My heart is heavy. I’m still trying to come to terms after I failed recently to make November’s GOP ballot for Wyoming’s 3/8ths of a congressman. Friends consoled me, noting I hadn’t exactly registered to run for Congress in The Equality State. Wyoming earned that nickname by becoming the first to give women the vote. 1983? I’m terrible with math.
While I didn’t campaign as even a write-in, surely, Wyomingonytes must have realized, that, if elected, I’d work tirelessly to repeal their debilitatingly stupid idea of giving women the right to vote. Or, allow them to drive, talk within 25 miles of a golf course, elk hunt or during a George Strait concert or wear mom jeans, for that matter.
I didn’t get one lousy vote. That’s worse than my opponent, Liz Cheney, the only Republican member of the neo-Nazi commie B-word known as “The Squad.” Or maybe it’s “Squid” because of the collective facial resemblance. There’s the fiery Bronx dancer, Alexandria “Occasional Cortex” Cortez. And Ilhan “I Married My WHAT!?!?!?!?!” Omar of Minnesota, the once proud land of Bullwinkle the Moose. Then there’s Ayanna “Not-Elvis” Pressley of Massachusetts. And, finally, Rashida Tlaib, who represents part of Detroit, which answers a lot of questions about what happens when voters drink the dark green soupy water straight out of the tap.
Liz should have been a shoo-in. Despite hunting poorly, her dad, Dick, is royalty in American politics. Liz was the incumbent. In a red state. Granted. She tirelessly spent her entire term concocting yet another phantasmagorical Dark Ages tale to get President Donald Trump guillotined while she made out in the Congressional Cloak Closet with drug-addled Democrats of all 264 sexual preferences. Cripes. Liz got her prairie heinie handed to her. Her opponent, Harriet Hageman, whooped up on Liz like Genghis Khan and His Mongol Horde vs. A Few Babies, both being great punk bluegrass band names.
Liz had the bold campaign strategy of accusing her conservative base that they were racists, spawns of Satan, and, worse, wanted to kiss and marry Donald Trump, birth his offspring and send them to public school where they could, as early as 2, decide if they wanted to get the surgery and become a He, a She or Naval Officer. Then, there was her campaign slogan: “I Hate Wyoming. Hate Wyoming With Me!”
Can’t understand how Lizzie “Borden” Cheney drew more votes than me. Perhaps I should have made a speech, a la Zoom, because who wants to drive to Wyoming? If I run again, I’ll call for more federal surveillance of the state’s large (3) Cowboy Population, ensuring they wear masks on Wyoming’s lonely grasslands. I’d create The Wyoming Planet Protection Agency. We’d hire 87,000 agents to ensure Wyoming’s three cowboys are wearing masks to protect them from COVID, the Dreaded Head Cold and, of course, Monkey Pox. Everyone from both coasts knows, monkeys roam Wyoming, some without proper papers. Or masks. Or Monkey Diapers (another band name?). I’ll add more useless federal personnel later in case Wyoming’s visited by Vole Pox, Coyote Pox, Lousy No-Good Mangy Coyote Pox and, Diverticulitis, including, of course, the Human, Bovine and Consensual versions.
On the off-chance 14 of the 87,000 new Washington health inspectors are residents of Wyoming, we’ve solved that state’s unemployment problem for the next thousand years.
Dear Mr. Santa Clarita Valley:
If you like Wyoming so much, why don’t you MOVE there and marry it?!?!?!!
Guess we told YOU!!!,
Diega Vergara & Tom “Thumb” Oatmeal
Thank you, o pesky Signal Hangers-On of Questionable Fictitious Nicknames. I DO love things Wyoming. The wildlife. Animals hanging around bars who pass as — The Wild Life. The abundant trout fishing and the not-so-abundant tuna fishing. As Wyoming’s 3/8ths of a congressman, I’d immediately form another tedious blue-ribbon committee to study why there are no tuna indigenous to Wyoming. Why, it’s absolutely racist.
That damn Donald Trump.
If Trump isn’t a tuna hater, then answer me this: When the FBI broke into his gilded Marv-a-Lego Mansion, how come they didn’t find ONE SINGLE TUNA?!!!!!!!!!!!!
Sigh. There’s much I adore about Wyoming: horseback riding. Asking the locals if there’s three “G’s” in “dogggie” or just two. Fetching and recently divorced cowgirl barrel racers with low self-esteem who will fall for the old saloon line: “Why, sorry, ma’am. I’ve always been too shy to slow-dance. Can you teach me?”
If you can’t tell by the terribly expensive O’Farrell cowboy hat in the picture above, Wyoming has my heart. But, I can’t visit Wyoming. Ever. It’s too windy there (average wind speed 12.9 mph, tops in the U.S.) and I wear contact lenses. There. I’ve confessed. A burden has lifted from my soul.
Still. Next election, I’ll put in a little more effort in my Wyoming 3/8ths of a congressman non-write-in bid. It can’t be that hard. Right before lunch, I could Zoom my subjects with my Monthly Honey Do Chore List. Mostly, it would be convicting people who, as they say on “Yellowstone,” need a “Serious Ride To The Train Station.” You know. Like, Liberals. The corpses? They can be mulched to fertilize the miles of azalea bushes and air ferns I’ll be planting along Wyoming’s endless scenic and gravel roads to nowhere.
I’d place a large bounty on wolves, but, on the Wanted Dead or Alive posters, I’d distribute photographs of noted Wyoming Democrats and useless, mouth-breathing government paper clip linkers. On the Wolf Poster would be one of two boxes to check: “Mulch?” or “Taxidermy?”
Because of the state’s low population density, I’m buying.
Or, maybe like Liz Cheney and Abe Lincoln, I could just use this loss as a motivational boost and run for the presidency in 2024. Then, I’ll then just make sure to never, ever, attend live theater or Wyoming because of the contact lens thing…
Santa Clarita’s John Boston is the most prolific satirist/humorist in world history. Visit his johnbostonbooks.com and buy some cool books.