of money just to get going, and to keep them going requires even more.”
“Like a corporate sponsor?” the blathering idiot asked.
“Not quite,” Lydia said.
“Like maybe we could get a sponsor to put their logo on the side of the campaign truck? ‘This campaign sponsored by Deep Fried Fritters,’” Xenia said. “’Deep fried fritters, just the thing to warm you up on a cool fall morning.’”
Xenia did her best to put an announcer’s voice into her mock advertisement.
“I don’t think that would fit on the side of the truck,” the blathering idiot said.
“And that’s not what this is about.” Lydia scowled at Xenia.
“Then what is this about?” the blathering idiot asked.
“It’s about name recognition,” Lydia said
“Then maybe we should sponsor something.”
“But we don’t have the money.”
“And that’s why we’re out here.”
“Yes.”
“And that’s why we’ve been doing this for four days?”
“Yes.”
“And how many more days will we be outside like this?” Xenia asked.
“Until we raise enough money,” Lydia said.
“To sponsor something?” the blathering idiot asked.
Lydia scowled at him. “The Pro-Accordion Party is already sponsoring you. This yard sale and all the other ones is about raising money to get you elected to the highest office in the land. Pro-Accordion members donated all this junk so you might get elected!”
Just then two people came through the gate into the yard. They heard the word junk, looked disappointed and even a little angry (The blathering idiot thought he saw a scowl forming on the man’s face.), immediately turned around and left.
“I guess he won’t be sponsoring us,” Xenia said.
This time Lydia glared at her.
Sometimes it’s hard to get the people who are selling to buy into what you are selling.
Filed under blathering idiot, Photo by author, Pro-Accordion Party
The blathering idiot and the Pro-Accordion party, part 8, fourth grade
The blathering idiot was in a fourth grade class. Why he was in a fourth grade class, he wasn’t sure, except that Lydia had told him they were studying about the civic process of getting elected to office and that she knew the teacher and had told the teacher she was working with a candidate for the highest office in the land, and the teacher asked if the candidate might be available to speak to her class, and Lydia had said sure, and so here he was.
They were standing in the school, a small old house actually that had been converted to a full time school many years ago.
The blathering idiot looked up the stairway leading to the second floor. The fourth grade was immediately to his right at the top of the stairs. He felt butterflies and breakfast churning in his stomach. He wasn’t ready for this. He was sure of it. And they were late. The teacher would rap his knuckles for being late now just like she did when he was in the fourth grade. It didn’t matter that it was a different school in a different city with a different teacher. There was a quantum connection among all fourth grade teachers and they universally want to rap your knuckles for being late to class, no matter the excuse. No excuse was ever good enough to overcome the quantum connection.
Climbing the stairway back to fourth grade. “I don’t want to do this,” he said.
“I don’t want to do this,” he said.
Wasn’t there a show about being smarter than a fifth grader? Maybe this was a prelude to talking to fifth graders.
“Think of it as practice for when you get on the road and are campaigning.”
Fifth graders for sure, he thought.
“She’ll wrap my knuckles,” he said.
“What?” Lydia asked.
He looked at her. He couldn’t disguise the fear. “We’re late and she wants to wrap my knuckles!”
The first grade teacher leaned out of the door to her room and pointed a ruler at them. “Quiet, please.”
She looked younger than he remembered his first grade teacher looking. Prettier, too. His stomach calmed slightly. Then he noticed the ruler and his stomach started fluttering again.
“Wait here,” Lydia said.
Before he could say anything, she was up the stairs and knocking on the fourth grade teacher’s door. Then she disappeared inside the room and the blathering idiot’s stomach started fluttering again.
It was probably only a few minutes, but to the blathering idiot it felt like a few hours. Then the door to the fourth grade classroom opened, Lydia poked her head out, and she waved the blathering idiot upstairs.
Slowly he trudged up the stairs. It felt like school all over again.
When he reached the top, the fourth grade teacher opened the door and invited him in. She smiled and her face looked more kind than stern. The blathering idiot looked at her hand. She was not holding a ruler.
He shrugged and trudged into the room.
Lydia introduced him as a candidate running for the highest office in the land and the fourth graders looked at him oddly.
“For real?” one boy with red hair asked.
“For real,” Lydia said.
“Now, Jeffry,” the teacher said, “Remember to raise your hand first and wait to be called on before asking a question.”
The blathering idiot glanced over at her. He still saw no ruler. But he had a sudden urge for his sock monkey, the one he had when he was five and kept with him up to the fourth grade, where a couple of the boys tugged it away from him and tore it apart.
Every kid in the classroom raised a hand.
The teacher pointed at a little girl in the back of the room. She looked small for a fourth grader and she wore very large glasses.
“Yes, Abigail, you can ask your question.”
Abigail stood up beside her desk, but didn’t look any taller than when she was sitting in it. In fact, she looked a little shorter.
The blathering idiot leaned slightly toward as if he anticipated her voice to be as small as she was.
Instead, the room filled with a large, loud, high-pitched squeal as she asked her question: “And why are you running for this office, anyway?”
He looked over at Lydia and he felt his face getting hot. Would a small fourth grader with big glasses understand running for the highest office in the land to make your on again, off again girl friend jealous, prove her wrong that you would never amount to anything? Would a fourth grader understand that he was running because he now wanted to spend more time with Lydia, though she had never indicated more than a professional interest in him? Would a school kid understand that within him as probably within many grown men, there is a desire to better at something than anybody else, to prove he was unique, one-of-a-kind, just like his parents had always told him he was growing up.
He remembered his own sock monkey, torn apart in the fourth grade, where the teacher rapped his knuckles for being late.
He stared at the exaggerated eyes of the little girl and he remembered what the consultant had told him: keep his answers brief and keep his answers on the level of the person asking the question.
So, instead of trying to explain all his true jumble of thoughts and feelings, he said, “Because I thought it would be fun to be elected to the highest office in the land. Maybe some day you’ll want to, too.”
The little girl shook her head so vigorously, her shoulders and torso moved. “No. I want to be a veterinarian. I think that would be more fun. Don’t you?”
The blathering idiot felt his knuckles sting as if they had just been smacked by a ruler. He was sure he wasn’t ready for fifth grade … and he wanted his sock monkey.
The blathering idiot and the Pro-Accordion Party, part 7, campaign wheels
The blathering idiot saw Lydia enter the room where he was being schooled by the consultant and was relieved when she walked up to them and asked to speak to the blathering idiot alone for a few minutes.
Even the consultant appeared eager to give her that time. He leapt up from his chair and was tripping the light fantastic as he stepped out of the room. Or so it appeared to the blathering idiot.
“How goes it?” Lydia asked.
The blathering idiot shrugged. “Seems like I gotta play dumb to get elected.”
“Surveys show time and time again that people want to elect somebody just like them.”
“Then why don’t those people run for office?”
Lydia smiled and then laughed. “You do have a way about you.”
“And what does that mean?”
She sat down in the chair the consultant had been sitting in. She placed a hand on his knee. She looked directly at him and he at her. He thought maybe this was the moment he had been waiting for, the moment when she would ask him what he was doing tonight, would he like to come over for a home cooked meal and they could discuss campaign strategy and other things.
He half closed his eyes in dreamy anticipation.
Instead, she said, “Let’s just say you’re weird, but in an endearing sort of way, and that’s what we need to capitalize on in this campaign.”
The blathering idiot opened his eyes wide. Weird? Endearing? How did that stack up with being someone just like everyone else? Would you want to have a beer with somebody weird but endearing?
He thought about that last question for a minute. Would he have dinner with somebody weird, but endearing?
“Here, let me show you something,” Lydia said.
She stood up and offered her hand. He took it and followed her out of the room, out of the building. Once outside she led him over to a vehicle.
“Our budget is tight, but we got what we could afford, within the consultant’s guidelines, for your official campaign vehicle.”
“It’s … it’s a … truck,” the blathering idiot said.
“Not just any truck,” Lydia said.
“Yeah, it’s an old truck.”
“Politicians have traveled on trains, in cars, even in trucks before when campaigning. We thought this truck would speak of a connection to the past of this great country, add a sense of history to our young Pro-Accordion Party.”
“Will it make it? After all, it looks pretty well used … and rusted in spots.”
“That’s the other beauty of it,” she said. “That patina of wear gives us that underdog touch, that little engine that could meme.”
“Meme?” the blathering idiot asked.
“I’ll explain later.”
The blathering idiot nodded, but he doubted the explanation would be over a homemade dinner.
Campaigning on a budget: the blathering idiot’s official campaign wheels.
The blathering idiot and the Pro-Accordion Party, part 5: the accordion and vegatables
Sometimes not knowing is important … at least to your electability.
“But I don’t know how to play the accordion,” the blathering idiot said once he understood that he would be posing in ads with one.
“That’s okay,” the consultant said. “That will put you in touch with most of our potential voters. They don’t know, either. It will give you the common touch.”
“But I took this position as candidate for the highest office in the land so I wouldn’t be just another common man.”
The consultant looked at the blathering idiot for a moment and then shrugged.
“People want to feel they could sit down and have a beer with you.”
“But I don’t like beer,” the blathering idiot said. “I do like broccoli, cauliflower, and Brussels Sprouts.”
The consultant’s nose scrunched up. “Well, we don’t have to let the voters know that.”
“You mean voters don’t like people who eat their vegetables?”
The consultant opened his mouth to say something, paused, and then closed his florid lips.
The blathering idiot and the Pro-Accordion Party, part 4, armadillo
Lydia walked up to the blathering idiot. Her face looked as if had had somebody tugging on it, stretching it out and down.
Everybody else filed out of the small conference room as well. Nobody looked like he or she had had a good time.
Lydia managed a wan smile. There and gone. More a hope of a smile than a real one.
If politics is like this, the blathering idiot thought, why do people go into it?
“We have decided on a Pro-Accordion Party mascot.” She heaved a sigh as if it were the heaviest thing she would ever carry. “We have decided on the armadillo.”
“Armadillo?” the blathering idiot asked.
“Armadillo? Oooh!” Xenia held her nose.
The Pro-Accordion Party selects the armadillo for its mascot, in part because it can collapse into a small space, like an accordion.
Lydia glared at Xenia for a moment, then turned back to the blathering idiot.
“Look at it this way,” she said, “the armadillo has protection like the turtle you were fond of, but can also collapse itself down into a smaller space—”
“Like an accordion,” the blathering idiot said.
“Exactly,” Lydia said.
“Armadillo?” Xenia turned, found a seat, and sat down.
Lydia looked at Xenia. “We did a quick focus group and found there were too many people who had negative connotations associated with a turtle, even one in a red, white, and blue hat. When we asked those same people about armadillos, most had no direct experience with an armadillo and had largely neutral thoughts about the creature. A few even confused with an ant eater. That gives us a chance to clearly define it and why it is our mascot.”
“And how do you intend to define the PAP mascot?” the blathering idiot asked.
“We’re working on that,” Lydia said.
“Who did you focus group?” Xenia asked. “My mom did that for a while.”
“We called up ten people at random from the phone book.”
“Ten people?” The blathering idiot asked.
“Only ten?” Xenia asked.
“They were at random. That was all we had time and money for. We only have a small budget for such things. A big part of the discussion in there was over spending that money on this. Most didn’t want to spend any money on this until I reminded if we didn’t we’d stuck with the turtle.”
Stuck with the turtle. That didn’t set well with the blathering idiot, but before he could say anything, Xenia asked a question.
“So you are picking your mascot because ten random people said so?”
“That’s eight more than you two,” Lydia said.
The blathering idiot couldn’t argue with that. Still, an armadillo?
Filed under blathering idiot, Pro-Accordion Party, Story by author
The blathering idiot and politics, part 3, mascot 2
The blathering idiot wanted to take a photo of the new mascot of the Pro-Accordion Party, but he didn’t know how to work the camera on his smart phone. After fumbling and trying for nearly half a hour, Xenia offered to help and had the photo taken in less than five minutes.
“How can the man running for the biggest office in the land not know how to operate the camera on his phone? You do know how to use a computer, don’t you?”
The blathering idiot felt Xenia’s eyes on him.
So, this must be what it’s like having the eyes of the world upon you, waiting for your next word, you next action. A tingle darted up his spine.
She stared at him a little more, squint here eyes slightly.
Finally, he said, “When elected to the highest office in the land, I will have people to do that for me.”
“Am I your people?”
“If you want to be.”
She paused for a moment and he stared at her.
Finally, she said, “I’ll think about it. It won’t interfere with my homework, will it? My mom won’t let me do anything after school that interferes with my homework.”
“I promise, it won’t.”
#
Lydia was not as taken with the photo of the mascot, or the mascot idea itself. She looked at the screen on his smart phone, then looked over at the blathering idiot.
“You sure you want to be the candidate for the PAP?”
“More than anything,” he said.
She looked at him a little while longer.
He felt sweat running down the back of his neck and down the back of his shirt.
“And I have people now.”
“As long as it doesn’t interfere with homework,” Xenia said.
The blathering idiot smiled. “Just think. Our slogan could be: ‘We get there, eventually.’”
Lydia frowned.
“Or … or we may pull back, but we never pull out.”
She frowned even more. “Are you sure—”
“I have people now.”
She closed her eyes and moved her lips without saying anything.
A prayer? The blathering idiot wasn’t sure.
She opened her eyes and asked, “May I?”
He nodded and she took his cell phone into the meeting in the small conference room in the middle of the small storefront on a not-so-busy street.
Just like before, there were loud voices. Then there was table pounding. Then somebody pounded on the wall.
After a while, the pounding stopped and then the voices went quiet.
The door to the conference room opened and out walked Lydia. She wasted no steps in walking straight up to the blathering idiot. She handed him his smart phone back.
After he had it back, she said, “It was close, but it’s either you or the mascot. One of you has to go.”
“But—”
“One of you has to go. And to be honest with you, if I had spent any more time in that room, I might have voted with those wanting to get rid of you both.”
Pro-Accordion Party mascot and slogan: We may pull back, but we never pull out.
The blathering idiot almost couldn’t meet Lydia’s gaze. It was hard deciding to give up on an idea he cherished. It was one of the most difficult things he had had to decide on in a long time, maybe even.
The blathering idiot sighed.
This running for the highest office was a lot harder than it looked.
(To be continued, more or less.)
Filed under 2012, blathering idiot, Photo by author, Pro-Accordion Party
The blathering idiot and politics, part 2, mascot
Lydia walked up the blathering idiot and said, “We have a problem.”
The blathering idiot had been sitting quietly in a folding chair outside the small conference room in the storefront headquarters of the Pro-Accordion Party. Lydia had told him that his being selected the new PAP candidate was just a formality.
The simple formality had been going on for over two hours now, behind closed doors, with voices raised and what sounded like fists pounded every now and then.
The door was finally back open and Lydia was now standing and then sitting beside him, telling him there was a problem. This did not sound good for him going back this evening and impressing Zoey with his new-found status as candidate for high office, the highest office in the land, in fact.
“It’s like this,” Lydia said. “I didn’t anticipate that there would be a faction of the Pro-Accordion Party that believes we need to hold another nominating convention and nominate our new candidate that way.”
While he could understand the faction’s desires in this area, he also felt disappointed. I guess that showed on his face, because Lydia placed a hand on his arm as if cheer him up.
“The fight … I mean … discussion is not over yet.”
He nodded. He wasn’t sure if there was something he was meant to agree with.
“There is one thing you could do that would help and also bolster your chances of being the next candidate.”
“Name it.”
“We need a mascot,” she said.
“A what?”
“The other parties have mascots. One of them has a donkey. The other an elephant. We need an animal mascot. Other third parties that have tried to break into the election world have failed because they don’t have a mascot, an animal that people can readily identify with.”
“And if I find one—”
“Then I’m sure you will be the new candidate for the Pro-Accordion Party.”
The blathering idiot immediately headed out to find a mascot. But first he had to go to play golf. He had promised Xenia, Zoey’s daughter, a round, and since golf seemed to be a game the winners of the election were expected to play, he took it as a sign that he was destined for this highest office because he had, two weeks ago, scheduled this event. Or, rather, Xenia had scheduled it with him.
#
One of the holes at Sir Goony’s Go Karts and Minigolf. The snake is not the mascot.
Sir Goony’s Go Karts & Minigolf: Now Open Daily was bracketed by Prodigal Son Primary Care on one side and Exodus Chiropractic on the other. It was a slopping landscape of grass, concrete, fake grass, and fiberglass: rocket ship, Humpty Dumpty lokk-a-like, giant ape, and a very big, yellow, polka-dotted snake that arced above ground in a couple of different spots.
“So,” Xenia asked, “can this animal be dead or does it have to be alive?”
The question, coming suddenly, caused the blathering idiot to hit his ball too hard and it bounced around inside the small blue shelter, but did not go into the cup.
After thinking about a minute more, he said, “I don’t think they’ll be parading a live version animal around the campaign trail.”
He walked inside the structure and scrawled on the wall were the words: “Rich Folk Ain’t Bad if U Cook Them Right.”
Rich folk just can’t catch a break, except maybe in the kitchen. These missionaries of wealth and just like the missionaries of old who might have been eaten by the cannibals. But like the cannibals, the poor gotta eat somethin’.
“Well done,” he said to no one in particular.
Xenia stared at him for a moment, then moved up to take her shot.
At the next hole, the blathering idiot dropped his pencil. It rolled into the grass and as he bent over his shirt hiked up and his pants slumped down. He quickly straightened up and did his best to make sure Xenia didn’t see his red heart underwear.
She looked at him and cocked an eyebrow. “Are you ready for the tough campaign question?”
The question startled him again and he messed up his shot. The shot bolted into the fiberglass cave and ricocheted off the bumpy walls and one stalagmite. He had yet to break par on any of his holes. He hoped the tough question wouldn’t be about his golf game.
He turned and looked at this ten year old who was sometimes his ally in getting along with her mother and sometimes his general tormentor.
“And what question is that?”
“Do you wear boxers or briefs?”
“No.”
“Yes. Mom said that question was asked of guy who ran for this office.”
“Really?”
She nodded.
Zoey, Xenia’s mother, was not above a little bit of humor, but somehow this felt like a real, true question.
“And what did he say?” the blathering idiot asked.
Xenia shrugged her shoulders. “Mom didn’t say. I wasn’t supposed to be listening to the conversation anyways.”
The blathering idiot sighed.
“So, what would you say?”
The blathering idiot messed up his second attempt to get the ball in the hole in the cave. The hole was up a slight mound, like a big ant hill. Since it was a small cave and open at both ends, there was enough light. He never remembered seeing a hole like this on TV when they played golf.
He walked back out of the cave, past Xenia, but did not answer her question. What was next to his body was nobody’s business, up to and including even if he was going without any. Something he rarely did. This campaigning might be harder than he thought.
“You’re turn,” Xenia said.
It was then, as the blathering idiot came out of his deep thinking, and was pivoting to head back into the cave that he spied the mascot for the Pro-Accordion Party. It was standing right there beside, big eyes, sort of a cryptic smile on its face, and it even, already, had a red, white, and blue striped hat on its head.
(To be continued, more or less.)
Filed under 2012, blathering idiot, Story by author
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