It is with tremendous multi-chromatic joy and swelling multi-chambered polyheartedness that I accept your strong and pulsing support in this, the battle-march to that Novemberian contests of the Casa Blanca !
Thanks to you! Thanks to you all, you furr-deprived monkey men; you swollen teated, swaying gaited, be-toothed and surly chimp-ladies; thanks so much in the endless expressions of the deep. If I could but extend these arms of hunting far enough I would envelop you all in a searching, crushing embrace that would, like a million orgasmos, cause the blood to well up, to burst exhaltingly, from your much distended eye-balls!
Oh, whimsical and swirling JOY!
It has been reported to me by mine assistant-cum-campaign manager Rob the Miller, lab assistant extra-ordinarial, that the returns have been counted and re-counted, the ballots of the Internet, the formerly discarded ballots of the Detroit-lands, the local ballots, they have all been counted.
One hundred and sixty two thousand, nine hundred and twenty nine votes in total cast!
And to me came every single one!
I Said to Rob, "How many of the votes!?"
And he said, "What? Huh?"
And I said, "Damn your eyes, Rob! Your strange, squinting, optically shallow eyes! The votes! How many have come in?"
And he squinted at the computer terminal, his eyes bloodshot and tired of the looking, and finally he reported to me the number. It was late this Sunday past, almost Monday to be sure, and we all were be-decked in our paper hats and our informational buttons of the Squid Campaign. There had been much raucous partying of that night, for the results were to be reported, and by that time when the balloting was ended, many who had come of my staff had forgotten our purpose there.
Even I, for a time, had forgotten all that we had come together to achieve. And so we revelled without care, most raucous and joyous. Libations were poured, and I confess even some of the more noxious chemicals were allowed into my tank for a time (Inhaled [as it were], I did! I say it proudly!)
Balthazaar, a younger of the chimps, visiting from his nominal career as head of Monsieur Aristide's personal security force, had smuggled in a lesser body cavity a series of powders most mystical, and it had sent his brethren of the local chimps (especially Barnabus) into a feces-smeared bacchanal of enviable proportions. Glitter stuck to the ceiling along with the black-brown excreta, and Claude papered the floor with the Xeroxéd images of his genitalia composed into crudely formed, yet somewhat lyric in their own right, replications of images from the paintings of the dead masters. I was most impressed with his rather impressionistic take on the Pieta of Michelangelo using his stretched scrotum as a kind of Marian robe . . . fascinating and glorious, though it distracts from my direction here, a matter to the side . . .
As chimps scampered along the floor, and up above in the air circulation duct work and the many partially installed drop ceilings, feces raining down along with wine, strange mystickal monkey powders, glitter, and balloons filled with air among other substances, the Nocturne Electionaire passed on almost forgotten. And then, at a very late hour that tended, cryptically, toward being itself early, my running Mate, the fine and lustrous Molly, asked, slurringly if had we won or lost of the plurality of the votes.
She lay supine in a half-broken office chair, one knee cocked back over the corner such that her skirt rode up along her thigh. She held two glasses, one in each hand. In the left was an empty tumbler turned upside down. She leaned back in the chair and looked occasionally down at the glass. It had contained a liquor, but now she had a large spider trapped underneath. In the right hand, she held close to her breast a liquid that was strange and green, and occasionally she spilled it upon her sweater.
Rob, for his part, stared upon this exposed expanse of thigh with the drooling concentration of a ravening sleeper shark tracking a portly and developmentally retarded squid bumbling along the bottom of the arctic seas. I, for my part, gazed upon the ceiling. The tiles of the ceiling are distributed in an uneven fashion, and in that moment this vexed me so. I was quite driven to distraction.
"Well!" She barked, and emitted that which I think were a belch, although so great in volume and duration, so damp of timbre— it was an unpleasant sound, regardless of its proper identification. "Did we win or lose?" she wheezed.
And it was at that point that I called to Rob and posed to this question Principia.
And the figures returned from him. And we had swept up into our grasp ever single on of the Internetually submitted votes, and thus reigned supreme.
Molly, though generally reserved, hooped with the joy, as did the Rob, who staggered footward, upward from his soiled roll-your-chair, and made of a gamboling little chimp dance— itself aped by an inebriated Achilles— and embraced of Molly hoppingly. I even saw Sang smile slightly in a far off corner of the room as he pecked his paws at the keyboard of his wireless computer of the lap.
Claude staggered by, his great simian arms outstretched on either side so that he rotated through the scene like a slow moving roto-copter. Occasionally, as he lurched and stumbled along in chaotic ellipses, he tried to touch something an inch in front of his upturned nostrils.
"Papillon," he murmured, and smiled in that vague way common to the chimps.
Papillon indeed! I say this you your, Americanos of the World, Papillon! Like and unto the conquering Papillon, the savage Schmetterling of mythos and factos, we shall overcome and come overwhelmingly! This squidmentum, the devouring squidmentum, is with us! The Kerried Jon has been crushed. Johnny Dean is naught! Lyndon LaRouche, you may eat of our Distance! Virginia is ours! The Volunteering State is ours! It is onward, upward, forward, powerfully so, to Boston, the convention and the White House! Vote Perpetual Human Enslavement! Vote Squid!
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Copyright (c) 2000, 2004, David Erik Nelson, Fritz Swanson, Morgan Johnson