A pre-election prediction

I took in the all candidates meeting out in Hooterville the other night and it was predictable to say the least. Obama and McCain were at their best…. Whoops, sorry… wrong election.

The candidates visiting the Drizzle Creek District were arrayed across the front like a bunch of convicted terrorists awaiting the firing squad.

The assassins were scattered throughout the audience trying to get their jabs in at the victims they didn’t support, while deflecting criticism from their own favourite. Bombast and hyperbole was rampant. Even the candidates were slinging a bit of mud.

All in all, we didn’t learn much and no one changed their minds. It seems to be the status quo. But someone must be changing their allegiance; otherwise what would be the point of having an election. Well, I’ve got it figured out. A sure fire poll, I reckon is accurate. Here is how I stumbled on it.

I started listening to women. My wife the Pearl of the Orient says it isn’t true. She claims I haven’t listened to her more than once or twice in nearly forty years of wedded bliss. I had to explain it was other women I was listening to- eavesdropping actually. Husbands and wives aren’t supposed to listen to each other.

I started picking up these tidbits while waiting at the checkout, picking up the mail, paying my Stupid Tax at the 649 counter, or offering refills to the ladies crowding the front table at the Bakery in Drizzle Creek. I started keeping track.

“Did you see that hunky John RiffRaff outside the post office this morning,” gushed one lady of maturing years.

“My yes! Those flowing locks of glistening silver. I’d sure like to run my fingers through his hair,” replied a companion letting out an audible sigh.

“Well I like that Kenny BiffBoff. He has that cute little wave of hair flipping down over his forehead and such a lovely smile,” said a third and with a giggle added, “He’s single, you know.”

“That Rusty Lusty seems like a very nice young man,” observed another thoughtfully.

“Too young. He’s just a baby. You’d have to spend all your efforts mothering him,” snorted a Red Hatter obviously fed up with raising kids and ready to wear purple.

“Well how about that Ricky Oldmann. He’s a mature military man. I always was a sucker for a man in a uniform” wondered another wag, dreamily running her tongue over her lips.

“Nope! He’s overweight and overbearing. Just like my second husband when he’d had a belly full of beer,” snapped an obviously bitter matron.

“And that leader of his Stephen Heartless with his school boy good looks. Reminds me of that boy that had his way with me back in school. (Gasps all round) Lied to me and dumped me. Broke my heart. How could you trust a man that perfect,” the tirade continued. ‘Hell hath no fury like a women scorned’ and all that.

I was receiving some hostile looks so I drifted out of earshot, but I’ve been keeping score and the prediction is, RiffRaff edging out BiffBoff by a hairdo. Oldmann will be a distant third- broken hearts are vindictive, and Rusty Lusty could make a surprisingly strong showing if the empty nest syndrome kicks in.

Statistically, this poll is considered accurate within 50 percentage points, ten times out of twenty- maybe.

Lessons Learned

With the chill winds of autumn reminding us the summer is over, reminiscing over the past season’s follies was in high gear down at the Bakery in Drizzle Creek the other morning as I pulled up a chair.

“When did you say you were heading south?” Pickle quizzed me as I extracted a pencil and began recording his latest escapade on a napkin. My short-term memory is just not what it used to be.

Pickle was silent for all of thirty seconds, trying desperately, but in vain from not exercising that profound ability of his- getting his foot in his mouth.

Turning to Dr. Goodwrench, he stated flatly, “Don’t bring that lawnmower back anymore. The warranty has expired. Fix it yourself.”

“You don’t understand, I only work on major pieces of equipment, that require substantial professional repairs. I leave that rinky-dink stuff to you backyard doctors,” retorted Dr. Goodwrench as he swept his hair back out of his eyes so he could find his coffee cup.

“No I don’t have time! I’m busy electrifying my wood splitter, and I have to finish a major tune-up on the missus’ lawnmower. All that rain and mild weather has really kept the lawn growing,” explained Pickle, as he checked his watch, then settled back in his chair. After all it was only 45 minutes into the coffee break.

“What do you mean electrifying your wood splitter? I thought you powered it off your truck,” remarked the Runt who to this point had been too deeply involved with his toast and peanut butter to comment on other matters.

“Gas is too expensive, so I mounted a couple of old electric motors on it. Just plug it in and it runs for nothing,” explained Pickle, ever on the lookout for any way to save a nickel.

“Why don’t you have to pay a Hydro None bill like the rest of us?” wondered Moose, who had been uncommonly quiet to this point.

“Oh no. I just run an extension cord under the hedge an plug it in that side outlet on Dot’s house,” bragged Pickle and then realizing he had spilled the beans, reddened and concentrated on his coffee.

A pool was immediately started on how long it would take Dot to detect the errant extension cord. My money’s on Dot.

Pickle will be out of town this week on the mighty moose hunt, so he’s safe for a few days. But he has to tune up that lawnmower first. It must be humming, not so he can cut the lawn. Oh no, he planned carefully the first time he did that a few decades back and made such a mess of it, his good wife hasn’t let him touch it since. Insists on doing it all herself.

Hmmm, is there a lesson to be learned here?