The blathering idiot stood in line at a writer’s convention. He had written his memoir about his campaign adventures and he was here to pitch it to agents and editors.
It was a long line. Seems everybody had a book of some sort to pitch: mystery, memoir, science fiction, military history. There was even a woman who came to pitch her book on breeding your own breed of dog. The working title was: The Bitches’ Guide to Breading Your Own. The woman herself looked like she might become one if she had to wait another minute in line. The small dog she held in her arm grew more snarly. The woman almost made it up to speak with an agent when her little bundle of fur leapt out of her grasp, onto the agents table, then the carpeted floor, pausing long enough to pee copiously, before darting off into the convention crowd.
The woman hesitated, looked at the agent, threw down the manuscript, said her book was an Idiot’s-like guide to breeding your own species, just like her little Yorkuaua. She then darted after her dog.
“Next,” the agent barked.
The blathering idiot swallowed and then sat down across the small table from the tall, imposing woman with short hair.
“Hi,” he said.
“And what’s your pitch?”
The blathering idiot stumbled through his pitch. He was sweating so hard, it looked like tears sliding down his face. No matter what she decided, he was glad it was about over.
She held up a hand. “And so this Pro-Accordion Party found you in a store front?”
“Not exactly. It was more like I found them.”
“But they picked you to be their candidate for the highest office in the land.”
“Not exactly. They had a candidate, but he backed out, citing an inability to campaign and maintain his music career.”
“Playing an accordion.”
“Yes.”
“Do you play?” she asked.
“Not exactly.”
She nodded. “Do you have an interest in playing?”
“Maybe.”
“So you don’t play the accordion. You stumbled across the Pro-Accordion Party and they were desperate for a candidate and they took you in. You had a ten-year-old as a running mate. The highlight of your campaign was speaking to a fourth-grade class, and you didn’t win a single state and weren’t even on the ballot in most of them. Is that correct?”
The blathering idiot swallowed and nodded. ‘But I enjoyed it.”
“And who do you see as the market for this book?”
“Uhh, my girlfriend.”
“My dear, naïve, child, unless you have at least one girlfriend in every city, town, and hamlet in this country, that’s not going to be many sales.”
The blathering idiot nodded, then got up from the table, stammered out a thank you, and left.
When he was outside the convention hall, Lydia, his former campaign manager, stepped up to him. “How did it go?”
“No hi, how are you?”
“So, how did it go?”
The blathering idiot shrugged. “I need more girlfriends.”
Without more girlfriends, he was probably not going to sell many copies of his memoir.
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