Columns » Bob Lancaster

The Assmunch endorsements

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For president: Both these guys are crazy, you know that. Given the mess we're in, no one in his right mind would accept the job, much less campaign for it. That may explain the decline in the quality of presidential timber — which in turn may explain the mess — but we're obliged to pick one of these characters over the other, and Assmunch, after due rassling, has decided to go with the younger one. “That one,” as he's called by the Other One.

Ageism was admittedly a big factor here, if not the deciding factor. This is no country for old men. And there are professions in which the steady hand of youth is almost demanded. One of these — and it was a surprise to me to realize it — is the practice of medicine. Old doc may be master of the medical art but young doc knows the science better, and it's the science rather than the avuncular manner that will get you through the plague.

You want the younger tree cutter too, I learned recently. It's a wonder and an education to watch the old Poulan-handler work, but a fleeting doubt enters the proposition at some point. He's cut trees for 30, 40 years — so can he maintain the requisite concentration, the steadiness of purpose, to put one more of the sons-a-bitches down in just the right place?

Sooner or later, his attention is bound to wander, as the attention of oldtimers will, and if it's on this particular job that it wanders, and it wanders a little too long or too far, off into hazardous existential territory, then the next thing that happens might be that a shagbark hickory takes out your porch.

That's not so much a consideration when a relative youngster is triggering the saw.
Geezers live mostly in the past. The future grims up for them with every passing day, and their tools for coping with the present become ever more unreliable. It's like regularity. You never know. Maybe you will today or maybe you won't. Maybe you can, maybe you can't. But the past, having already been safely traversed, is a perfect haven. You can betake there as to a Holideck, confident that it'll all work out as indeed it already has, and you can lose yourself there, go into hiding, into a kind of self-operated witness protection and relocation program, if present and future have become intolerable. The past, that's the country for old men.

Assmunch admits to spending too much time there — “among my souvenirs,” as the song says — and though Assmunch fully qualifies now as a Medicare card-carrying fogey, the Republican nominee has nearly a decade on him. Such agery works for bourbon, not so much for a president.

With things falling apart as they are, the center sagging perilously, what you want in a president is a sturdy Atlas who can hoist up the troubled world and bear it onward and upward. What you don't want is a slumped gaffer who at crunch time may or may not decide to take a crack at it soon as he finishes his nap.

For the U.S. Senate: Assmunch doesn't think it would serve any purpose to make an endorsement in a race in which one of the candidates has $4.5 million in his war chest and the other candidate has $4.23.

For U.S. House of Representative: Assmunch endorses the incumbent First and Second District congresscritters. If by chance there's a chunk of driftwood, or a sock puppet, that has declared against the Third District brainiac, Assmunch will be happy to send along an encouraging blurb.

Assmunch's principal residence — he has 12 of them (no, wait, that's the other oldtimer, McCain) — is in the Fourth District, which means his congressional representative is Mike Ross. This Ross don't need no stinking endorsements. That is, he don't need any more of them, having already secured a lifetime nod from the National Rifle Association as the gunlovingest sumbitch ever in the U.S. Capitol. In this district where the NRA controls roughly 87 per cent of the vote, how could you ever hope to beat somebody who's walked the NRA walk to the extent of having the Second Amendment boldly tattooed onto his whacker?  That's the rumor anyhow.

On the lottery proposal: There's never been a lottery that sooner or later crooks didn't take the whoremonger over. Not one anywhere ever. And the lucky morons who occasionally win millions in them always go broke again in short order and wind up on relief. So no endorsement here.

On Initiated Act 1: Ixnay on this rascal too. To swipe a Huckadick metaphor, Assmunch drinks a different brand of Jesus Juice from this proposal's supporters, who have promoted it as a clever way to thwart the gay agenda. Assmunch isn't sure there is a gay agenda, or, if there is, what it is. It sounds like the festive entertainment that a cruise ship's onboard activities director would get up. Whatever it is, it surely doesn't include adopting children. Because there's nothing gay about raising children. These days they're all little ingrates who all they want to do is text and game. You get in the habit of them and you'll wind up Duggars. Not a pretty picture. Not at all gay.

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