The candidate is out of the gate, but
no one’s cheering. He takes his first
step and stumbles. He’s certainly not a
crowd pleaser; politics is a spectator sport, and
even his fans are cringing. But
he maintains a patrician smile, and not a hair on his head moves. He knows: it’s a long race—he’s been running
for six years—and reminds himself he’s being tested, on earth as in heaven. His is the loneliness of the too-distant
long-distance runner. Unbowed and
undaunted, he sees glory. What was the
lesson spun from his primer? As he
construes it: to the spoiled belongs the
victory.
Welcome to The Romniad, the fun and
games of the privileged.
The candidate has been in training for
the ultimate contest—“My Conservatism’s Bigger Than Yours”—for at least four
years, conservatively speaking. His
first qualifying round, waged on friendly foreign soil, can’t be chalked up as
a false start and restarted because one over-eager contestant put his foot in
his mouth. Always seeing the bright
side, he capitalizes on his eligibility for the “Exchanging the Foot in Your
Mouth” competition, putting tactless ridicule of his host and host country
behind him, and plunges right in to the fun and games with a record-setting
breach of protocol.
Losing points and placing low, he
springs into the “Backtracking” competition, mincing words and feigning
humility. Other than a major gaff or
two, nothing happened, right? Next
event?
It’s shaping up to be the sporting
event of the campaign year or two or six.
There isn’t a luxury box to be had even for love of money.
Because the candidate plays his cards
so close to his chest, it’s hard to know which events he intends to participate
in, but he doesn’t seem to know either.
Rumor has it he’s outsourcing the relay race because he can’t get into
step with his teammates. Others contend
he keeps lapping himself. Still others,
that he can’t stay in one lane.
An exhaustive assessment of his competitive
assets offers little hope for the gold.
Cherry-picking through the itemized regulatory report: “He cycles in
circles.” “He’s too even for the uneven
bars and too uneven for the parallels.”
“He’s about as coordinated as Gerald Ford.” Lastly, “He’s unwilling to take a platform
dive—until the last week in August.”
Beaming and waving, the candidate-contestant
shows up for the marathon, a race he’s been running on practice tracks for an
undisclosed number of years. He claims
he can do it better, faster, and yes, cheaper, than any man. (He can deny having said it later.) “Or woman!” he adds. Secretly, he’s counting on a strong tailwind
to carry him triumphantly across the finish line. The crowd reacts to his bravado and not only
applauds him at the starting line and again at the race’s midway point, but,
during the last leg of the race, also seems to be cheering for him. It’s clear he won’t “medal,” but their
indecipherable chants serve to propel him down the stretch and toward the finish. As the long-distance runner seeking to be the
long-distance closer enters the stadium for his last lap, huffing and puffing and
practically all in, the call of the excited spectators grows louder, their
words clearer. The energized throng is
chanting, “Chrysler, Chrysler!” And waving banners that read, “General Motors.” Blissfully unaware, he gazes up toward the
VIP section, beams broadly and waves.
Posts
