Friday, August 19, 2011

Rick Perry: A Week in the Life of The Chosen One*

Saturday: My name is Rick Perry and I’m running for President. I’ve done more for the Texan economy than anyone since those boys who threw Santa Anna and the Mexicans out, I’ve executed more criminals than that little punk from Connecticut who called himself a Texan and who was governor before me, I’ve heard God whisper in my ear, I’ve smelled the sweet smell of Texas breezes, and I love America (except when I don’t).
I gaze out at the screaming, adoring crowd of people what’s come to see me make the announcement. These are my kind of people, God-fearing Americans who are looking for someone tougher than Mitt Romney, crazier than Michele Bachman, holier than Jon Huntsman.
“I learned”, I tell the crowd, “that not everyone values life like we do in America, or the rights that are endowed to every human being by a loving God”. I tell them what my message would be to the rest of the world: “We’re going to stand with those who stand with us, and we will vigorously defend our interests. And those who threaten our interests, harm our citizens—we will simply not be scolding you, we will defeat you”. Look out Iran. North Korea. France.
Sunday: I wake up, put on my cowboy boots, shower and then head to the kitchen. My lady wife Anita wrinkles her nose as she puts breakfast on the table. She maintains, the dear woman, that my boots stink because I put them on before I shower. I’ve explained to her that my political career—my bona fides, if you will—depend on my never being seen without my boots on, and I can’t run the risk of some reporter lying in wait in the bathroom to catch me with my guard down.
After church, I have some contemplative time and listen for what God has to tell me today. It’s hard to believe that it was only yesterday that I declared my candidacy for president. Maybe that’s because I’ve known all along that I was going to run. As soon as that black fella’ those East Coast socialists elected started having trouble with the economy, I said to myself, “Rick, this was a gift from God”. Or maybe it seems like it’s been so long because I’ve been workin’ so darn hard to raise money. Other parts of the country might look funny on some of our fundraising practises, but I’ve been using our God-given fundraising rights to the fullest.
Apparently in some states, they have limits on how much God-given voters or even one of these PACs can give to a politician. I’ve been hitting up my appointees for cash too ($17 million of it, in fact), and apparently in some parts, folks wouldn’t like this. Something about keeping money out of politics. Or preventing official corruption. The way I see it, if God wanted money kept out of politics, he wouldn’t have made money in the first place!
Monday: It’s a big day today...a major speech on the economy. I throw my shoulders back and strut towards the door, my cowboy boots making a pleasingly firm sound on the tile floor. “Rick...” my lady wife calls. “My dear?” I turn around. “You’re not dressed yet, honey”. I look down and chuckle, “Why so I’m not! What would I do without you?”
At my speaking engagement, I give the crowd some red meat. One of my advisors was worrying that I was just gonna being repeatin’ what this Ron Paul fella’ has been sayin’ for years and years, but I’ve put my own twist on things. Fed Chairman Ben Bernanke is in my proverbial sights. “If this guy prints more money between now and the election, I dunno what y’all would do to him in Iowa but we would treat him pretty ugly down in Texas. Printing more money to play politics at this particular time in American history is almost treasonous in my opinion!”
Some reporter who’s obviously never heard God speak to him or felt the Texan breeze whip through his carefully coiffed hair, asks, “What particular time in American history is this that you’re referring to, sir?” “Why right now, of course”, I reply, “when I’m running to be President!” “Are you threatening violence?” another of the little greenhorns asks. “Why is it you people always think I’m threatenin’ folks?” I ask, feigning bemusement. “First y’all thought I was threatenin’ to secede, now you think I’m tellin’ Bernanke that if I ran into him down in Texas I’d hog-tie him and stick ‘im in the electric chair”.
Tuesday: I’m at a news conference to talk about my upcoming prayer rally, and I use the occasion to slip in a few references to my conservative bona fides. “The solution to our problems is to cut spending and taxes” I declare boldly, fancying myself the new Ronald Reagan. Some little twerp reporter in the front row mentions that spending increased more sharply under my watch as Governor than under W’s. Annoyed, I stall for time: “How ‘bout them Mavericks?”
“Governor Perry” another one of ‘em calls, “you’ve suggested that we can pray our way out of the recession...are you insane, or just out of touch?” I put on my mean look, squinting and glaring at the assembled press. I stalk out of room, hoping that they got the message: Don’t Mess with Texas, or Texas will ignore your questions.
Wednesday: I’m pleased to see a CNN poll that has me running neck and neck with Romney and Bachmann. But other numbers are disturbing. Herman Cain and Michele Bachman look set to run away with the bigot vote between them. “We can’t let this happen!” I tell my pollster. “Well sir”, he replies, “Perhaps we should call attention to the invitees to your prayer rally”. “What does that have to do with bigotry?” I reply, having assumed that I’d have to repeat, on a grander scale, my Jose Cuevas joke. “Well, sir, there’s the one who suggested that homosexuality and the abandonment of God in America caused 9/11. Or we could go with the one who thinks that Oprah is the front woman for the Anti-Christ...” “Well, she is an Obama supporter”, I mutter. “And then there’s the Bird Lady”. “The Bird Lady?” I ask, puzzled, sure that I would have remembered inviting someone of that description to the rally. “Yes sir, she’s the woman who thinks that birds are dyin’ in Arkansas because we’re repealing Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”. “Oh!” I slap my forehead. “You mean Cindy Jacobs. You never know Tom, it’s a strange world we live in”.
Thursday: My cell phone rings. “Yup?” “Sir, it’s me. I’m thinking that all we need to do to capture the bigot vote is bring up the Ted Nugent Confederate Flag controversy”.
At a rally later in the day, I figure I’d better tap into this God thing a little more. “I’ve worked miracles on Texas’ economy!” I declare proudly. “We have no unemployment, more jobs than we know what to do with, money coming out our ears, and rivers running with milk and honey!”
Getting into my stride, I lay into Obama over the shutting down of NASA’s shuttle program: “The Obama Administration continues to lead federal agencies and programs astray, this time forcing NASA away from its original purpose of space exploration, and ignoring its groundbreaking past and enormous future potential”. “Just a minute, sir”, someone from the audience pipes up, “aren’t you in favour of cutting back the federal government as much as possible?”
“Not when it’s bringing jobs to Texas”, I declare blithely, hoping this won’t come back to haunt me. I think to myself that I’ll have to double-check whether I ever asked Obama for federal aid for fire-fighting.
Friday: I’ve been getting a rough ride from those reporters, so I take a break from the public scene today and have lunch with my man Musharraf. “Pervez, it’s a rough world we live in”, I declare stoically. Ah, Rick”, he sympathises, “those reporters are a nuisance. But take it from me, there are ways to take care of them, to make them see things from your perspective”. “Really?” I brighten up at the prospect. “Oh yes”, he confides. “In fact you and me and Don Rumsfeld should get together sometime. You’ve got lots to learn”.
At the end of a long day I am resting on the couch when out of the blue, clear as a bell if somewhat distant, I hear a voice say “I have something here for Rick Perry”. I leap upright and run to the living room where I see my lady wife. “I heard the voice of God!” I shout to her, jumping up and down with excitement. “He has something for me!” She looks at me, askance. “Rick, that was the mailman. He was just dropping off your NRA magazine”.

*I am not Rick Perry and I can only guess at the divinely-inspired thoughts that float through his brain.

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