For those who viewed of the First and Only Debate Vice Presidential staged in the Cleaved Lands of Ohio and/or the Second (in a series of three) Great Debate Presidential, this held in Saint Louis' Misery, much might be made of a marked lacking in Architeuthic representation— a terribly slapping echo of my initial false-start and failure to arrival at the primary Debate of the Presidents-to-Be localized in the hurricano-struck lands of the Corralled Gables of Florid Dan.
Of the first matter, I did beg and plead and demand that my running mate and intern, Molly Reynolds (the selection of whom for that former honor is detailed here, here and here), to appear at this even and, as quoth Rob, "school those fools with the old school, hot-as-fuck, brilliant-ass marine biologist feminine mystique shit!" But Molly was unmoved by my requests, Rob's wheedling, my threats, Sang's tears, fortune's glory or pecuniary remuneration. Ah, buxom Molly ("buxom" in that she is bathycolpic, not pliant); her refusal was as flat as she is not (again, credits to Rob for that fine similitude.)
"Debates got rules," Rob explained, "We can't just, like, go our own damn way on this. We gotta follow the rules." I saw the solid reasoning of Rob's claim, and so did send him forth to download from his Worldwide Internet to acquire some digest— or even the complete text— of such debateurs rules for this engagement.
Good lad that he is, Rob did swiftly acquire the following, and did print it to paper to be pasted to the outer surface of my tank for my greater consideration. The Rules read as follows:
- No coolers, glass containers, animals, alcoholic beverages, or any kind of amplification equipment.
- No balloons filled with substances other than air or projectile launchers.
- No weapons, including but not limited to: paintball guns, slingshots, air pistols, explosives, blasting caps, knives, mace or any other instrumentalities used or intended for use as a dangerous weapon.
- No climbing of fences, poles, trees, or any other structure.
- Signs and banners are permissible, but may not be posted or attached to pickets or on fences. Signs must be constructed solely of cloth, paper or flexible cardboard no greater than one-quarter inch thick.
"But Rob," I queried, "I myself am an animal. Does this not put me, as a debateur, in violation of this First Commandment?"
Rob scratched of his head, considering the monitor of his computing and internetting device. "I guess they must mean no additional animals, like war dogs or horses."
"Ah. Good. My strategy requires none such animals. Nor alcoholic beverages. My tank is cooler than many things; will that—"
"Naw, the mean like a cooler, like an insulated box you keep beers and such in."
"Yes, yes. Not necessary to the tactics I have been practising with Mr. Leeks and the Chimpanzees. The glass of the dome of my velocitator?"
"Excellent. Rulings the Fourth and Fifth had additionally not played into my strategies— although I am intrigued by the notion of climbing of a fence or pole so as to gain advantageous vantage or momentum. Is this debate to be of the Steel Cage Match variety, do you expect?"
"No, but, like, once you're elected Lord High Presidento, I'm sure you could make that a new rule. That'd be awesome. But, look, I'm a little worried about Regulacion Tres, right? I can't help but notice that you're whole plan, to date, is to wow Bush and Kerry with your sharp-ass rhetorical devices and then mow 'em down with the howitzer," he indicated the belt-fed gattling gun the Brothers Ramirez had mounted upon my velocitator suit, "and then there's the circular saws and the pipe-bomb flinger and the tongs and— shit, I mean, it's hard to argue any of that's non-lethal in design or intent, you know?"
I grudgingly agreed.
"We gotta strip that shit off and go legit," I began to object, but was mollified by my lab assistant cum campaign advisors outstretched hand, "Hold up, Lord A. I've already got the plan. Check our Rulo Dos," he taped the back of the sheet taped to the outside of my tank, indicating the second rule, "No balloons filled with substances other than air or PROJECTILE LAUNCHERS. Dig it?"
The light of revelation, she did stream in upon me.
"Yeah, you dig it! I don't know why they've got that crazy ass rule, but the conclusion is right there: We gotta make some unconventional projectile launching mutherfuckers and cram 'em in a couple of balloons. Shit, probable Karl Rove and those other fuckers have already figured it out, but at least you won't walk in their out-gunned. Plus, I've already got a special angle. I figure there probably gonna fling something, like, usually mundane and harmless, right, in order to avoid crossing Rule #3? Like, a catapult that flings a bowling ball really hard? OK, so here's my angle: You'll fling jars of Drano! It's no 'weapon'," he did make the quotes-of-the-air, "but it's totally fucking savage. Whaddya think, Lord A.!"
"I shall fetch the Etching Sketch!"
And fetch it I did, and much did I diddle of its nobs, and it was nary a moment a-fore we were possessed of a fine design for my lye flinging device. This were dutifully traced down by Rob as I held up my Etching Sketch for his examination, and then run by hand down to Devo and his mechanics so that they might begin fabrication.
And is it not at the moment before success is complete that disaster strikes? I have watched the surveillance footage, and can confirm the veracity of the reports: Outrageous fortune has again fouled me. Not saboteurs, not sinister Fifth Columnists within my ranks, not the movements of some occult hand; just the random and fickle fancy of the Fates turned away.
Having mounted my wonderful, balloon ensconced lye-jar flingers to the port and starboard sides of my wonderful chrome-and-steel autovelocitating, Spider Ramirez did butterfinger the jug of the lye, and it did tumble from his hand and empty of itself upon my velocitator, draining completely into the many nooks and crannies of my freshly washed and still much wet "dope ride." There was hardly the time for Spider to shout the "coño" before the chassis grew hot and did pour fourth a great tumult of thick steam and a savage hissing.
The chemistry of the matter was elementary and brutal: Aluminum (light and ductile— and thus the wonder-metal composing many of the gimbles and jointlettes of my velocitating environmental suit, especially its fine and much-articulated legs) combines readily with water, dividing off its Oxygen (to form the rock-solid bond with an Aluminum, and thus being the more perfect union of Aluminum Oxide until death do they part) and liberating its Hydrogen to find happier times and mattings. In general, the Oxide forms quickly, so a minimum of heat (for this reaction is of the exothermic persuasion) and Hydrogen is released. But this fantastic lye, the caustic burner of men, is a Sodium Hydroxide, and does strip from the Aluminum her insulating layer of Oxide, permitting yet more Hydrogens to be divorced from their Oxygens and released into the air, marauding and combustible as the Girls Who Have Gone Wilding. It is truly a vicious cycle, with ever more Hydrogen and heat building.
The conflagration was inevitable, and did entirely consume my suit— just returned from week's past adventure in Tennessea— thus putting to rest any worry I might have of reaching the Second Debate in a timely matter or at all.
I was hearts-sunk upon hearing of the disaster, but I was overcoming upon viewing of the video footage, and do admit— hang-saccedly and shamed of face— that I did succumb to the wracking sobs upon seeing the burning of my best-laid plans.
"Dry your eyes, Lord A. It'll all be groovy: you'll tear Bush and Kerry new assholes in Tempe. Swear to God."
"It shall not, Rob, It shall not be the groovy," I protested— admittedly petulant in this darkest hour, "It shall be not at all groovy. My eyes— my optically perfect eyes!— shall dry and whither and I will never be President Ruler of this Great and Fecund land! All is for naught, Rob! Naught! And to top all this lowness, Christopher Reeves has become dead— the Superbman himself! What sort of world is this?" As one similarly bound to a machine in order to move about the world of men, I admit freely that I did identify most closely with Mr. Reeves.
"A fucked up world, Lord A. Dead, crippled Superman?" he did shake of his head the back to forth, "Fucked up world, man."
"He was a noble cyborg, Rob."
"No doubt, Lord A. No doubt. You're feelin' down. I totally feel for you. You wanna watch Somewhere in Time again?"
Midway through the film, as Rob did munch noisily of his popped corns, I sobbed and sobbed silently, for my lost Reeves, for my campaign presidential on the very verge of loss, for my bruised ego, and Rob's injured and chafféd groin, Rob did ask, apropos of little.
"You know, I've been thinking about it since the last time we watched this fucker, this morning, and I'm wondering: Why the fuck doesn't he just fly up into space and turn back time, like in the sequel?"
To turn back time, back to before the missed debates and the tire-shearing brambles, the moody VeePs and ex-sanguicumejaculated lab assistants, the manifold betrayals and errors each tiny on their own, but adding to an overwhelming question— But do not as "What is it?"
These are the universal desires of all who feel and think, be they gruntmonkey drysurface dwellers like Rob, noble and graceful squid like myself, feckless eel, lonesome shark, greedy porpoise, jubilant monkey or susurating hiveminded queen at the very heart of her anthill— all know regret, all know failure, all think time and again "Were I to do it again, certainly I would rend my enemies limbless!"
Thusly, constituents far and wide, do I promise you these: That I shall pot your chickens, that I shall car your garages, that I shall outsource your jobs, that I shall hurrican your hurricant's and that I shall bend ever effort to turn back your time. Vote Once, Vote Twice, Vote Squid!
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