Wednesday, August 11, 2010

The AROMA Party: Proud to be Insensitive

After 46 years of sensitivity to one special interest after another, I'm as sensitive as a sun burn and peeling fast. I will now be insensitive, brutish, chauvinistic, piggy, outright ignorant and obtuse.

Today I am announcing the founding of a new political party: A Rash On My Ash, also known as the AROMA Party. Our motto is: The Nose Knows!.

My campaign headquarters will open this week so send all of your surplus money to me. I promise to represent everyone:

  • Who was left out of the bailout but included in the tax audit,

  • Who can’t find a job or a bar showing local sports,

  • Who isn’t being sent on a tour by the State Department or LiveNation,

  • Who paid more in taxes than the undocumented immigrant down the street,

  • Who lives in a sexless marriage at least when he or she are in the same bedroom,

  • Who voted for the loser in any election only to watch the winner break every promise made while getting rich doing it,

  • Who can’t get a cab or a decent bowl of grits in Hoboken,

  • Who thinks teaching same sex positions to fifth graders is too much too soon and that’s what the Internet is for anyway,

  • Who can’t cross the border to have a baby or a better life,

  • Who bought health insurance only to have it canceled the day before the cancer diagnosis was confirmed,

  • Who is sure their current representative in Congress or their union is a corrupt jack ass but voted for them anyway because they seemed to be the smartest guy or gal in the room,

  • Who can’t understand why paying an extra half-grand for a Mac or iPhone that does the same thing as a PC or a Blackberry is a cool thing to do,

  • Who gets out of bed and drives to work in a Dodge with windows rolled down in the heat while the boss texts orders from an air conditioned Hummer on his iPhone,

  • Who thinks having the Bank of England in charge of printing US currency is running the American Revolution in reverse,

  • Who believes a mosque on ground zero is the same as a Confederate flag hanging in Ford’s Theatre,

  • Who is fed up and mad as Hell but has to keep taking it anyway to send a kid to a school that teaches them everything America does enslaves the rest of the world but won't accept the tuition in rupees, Euros or Loonies,

  • For that ever shrinking number of old white guys who can’t even pronounce Dos Equis much less be interesting,

  • For the squibs, the nerfs and the furries,

  • I shall, cross my smart ass and hope to fly, spend you money wisely … in Sweden. And remember, if you think this smells, it probably does.

    I thank you and God Bless the local auto parts store and Burger King who let us have it our way.


    John Cowan said...

    Well, I've got 11 yeses, 5 nos, 1 don't-care and 1 I'm-not-telling-you, so I guess I'll sign up.

    But (pardon my French) why the hell would anyone try to find grits in Hoboken? Take a PATH train to the Christopher St. stop, and walk five minutes to the Pink Teacup on 7th Ave. South between Barrow and Grove.

    Amber said...

    Wild thing, I think I love you (but I'm not sending you ANY of my money). :)

    Len Bullard said...

    As long as you don't feel strongly about it. Or do.

    I just watched a guy driving through my neighborhood in a golf cart with a dog hanging off the backseat. Heat brings out the best... and the worst. I'm unconcerned but amused.

    Len Bullard said...

    Three members strong.

    Not that it matters.

    Because grits need butter and butter needs heat and if I can find grits, it feels like home.

    Not that home is homey.

    John Cowan said...

    Grits. Well.

    My-wife-the-Southern-expat likes them with shredded cheese mixed in. And poached eggs. And crumbled extra crisp bacon, the thing those BacoBits are supposed to be but aren't.

    So do I. After all, all I knew about grits before I met her, I learned from To Kill A Mockingbird, the book. And if that puts me in the league of people who pour syrup on their vegetables, or cover them with cappuccino foam, so be it. All Culture Is Fake Culture.

    Len Bullard said...

    Hmm. Yumm. I like your wife's recipe.

    Now that the founder has been interviewed, we'll be hammering out the party platform before we dance on it. If you'd like to contribute any insensitive positions, we're taking orders now.

    piers said...

    lol, furries. ;)

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