Dear Mrs. Vera,
Do you find last week’s election results encouraging?
Yours not convinced truly,
Dear Mr. Cucinelli,
Not knowing the spelling of one’s last name can lead to some confusion at the ballot box and that may have been a factor in your defeat you could have anticipated, but it’s too late, now.
In any case, thank you for writing in for my advice on how to leave a party gracefully, after you’ve been asked to go. I’m confident that with a little more practice, even you can master this useful social skill! The state of Virginia is a pretty classy lady, so she must have had a good reason to put you on the spot (I heard it was a big, red X, with a small but rapidly enlarging shadow of a piano covering it), what with Southern hospitality and everything. You did surprisingly well for someone so unpopular and disliked, and shouldn’t be ashamed by what dumb voters do based on the content of your campaign. The important thing is that you voted for you. And, remember, there is no “you” in “Vagina,” which may explain your lack of appeal to the women of Virginia.
For a smallish election, I’ll admit the results in several of the races were encouraging, at least in the sense that we now know there are still some people left on the voter rolls that are still capable of actually voting following the super tough new voter ID restrictions in place. Like Karl Rove on the last day of the Romney pre-presidency, I’m sure you are scratching your head’s last few hairs off trying to figure out how so many Democrats can jump through so many flaming hoops without catching themselves on fire, just because they happen to know or are related to or are female votebags. Go figure! Yes, go figure yourself. You now have all the time in the world to try to understand why you are no longer part of the Virginia that is for Lovers, of your politics. A word of advice: no matter how disappointed you are, try not to get caught on audio tape referring to it as “Vaginia,” it’s crude and loutish, and there’s a lot of static from the sounds of knuckles dragging down the marble stairs of the statehouse and into the parking lot, down Interstate 80 and fading into the distant horizon. What a pretty sunset!
So who were the other gigantic big losers on Tuesday besides Barbie’s dream boyfriend? Mr. Cloacanoli said his defeat by a boring, un-enthralling Democrat in the reddish state was a tea party “victory” for repealing Obamacare, which I guess it is, if you write the results down backwards and upside down, from right to left, and read it in an inside-out mirror in a scary black cave somewhere under some rocks where you’ll be setting up shop, now. Ergo, despite the loss by their candidate, we all know the Tea Party isn’t a gigantic big loser, because Obamacare. This latest voter-attack on the beleaguered, beloved Corporate Profit Sector strikes hard at many significant companies that are crucial bellwethers in the recovery of our sluggish, dividend-bearing economy, such as manufacturing concerns that produce transvaginal ultrasound wands (jobs, jobs, jobs), and makers of chairs for politicians who want the government to subscribe to and watch that channel, everywhere, like some kind of creepy Big Brother someone ought to write a book about. Although I hear those babies are not compensated when their mothers are intimidated into carrying them, and are anyway pretty much on their own once they get here, because taxes and poor people and food stamps.
It’s always encouraging, a little I guess, to see the indomitable nature of the human mind and spirit to cling to its beliefs despite repeatedly coming up against evidence and election results that those beliefs are unpopular and distasteful to the folks one hopes to represent. Or is it just sad? Either way, its Obama’s fault, most likely, that people prefer a weirdo Clinton fundraising operative over the guy obsessed with stranger lady reproductive system contents, or as he likes to call them, “womb-ens.” What other explanation can there be, besides the weak-willed silly-headedness of the feminine mind? Republicans know their party must pay attention to whatever women are yakking about now, or at least pretend to agree with them until they stop. Because, the threat of Obama.
Am I encouraged that the very blue state of New Jersey star-voted their starving-man-on-a-tropical-island-hallucinatory 1/4 ton hamburger impersonator overwhelmingly back into the crushed and saggy reinforced governor’s seat? Meh. The guy is popular for calling it as he sees it, and for calling signing some of what the Democratically led state legislature that represents the will of the people of New Jersey passes into law “bipartisanship.” Unless he thinks the voters are wrong, of course. Chris Christie wants to run for President, and New Jersey voters would love to see that happen. It’s either him or Donald Trump, Mrs. Snooky Situation or Jon Stewart. And nobody wants Jon Stewart to stop being funny. I shouldn’t tease Governor Christie about his weight, I know, despite all the obvious health concerns, if only because he seems like the kind of guy who keeps a list of those people, and I’ve seen Broadway Danny Rose and don’t want to have to run through a reedy swamp with Mia Farrow from shady mobsters tired of me voting. But for his own health, I’d like for him to run for president, or for a bus or just up a hill or staircase now and then. I just don’t want to watch him run for three years. I haven’t got the insoles for that.
It seems New York City has elected a hard core liberal mayor, a political type long believed to have gone extinct decades ago, which is encouraging! Could a captive breeding program with Elizabeth Warren be in the works? One hopes nothing that extreme will be necessary to save this rare species, and our nation’s diversity, from what Obama has made us do to ourselves with his poisonous politeness.
Cities are now recognized as being at the only level of government that still knows any actual human people, whose voting habits look (hilariously) from a high-rise apartment like so many ants on a dropped lollipop. As opposed to the corporation people and lobby folk electing our congressional representatives for us, who just want to make their voices heard, over yours, at the State and Federal level, while gargling bags of sugar. Now that’s a good act for the Gong Show in my opinion, and I encourage Hollywood to bring that back ASAP, but as a system of toothless governance with very sticky hands, I feel it may be time for the country to grow up a little and try the Brussels sprouts again. Just pretend they are blueberries, pomegranates or coconut water and you’ll live forever. Our stupid blueberry-avoiding ancestors aren’t alive today for a reason, people!
Hopefully the election results in NYC aren’t a fluke that merely indicates that the people of that city can’t stand the kind of irritating, privileged neighbors that everybody there has become, especially now that all the suburbs have moved back in, essentially ruining their “cool” neighborhoods with the monotony of fabulous wealth. With no one to lord it over anymore, Manhattanites are second guessing their self-worth. Nobody wants to be served a coffee by somebody whose net worth is in the millions. Tipping becomes an impossible nightmare, and everyone is so judgmental and busy. Without a few poor people around to remind them what that’s like, everyone forgets what happiness looks or feels like, and those apartments are much too small to spend more than a little time sitting in, wondering what one is alive for. It’s much healthier to get out there and watch other people working. Liberal tax policies that support the poor are like a mental health entitlement program for their betters, so they can look at themselves in the morning, and go on shopping. One day at a time.
Mrs. Vera Newman is a San Francisco absurdist character, humorist, artist, writer, community organizer, clothes horse and co-founder, with Mister Tina, of The Verasphere. She has been answering the unasked questions she receives from the lonely, empty rooms of America’s heart-shaped circulatory pump room ever since it began beating. Nestled in the politically bent bowels of the Nation since she was a young girl babysitting the very same newborn Nation, her ability to self-reflect about anyone else’s embarrassing shortcomings, inept fumblings or lousy recipes has enabled her invisible rise as a modern-day Cassandra, whatever that means. Feel free to dispose of all your worries by leaving them on her doorstep!