“You neb’ber whet a goot cwisis’s go to waits.”
– Some Democrat
You won’t me ta be pwesident?
The future leader of the country had come from beyond the southern horizon, smuggling himself across that artificial line in the sand that was the demarcation line with Mexico. Wearing a Ghillie suit of assorted vegetables, Pedro had easily blended in with the shipment of other fruits and vegetables shipped by truck across the border. Tastefully attached to his T-shirt and jeans, the Cuban wore some of the red cabbages as shoulda’ma-pads like the ones he had seen the Miami Dolphin players wearing on those few occasions when his rabbit-ear, black & white television set somehow picked up an errant signal. The pecks and abs of Pedro, likewise, had the same red cabbages adorning his camouflage gear with six red, bell peppers providing the effect of creating an appearance of a six pack.
Celery acted the part of sinewy arms a little lettuce and yes, a head, or two of broccoli, all somehow affixed to his T-shirt, bluejeans and naked feet. All that could be seen of Pedro Fidel Castro was his scraggly mustache and five o’clock shadow, which meant his face was covered by a real beard that had magically festooned his mug just twenty-four hours later. Pedro’s father had been hairy, too. So had his mother’s come to think of it. All the Castro’s were hairy. Hairy faces, hairy chests, hairy legs, hairy asses, and yes, hairy backs.
“Duh. You want me to run for ‘pwesident’?” asked the ‘coming out of a drunken stupor,‘ Democrat politician.
“Yea, that’s right dude! We’s want you to become President of the United States!”
“Duh, of America?”
The political commodities trader suddenly has a thought pop into his noggin. God, they (other political operatives) said this guy was stupid, but can he be this stupid?
The potential candidate and former community organizer turned Hollywood celebrity had reservations.
“Duh. What makes you think I can win de pwesidency?”
The political hack, a former liberal arts wielding, never worked a real job in his life liberal responded, but by first correcting the ignoramus’ pronunciation of the title ‘president.’
“Look dude, the position is pronounced ‘President,’ not ‘Pwesident,’ and yes the party believes you can win.”
Sure, given the nature of today’s American majority that detail would be meaningless, most could not understand the native tongue, just the same, some on the left still adhered to the old nomenclature, did not want to be associated with complete morons. Appearances, you know.
“Howse can you be so sure?”
God almighty, is this the only numbskull of color we could dig up on our side? the handler asks himself. My fellow dudes and dudettes are going to have a cow swallowing this guy’s mispronunciations.
“Look dude, we’ve got fifty-million illegals more than we originally guessed we had who can now vote. That’s one-hundred, twenty-five million guaranteed voters!”
To be continued…