If elected mayor of your fine city, I vow to continue my vicious smear campaign against my opponent. In December, after cashing in a month’s worth of those big-ass mayor checks, I’m going to crank the smear campaign up a notch. Did you know he buys booze for minors just to keep them busy while he bangs their moms? You do now, and I promise to remind you of this disgrace and many others by setting up billboards that state all the reasons why the man should be ashamed of himself.
You didn’t know he farted on a Korean War vet? Well, look at the billboard.
Losing this election won’t be enough to convince him that he’s an asshole. It’s going to take a wrestling match to convince him of that. He won’t be able to sidestep my steel cage challenge once I’m the mayor. He can either sign the contract for the match or I’ll send him to Detroit in a boxcar along with all the other undesirables. And by undesirables, I, of course, mean all the people who didn’t vote for me.
If you make me the mayor, history will remember you as the first domino to fall on my quest to build a government-funded cockfight arena on the moon. PETA members, calm down. I support cockfighting, but I’m not an extremist. I’ve heard enough whining from hippies to concede that there is no place for a cockfighting arena on this planet of beast coddlers. All that we, the cockfighting fans that can be reasoned with, are asking for is a Holy Land of sorts to call our own. Just as the Jews have Israel with no dispute whatsoever.
Folks, the time has come to finally get some use out of the moon. A venue on the moon is long overdue. And as for this animal cruelty nonsense, well, Colonel Sanders isn’t very nice to chickens either, but the last time I checked, it’s legal to have lunch at KFC. I don’t expect the unconverted to embrace cockfighting, nor live in a world where the fighting of cocks is mainstream. All I’m asking for is a cockfighting arena on the moon.
If elected mayor, I pledge to pay one lucky citizen $500 and (decimal point) ten percent of future royalties to invent a pair of shoes that can change colors. Voters, let me tell you a heart-wrenching story about a man–me, Len Finklin–who owns a black pair of shoes and a red pair of shoes. Sounds simple enough, but a man can’t be expected to wear shoes and nothing else, can he? Nay, thanks to the laws that ban public nudity that I never said made a mockery of our Constitution–unlike my opponent, I’m willing to bet–-a man must also wear pants. For covery of unmentionables, of course.
Now, this Mr. Finklin-character owns pants in four different colors: Blue, brown, white, and yellow. This man has zero matches between his shoes and pants, which makes him feel like a damn fool. But he’s not a fool. He’s a noble and sexy American who doesn’t see the sense in paying upwards of… a shitload of money so he can have enough shoes to match every color of pants he owns. Negatory–-he’d rather pay a reasonable price for just one pair of “Chameleon Shoes.”
Critics of this initiative, such as Mrs. Finklin #4, raise questions like, “Why do you own a pair of yellow pants in the first place?” To which Mr. Finklin replies, “Because Goddammit, Frannie, I’m a golfer!” Ooh, there’s another reason to vote for me: I golf. Constantly. Heck, I love golf more than any ideal or human. If I had kids, they’d be buying me golf shit for Father’s Day. Yessiree Bob, my soul is a barren wasteland, aside from an endless, selfish desire to hit the links. And after 18 holes, I get smashed at the country club bar, chugging Long Island Iced Teas and bad-mouthing all minorities.
Last year, our community bulldozed zero shanty towns to make way for golf courses, but if I’m elected mayor, this town’s golf course-to-hobo ratio is going to skyrocket.
Where was I? For God’s sake, why do I have these damn note cards if I’m just going to–-Oh, right. Shoes that change color. Someone in this town ought to invent a pair of those.
If elected mayor, the Nativity scene on display in front of town hall each December would remain a proud tradition. However, a major change would be made to it. I ask you, why is Baby Jesus so small? Joseph and the Virgin Mary could punt him like a football if they felt like it! And those three ethnic-looking Wise Men are just towering over the poor little guy. What’s their agenda? What kind of explosives are they hiding under those turbans?
To solve these problems we’re all troubled by, if elected mayor, I promise to you a gigantic Baby Jesus. The statue of God’s Boy will be a thousand pounds of bronze if he’s an ounce. His manger will be the size of a two-car garage, and those Wise Men better pray that Toddler Christ don’t roll out of bed and flatten them like ants beneath the crushing mass of a holy hippo. I’ll demand a Baby Jesus so large and imposing we’ll need to rent a crane to get him out of storage. Or, we could save some of the taxpayers’ hard-earned dollars by simply leaving him up all year-round.
If that doesn’t bring a tear to your eye, then go ahead and vote for my opponent, ya sack of shit.
Anyway, remember my vows! Humiliation for my opponent, preferably in a steel cage. Cockfighting arena on the moon. $500 to the inventor of Chameleon Shoes. And an enormous Baby Jesus statue. As a sort of postscript, I’d also like to do something to benefit the economy, but presently, nothing really comes to mind.
Vote Len Finklin for mayor. Because together, we can do this for me.
No comments:
Post a Comment