Democrette Breasts No Substitute For Hard Marketing

“Juan called me. There was a Democratic fundraiser and his double-D Democrette was looking for warm bodies. Would I come?

“”You mean she’s looking for warm checkbooks?”” I said, but I went downtown because it sounded cheaper than a new TV set. I’m probably going to throw something at my screen the next time that pooky-faced president shows his stupid lying smirk in my living room. Maybe paying someone to do something about it would help restrain me.

The Democrette had impressive breasts, a startling color clash between her hair and eyebrows, and a possessive hand on Juan’s arm. She relaxed when she saw that I’d worn a habit, even though she knows I’m not in the Order any more. (I’m still pissed at the Popes for the AIDS condom thing, so after the Kerry communion business, I felt vaguely as if I was making some kind of point.)

Everything was red-white-and-blue, the candidate preached to the choir about Bush’s errors, and his handlers explained the cost of advertising. The supporters made position statements (expressed as questions) and various wannabes volunteered for assorted tasks. Then the serious business of collecting the money began.

Juan gave me a warning look, but I’m a total bitch anyway, and I work hard for my cash. I smiled at the earnest young man who approached my checkbook, and asked him what I would get out of his candidate’s going to Tallahassee.

This was clearly something that the boy had not considered. Don’t you think that might be a disadvantage if he came face to face with a real swing voter? I considered mercy, but then I thought about the cost of a new television set and that hardened my heart.

“”Me… what’s in it for me? If he goes to Tallahassee, what will be different for ME?””

’Um… well things will be different. Um, he stands for change, instead of the way things are. We’ll, er? he’ll, er. Things would be different.’

’Look,’ I said (picturing a huge flat-screen with a very large amount on the Best Buy tag). ‘People care about themselves. About their dogs, their families, their hobbies, their finances, their jobs, their homes, their TELEVISION SETS, their cars and their churches. Sell me on this.’

’Um? well the candidate supports Senator Biden’s position on Iraq and, as you know, the Bush Administration has lied?’

’Sweetie, I wanna hear the word ‘YOU’ in your reply. Start with the word YOU and then continue with all the benefits for ME which are going to come out of this’

’Um? well, your home owner’s insurance? he’ll fight to make sure that YOUR home insurance?.’

’Okay – now we’re getting somewhere. My insurance. My money, my safety. My friend’s kid in Iraq? My peace of mind? My money spent on the war? My health? My family’s education? My prosperity? Rove gets it, now do you get it? Me me me! Sell me benefits. Sell me what matters to ME!’

Juan was nowhere to be seen. That guy is such a wuss! But there was a glimmer of understanding in the kid’s eyes. He took a deep breath:

’You’ll be safer. Your family will be safer. Your money will be spent more wisely. You won’t get screwed by the insurance companies. Your money will go towards the things you need, like education and health care. This is also the start of making sure that your country won’t be isolated and your president won’t be the laughing stock of the world community?’

He looked at me hopefully (okay – so the details needed some work).

I added an extra zero to the check amount, scribbled the words, signed it, and kissed the kid’s cheek. ‘You’ll do,’ I said. He looked relieved and scuttled off to the next people.

The kid was a quick learner. I heard him haranguing them passionately about the personal benefits they would derive from sending his candidate to the State Capitol.

Juan reappeared, and now he was laughing, although the Democrette was pouting at a distance. He called me a bitch, I agreed completely, and we went to lunch.

Somewhere into the second bottle of wine, we realized that we had forgotten to invite her, but by then it didn’t seem important.



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