Thursday, August 10, 2006

Happy hunting

Thanks to Brian's shrewd zoo outreach program, we've pretty well locked in the prairie dog vote. This is good news, of course, because these tunnel-digging wonders number in the millions nationwide. And wild and domesticated animals, so long as they spend at least 51% of the year on American soil (or air space, for migratory birds), will be allowed to vote by 2032. In the coming few years, you can expect numerous congressional arguments to focus on whether non-human species, since they share this same earth, shouldn't have an equal say in its management. Wild animals will be an easier sell as they live independently and generally try to eat as few people as possible. Domesticated species, however, will add a compelling dynamic to the electorate.

Take cows, for instance. Many agronomists predict that cattle, though they seem prone to a herd mentality, will actually prove a rebellious lot if politically empowered. Your average cow, be it range-fed or stock-raised, will no doubt favor further opening the foreign beef market, very much angering their rancher owners who insist that American beef should be all that Americans grill. Every Argentine cow shipped into this country, after all, is an American cow possibly not eaten. Inflexible, single-issue politics will dominate, for you'd better believe that cows will not agree, flat-hoofed, to having themselves slaughtered and sliced into steaks and hamburgers. What we could be facing is rank mutiny on vast ranches across the world. Better that we should strategize now to prevent this sort of anarchy. So livestock, I'm speaking to you now: join Team Wirsing, and we promise to be less dependent on you for protein and deliciousness.

This meaty sacrifice, of course, could anger another developing constituent - plants. Our campaign experts estimate that our leafy, oxygen-generating neighbors ought to join the electorate by 2040, a mere eight years behind. Their claim, long made but seldom heeded, will be that they produce what we breathe. When we nearly run out of air in 2034, gleeful giggles and taunts from garden produce will compel us to re-think our values. Damn those loud-mouthed, mocking tomatoes. Damn them!

Imagine these uncountable billions of as yet unswayed voters. Now imagine them all in our camp. Beat Wirsing? Beware our thunderous stampede of support, is more like it. You might caution us that we shouldn't count our chickens before they hatch. To that I say, "But hah, in the Wirld of tomorrow, those chickens will be counted, as will their votes!" At this point you should be speechless.

This weekend, Team Wirsing is taking a campaign trip deep into the mountain wilderness of Vermont to woo the flora and fauna of this fine New England state. All we have is a (borrowed) tent and a (stolen) cooler, but we expect to come back with an entire forest of support ... for the first time, literally.

Here's to hoping that Katie's toast doesn't prove too prophetic just yet.

9 comments:

Brian Joseph Hurley said...

Why do I have a feeling that if Karl owned a ranch, he would end up in a terrible feud with the George W. Bush ranch, and the two camps would obscure the western sun with their gunsmoke?

Federalist No. 2006 said...

2032 is going to look like the final battle in The Chronicles of Narnia

Karl said...

As long as we have Aslan on our side, then we'll do just fine.

katie the pirate said...

Oooh, did you get to fight that bear while in the depths of Vermont? If so, I'll gladly make you a presidential robe from its pelt. Although even grainy photos of you holding a stick menacingly over Tony dressed in a grizzly suit would probably work sufficiently to spread the legend. I guess you don't even have to be in Vermont to set that up. Just pose in front of a tree in Brookline.

Karl said...

No bear this time, Katie, though I did make seductive grunting noises on a hike to attract a worthy foe. Alas, none came.

We shall have to start the legend instead with the (true) story of my tooth-and-nail tussle with a rabid chipmunk, the fearsome likes of which even Conan the Barbarian would never dare oppose. I had been feeding my tiny speckled companion a peanut butter granola bar, but my supply quickly disappeared. Carelessly, I left my hand on the rock as I turned to face a tree-shrouded bluff - just then orange and shimmering in the sunset's glow. "Wow, that's quite lovely," I remember saying to myself. This chimpmunk, however, seeing me vulnerable, stole in for a nasty bite of my ring finger. "You little punk," I shot back as he retreated into the evergreens. No blood, but the two canine indentations sure did sting. I gave chase for three or four minutes until I slipped on a mossy rock and re-injured my ankle. For several more minutes I cussed the little ingrate. Then I returned to the spot the next morning with a loaded mouse trap (granola as bait, poetically) to teach him a lesson. We'll see if he ever bites the hand that feeds him again.

Let this tale suffice until I can rent that grizzly costume.

Tony said...

I'll get in the grizzly costume but Karl is going to have to earn his legend. This bear doesn't roll over for anyone.

Tony said...

unless they scratch my belly; then I just purr.

Karl said...

If by earn you mean make sure my shotgun is fully loaded, then yes Tony, I'm ready to step into history's most hallowed pages.

katie the pirate said...

Shotgun? Pah. Bare hands Karl, bare hands. (Or "bear hands." Get it? Hee hee.)