IN SEARCH OF THE POLITICAL MACHINE

Doom and Madness in the Trenches

By

Jimmy Joe Meeker

First Published in The Wilson County Advocate, Vol. 5, No. 29, ©August 10, 1993 by Donald W. Gillette

"When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro."

-Raoul Duke

There’s only one political party out there. Demolicans.

It’s the nectarine of politics. You take a peach tree and stick a pear tree in the ground with it and you get a nectarine. I think. Something like that, anyway. Hell, I really don’t know. Forget I brought it up.

Anyway, I can remember when we still had a choice in America. Just a couple of years ago, if you were liberal, you voted Democratic and if you were conservative, you voted Republican. Now, it doesn’t make any difference. There are liberal Republican candidates and there are conservative Democratic candidates. And they’re all liars, sneak thieves, adulterers, and dope fiends.

There are no choices anymore.

I’ve investigated this pretty thoroughly, too, at least as thoroughly as I ever investigate anything.

I went to the headquarters of the Tennessee Democratic Party last week to try and find out what gives.

Before they even let me in the door, I had to kneel in from of a statue of Al Gore and kiss his shoes. Then I had to pledge allegiance to a couple of old women with blue hair who evidently ran the place. They stripped me naked, searched my body for tattoos, and finally, after forcing me to drink a 6-pack of Budweiser and having their way with me, I got inside.

On the wall was a huge poster of Bill Clinton with lipstick stains all over his face. On each side of the poster, three candles burned and there was a vague scent of incense in the air.

Some guy in charge of something came over to me. "What do you want," he asked.

"I want to find out why you morons don’t defend the middle class anymore," I said. "The Democrats are supposed to be the people’s party and the Republicans are supposed to be pro-big business. What’s up?"

He glared at me. "Listen, bud," he said, pointing his crooked finger in my face, "we are the people’s party. People work in businesses. We take care of the businesses and they take care of the people. You got that?"

"I think so…lemme see…you don’t represent people, you represent big business…and big business represents people. Is that it?"

He nodded his big, ugly head. "Right," he said. "We don’t have time for people. There’s too many of them and they don’t have enough money."

"Pardon me for saying this, but that sounds like the Republican philosophy."

"Not anymore. Now it’s ours."

"So, you’re really a Republican?"

His eyes narrowed. "What business is it of yours?" he asked.

I stood up and grabbed him by the lapels. "You’re a cheap punk," I said. "All you give a damn about is screwing the middle class and lining your pockets."

He shoved me, but I held onto his Brooks Brothers suit and we both tumbled to the floor. I rolled on top and grabbed his neck in both hands. "I ought to crack your skull open," I screamed.

"Do it," he pleaded. "Do it now."

But I let him go and got up. After all, a real Irish Democrat won’t fight unless he’s in a bar.

As I got close to the door I heard him yell, "Come back here! Come back here and kill me!" Then he started sobbing and whimpering, ‘Kill me…kill me…somebody please kill me."

Faggot.

Next, I drove over to the much smaller Tennessee Republican Party headquarters. They met me at the door with a Wild Turkey and Coke.

"We heard you were on your way," some guy wearing tennis shorts and an Izod shirt said as he handed me the glass. "Drink up," he said, "there’s plenty more where that came from."

I took the drink and killed it. "More," I said. He re-filled the glass and gave it back to me. "Enjoy," he said.

"Listen," I said, "before you get too cordial, let me tell you what I’m here for."

He leaned toward me. "Okay, but it doesn’t really matter. You write for a newspaper, don’t you?"

I nodded my head. "I guess so," I said, "but there are some who wouldn’t agree."

"Do people read it?" he asked.

"Well… they buy it… I don’t follow them home."

He stared at me for a second. "That’s good enough for us," he said. "What can we do for you?"

"I want to know why you’ve made this big shift in philosophy the past couple of years. You used to be big business, now you claim you’re the people’s party. What gives?"

The guy lowered his voice a notch. "We’re still big business, but we need votes. Get it?"

"Yeah, I get it," I said, preparing for another fight. "You’re a pack of bums just like those limp-wristed sissies over at Democrat headquarters."

"Right," he said and winked at me. "By the way, we appreciate you not killing that guy over there."

This took me by surprise. "How’d you know about that?" I asked.

"They called us right after you left. We tell each other everything. It’s the only way we can get anything done. See, we’re not really Republicans and they’re not really Democrats. We’re all Demolicans."

I considered this for a moment. "Then how come you don’t live in monasteries and wear robes?" I asked.

"No, no," he answered. "Not Dominicans, Demolicans. We’re a cross-breed. We thought about being Republicrats but it was difficult to say. But there’s not a party line anymore. We’re all out for ourselves and whoever’s got the money."

"Then who’s supposed to be taking the side of the middle-class working stiff?" I asked.

"Nobody," he said. "That’s the beauty of it."

I should have stabbed him in the throat with my Swiss Army knife right then, but the realization that he was telling the truth made me feel sick.

I shook my head and staggered to the door.

"Where are you going?" he called after me. "We’ve got lots more bourbon, a great buffet table, and a room full of whores. Come on back. Enjoy yourself."

But I couldn’t do it.

Even I have scruples and bedding down with the Demolicans was more than I could bear.

So, in retrospect, I suppose I discovered exactly what I thought I would. They’re all in it together and the average Joe doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell anymore.

No one here gets out alive.

XXX