When I turned 18, I bought a pack of cigarettes, a few lottery tickets and some pornography and made a list of all the fun things I could do while in the voting booth. Things like asking loudly for the soap, chanting “USA! USA!” the whole time, making high volume defecation sounds and writing in absurdly implausible candidates like “Spiderman” or “Dennis Kucinich” topped the list. Realizing now that I am going to have to use an absentee ballot, that list has become one of those disappointing failed expectations about the future, like “hover cars” and “robot ninja police squads.”
I don’t see filling out an absentee ballot as sufficiently rocking the vote. Pulling a lever, now that’s a vote rocker. I’m lite rocking the vote, maybe even easy listening the vote. If I’m going to choke back the vomit and vote for this Skull and Bones pedigree military expanding hound dog resembling Democrat, then I at least want a damn lever.
So, I took the issue to the Republican National Convention in New York City and demanded some answers. Bearing a sign that read, “Absentee Ballots Should Come Equipped with Small but Functional Levers!,” I took to the streets. Whose streets, you might ask? Our streets, I soon learned.
I tried to go right up to Madison Square Garden to air my two-part grievance: that I don’t have a fun lever to vote with and that Lenny Wilkins hasn’t been fired. I was ready to demand answers. The police were ready to demand credentials. I showed Officer Thug (1) the note card that said “PRESS” in bold, Franklin Gothic Medium type that I had pinned to my “Lick Bush” hat. Officer Thug then proceeded to beat me mercilessly with his signed copy of Mark Fuhrman’s autobiography, intermittently stopping to tell me why he thought that holding the 2012 Olympics in New York City was a good idea (2).
Not being allowed within forty-five miles of Madison Square Garden only added to my duress. While wandering the city, looking for the Civilian Complaint Review Board, I came across Don from the Illinois delegation. Don was standing outside his hotel waiting for a taxi. He told me how great it was to be able to get out and see New York City. I found this interesting, being that if he had actually gone out and seen the city, he would have seen half a million people in the streets telling him to get the hell out. Or at least half a million people yelling arrhythmic, somewhat incoherent slogans in the general direction of Madison Square Garden. When Don says he “saw New York City,” he means he saw maybe 42nd street—and by that I of course mean the inside of the theater where it is playing. After a quick game of pick-up basketball in Marcus Garvey Park, Don and I parted ways.
I walked back downtown and came upon Madison Square Park, where I saw five cops surrounding two bearded guys playing hackey-sack. They were watching the men intently, as though the hippies were about to detonate their hackey-sack dirty bomb or light up a cigarette in an outdoor café. I approached the officers and told them that I was looking to file a civilian complain about police misconduct, the lack of miniature levers, and the Knicks’s poor offensive cohesiveness. Officer Jackoff (3) then arrested me for blocking the sidewalk—“try not to take up so much space next time,” was his admonishment.
I was held at Pier 57, or “Manzanar on the Hudson.” I was pleased with my surroundings, a style I’d describe as Fascist Minimalism. Fortunately, someone had a portable TV, and we were able to watch some of the Convention.
I enjoyed Arnold using his Terminator catchphrase, “I’ll be back,” to refer to Sept. 11. That’s almost as tactful as him ending a eulogy with “Hasta la vista, baby.” Then the Bush twins came out to speak. I thought it was a bold move for them to come out drunk; it added a little fun the evening. My favorite part was when Jenna said that she was going to reveal embarrassing information about her parents on live TV and then said, “Our parents’ favorite term of endearment for each other is actually Bushie…and Dad misled the nation into an illegal and imperialist war.” Spoiled drunks say the darndest things. Going to the Convention protests made me feel a little better about not having a booth in which to vote and about my decision to vote for the evil of two lessers. The situation is not what I thought it was going to be, so I have to adapt. I’m voting for John Kerry not because I like him, and not even because he is “anyone but Bush.” I’m voting for him because, in this dismal situation, for me, it comes down to the human toll, and I am willing to set aside my political views to help prevent the humanitarian disaster that is a Bush re-election. I am adapting by voting for Kerry, but still protesting against the corporate oligarchy for which he stands. Similarly although I will miss using a lever, I am adapting by using the absentee ballot, but still making high-volume defection sounds.
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