Democracy is a Such an Inconvenience

 (By Cyril Blubberpuss, Conservative-American) 

The Blubberpuss political and financial legacy, one of the most underrated in American history, is nonetheless an enduring testament to rock-ribbed conservative Republican principles. Just because we don't toot our horn (albeit at the insistence of legal counsel who keep yammering about "Fifth amendment this, Fifth amendment that"), it doesn't mean that we haven't made a significant contribution to the fabric of this great nation's history. 

     Take the 1948 Democratic National Convention, for instance. Since I wasn't born until after, all my knowledge of this is anecdotal, mind you, and learned at the knee of my father, Ambrose after the fact. Ah, yes, the City of Brotherly Love, the birthplace of our democracy and Philly cheese steaks! Truman was up for election and things weren't looking too good for him. Thomas E. Dewey was on the rise and Truman was beset with the always-fractious southern Democrats.

     Well, some radical liberal named Hubert Humphrey, who was about as exciting as a stick of deep-fried cheddar, insisted on shoehorning a civil rights plank on the platform, which led to an exodus of some southern Democrats who'd formed their own party called the States' Rights Democratic Party and were uncharitably referred to as Dixiecrats. Though not vocal about it, their modestly-held position was that slavery and lynching should be up to the states to decide.

    So, they nominated Strom Thurmond for president and the hell with what the other 95% of the Democrat Party thought. But before they finally settled on a running mate, it was up for grabs in a series of ballots. Since they stormed out of the convention hall in Philadelphia, they needed a venue. So they left Philly and went to neighboring New Jersey. They hastily rented a hall owned by the Fraternity of Muskrats, a worthy rival of the Eagle, Elk and Moose lodges.

     This is where my father Ambrose comes in. The front runner for VP and eventual winner was some redneck governor named Fielding Wright of Mississippi. Father Ambrose had an uphill battle, no doubt about it, especially as every person at the Dixiecrat convention could boast of ancestors who had either owned slaves or appeared on lynching post cards down south. Some, I imagine, hadn't married outside their family tree since the 17th century.

     So they looked at my father somewhat askance and even poked fun at his Brooklyn accent and he fit in about as well as a Temperance Society spinster at a dog fight. But Father had by this time set his sights on a future in politics, which, in just a few short years, culminated in the most glorious quarter term in Congressional history. And Father Ambrose had a philosophy: If the Good Ole Boy Network slams the door in your face, you pick the lock and sneak in while they're all sleeping and, hopefully, take their silverware before they wake up.

    Still, already the canny political operator, Father tried to ingratiate himself into their good graces, even coming up with a catchy slogan that he thought up after a half dozen highballs at the cash bar at the Muskrats: "An axe handle on every head." It didn't catch on quite as much as he'd hoped because, the way the delegates saw it, that axe handle could've landed on all their heads and not "the right ones".

     Father Ambrose got wiped out by Fields on the very first ballot, his sole vote coming from a young but balding short order cook from Georgia named Lester Maddox (who also had an unnatural obsession with axe handles). Thurmond ran on a Segregationist platform, won a couple of states, but got his ass handed to him by Truman. Poor father never completely recovered from that humiliation at the hands of those who he'd regarded as cousin-fucking traitors. He never felt the same way about the electoral process again even after getting elected to Congress in 1952.

     So when my friend President Donald Trump told a TPUSA crowd in West Palm Beach yesterday that if they install him back in the White House, they'll never have to vote again, I pumped my pudgy little fist. It made me think of Father's bitter jeremiads against the entire concept of free and fair elections.

     Unfortunately, my baby brother Cecil isn't a political animal like me and likely never will be. Cecil has his own issues and himself had never fully recovered after seeing Barron Trump grow up from a cute little 11 year-old kid to a Slender Man of seven foot eight. To this day, he takes Barron's picture into the bathroom and quietly weeps. At least, I assume he's weeping.

 

     My little girl Bertha, on the other hand, is developing an unhealthy fixation on Vice President Harris, an ultra liberal if there ever was one. She sits on her bed for hours at a time, staring longingly at her Kamala Harris poster and rocking back and forth while playing Melissa Etheridge and kd lang songs on an endless loop. I never thought she'd ever turn into a Democrat. Where did I go wrong?

    But, hopefully, when Donald gets re-elected, he'll stay awake long enough during his own revolution and we'll never be afflicted ever again with early voting, ballot drop boxes, absentee ballots or that whole voting inconvenience. Because voting for elected officials is much too serious an affair to be left to the wrong people.