by Casey Pendelton

Bio:  Casey lives in a hovel in Middle America with her pet gargoyle, Rassmussen. She has an honorary degree in Overactive Imagination from the School of Second Childhood.

When she isn't living in a fantasy world, she is feeding her interest in the ironies of human behavior. She enjoys reading the obituaries, restaurant menus, and serial fiction, of course. In her next life, she hopes to return as a wealthy, well-kept woman with aspirations to conquer the world. Barring that, she'd rather be a penguin.

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Vote for Rassmussen

Earlier, I sat at my desk, going through all the literature, comparing my options, making my list, and checking it twice.  No, I’m not one of those people who shops for Christmas in August; I am a voter.  Not just any voter, I am an informed voter, or at least I try to be. 

Rassmussen thinks I am wasting my time.  He thinks the only good politician is one buried 10-feet under a fully operational missile silo.  His dream is to one day own a missile silo, so I am not sure why he would want the bodies of those he despises so close to him, but I am sure he has his reasons.  If I am fortunate, he will forego sharing those with me, at least today.  I already have a migraine trying to decipher our last conversation.

Rassmussen theorizes the only way to choose a real winner, or at least one who will not lead you into another global war is as simple as taking a count of all the yard signs posted within a 3-mile radius.  The candidate or cause sporting the least amount of roadside waste earns your vote. 

I have to admit, I was perplexed and a little desperate.  The street leading into my neighborhood is littered with enough of these colorful, miniature billboards to repaper the White House, although I doubt the First Lady would approve of the décor.

Thankfully, he was on his way to the cellar to work on his carcass collections, so he kept his answer brief.  “Simple. They all espouse how important it is to vote according to the issues, to think smart, to do what is best for the nation.  Then they spend a good bit of silver setting up a popularity contest, of which, the yard signs are the cornerstone of this name recognition malarkey created to line the pockets of con-men and ad-men—who by the way, are often one and the same in my book.

“Hence, they are saying one thing and doing another.  Now, what kind of man is that to represent your best interest while in office?  He’s just as apt to sell you out to the highest bidder as live up to his promises.  So, vote for the man posting the fewest signs.  Chances are his money is going into a battle of issues rather than powdering his pretty face and smilin’ for the camera.

“I’ve done it my way since before you were born.  The few times an issue man has been elected to office, he’s worked to keep his promises.  But, those with the most signs, bah!  Nothing more than fronts for those too tainted to get elected. 

“Why the stories I could tell. . . .”

There was more, but I couldn’t hear it without following him down the stairs.  And, frankly, I didn’t care enough to see what lay down there in the dark. 

So, now Rassmussen is off, doing his sign count.  He hung a pocket notebook around his neck on a piece of twine and borrowed a pen.  One of my good ones, too.  The one like the astronauts use.  You know the one; it writes upside down.  I’d like it back, but he’s yet to return the last one he borrowed. 

I am again sitting at my desk, looking for answer among the propaganda.  The more my head aches, the more I think of my past selections and how their time in office was spent, the more appealing Rassmussen’s method becomes.  I wonder how much crow he will make me eat to see his tally sheet . . . it might be worth it, for the good for the nation, you know.