Questions From a Daydream


Have you ever day dreamed about something and then really, really wished it could come true? I found myself doing just that recently (but then the boss called and I had to get back to work).

Later, after I hung up on the boss (the slave driver) I remembered that I was fantasizing about just what I would ask the Presidential candidates, even the ones already headed home with their tails between their legs, if I had the chance to get them all into one room and ask them each just one question.

I think I’d ask Steve Forbes, “Where in your hometown, and nearest to your house, can one find the best soup kitchen?”

I’d like to ask Al Gore, “Without asking your wife, what color socks did you wear to bed last night?”

For John McCain, I’d ask, “If you had the opportunity to choose where the next nuclear bomb were to be tested, would you choose Hanoi or Houston?”

For Donald Trump, I’d ask, “Be honest, Don, sweetheart. Aren’t you just running for President in order to meet new babes?”

For Bill Bradley the question would be, “Hey! How’s the weather up there? Yee Haw! Snort! Snort!”

For Gary Bauer, I’d inquire, “Do you really believe that the six people in America who share your hatred of all that isn’t firmly rooted in the Nazi philosophy is enough of a voter base to win in any of the states save Texas or Florida?”

For George W. Bush Jr., I suppose the question would be, “Now that you know for certain that all three members of the original Three Stooges are dead, who will you choose to be your running mate in hopes of appearing, to the American voters, somewhat intelligent by comparison?”

For Alan Keyes, I could only ask, “Why are you wasting such valuable moments of your short life span in such an obviously useless and futile endeavor?”

I'd ask Pat Buchanan, "If you were the first to arrive at the scene of the crash of an airplane carrying blacks and Jews and feminists and homosexuals, where would you bury the survivors?" Then, just because I hate to let a good metaphor go to waste and die on the vine or ride off into the sunset or whatever, I thought about the questions I might ask other politicians or representatives from Corporate America, as well.

For Dianne Feinstein, California Senator, I’d ask, “Since you run as a Democrat but vote as a Republican, are you trying to be first in line to be Billy-boy Clinton’s next cigar humidor?”

For Jerry Lewis, my local Republican Congressman I’d ask, “Do you behave this way because you have the same name as a comedian whose glory is long passed or did you acquire the name because of your voting record?”

I’d ask California’s Gov. Gray Davis, “Since you run as a Democrat but vote as a Republican, are you trying to be second in line to be Billy-boy Clinton’s next cigar humidor?”

I’d ask KKK member and Hitler fan and one-time presidential candidate from the Republican Party (but I find I’m repeating myself), David Duke, “Do you think the emissions from cross burnings should be exempt from federal clean air regulations?”

Next, I’d turn to Hillary Clinton and ask, “Which pitcher for the Yankees had the best won/lost record last year? As a follow-up question, and without asking your Secret Service detail, exactly where is your husband right this very second?”

Then I’d wander around the room until I bumped into Los Angeles Police Chief Bernard C. Parks and I’d ask, “Why are assault charges and African-Americans alike? Because the LAPD beat both quite often in the last few years.”

Then, I would go look for the Chief of the New York Police Dept. and I’d ask him, “Why are New York police like inept janitors? Neither can figure out where their broom handles are supposed to be stored.”

When I saw Bill Gates standing all alone in a corner, looking all shy and withdrawn, I’d go over and ask, “Mr. Gates (you always call a billionaire “Mister”), which president is on the one dollar bill? How about the penny?”

If I found Pat Robertson healing the rich and afflicted, I’d politely interrupt and inquire, “Pat, baby! Burn any good books lately?”

There’s old Jeb Bush over yonder with his purty wife, Ellie May. “Jeb,” I’d softly query, “burned any good crooks lately?”

Suddenly, I’m facing John McCain again. “John,” I’d loudly inquire, “burned any good gooks lately?”

Hearing a loud guffaw, I’d stroll over to where Billy-Bob Clinton stood, feeling up the hat-check girl. “Bill,” I’d say, “You’re just too easy of a target. Enjoy the evening.”

Over in a corner, I hear Nancy Reagan weeping and moaning about how deeply into Alzheimer’s Ronnie has gone. “Nancy, sweet lady” I’d ask, “how can you tell?”

Finally, tiring of my little game, I head for the nearest exit. As I leave, I bump into George W. Bush Sr. “George, old boy,” I’d ask as I put my arm over his shoulder in a spirit of shared secrets, “How does it feel to be the father of three of the dumbest human beings on Earth?”

With that, I mount my horse, reliable old sway backed Linda Tripp, and head off into the noxious fumes obliterating the sunset.

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Copyright 4/20/2000