The Moon Beckons

I was sitting here at work, twiddling my restless opposables and remembering past years as a champion thumb-war wrestler, when fresh visions of sugar plums danced before me: we are now officially in this for the long haul, Team Wirsing. Which is fortunate, because as we approach the third marvelous month of our campaign, aborting it won't be legal much longer. So look at us and beam as a proud parent might - we are a fully-formed baby, legs and arms twitching to the sound of electoral success, eyes peaking at a horizon of political prowess, infant stomach growling with hunger for something more substantive than the pre-digested hand-me-downs of a mother country long since incapable of serving its citizens a decent meal.

No longer do we have to wait for a new tide of fortune. Our fate, after all, does no biding. It likes not the lolling sit-back of finger-crossers and idle dreamers. It cares even less for the raunchy vomit of empty promises of a better world to come. No, our fate accepts only the delicate fingers of thinkers who would mold this play-doh nation into a model to behold. And those hands, those soft, feeling, caressing hands, belong to us. Yes, look at them. I see you doing it. Look at those long fingers aching for the touch of change, the pinch of new hopes and prosperity. They are yours, and they are indeed fantastic. What can't you do with 10 fingers?

Now clench those lovely fists. Feel their power, their tightness, their crushing confidence. Then remember: we are the moon (you may recall all the effort I put into making the damn thing) of the future. We do the pulling, the planning, the planting, the plotting. We don't recline, my friends, until we're watching our careers played back to us on t.v. as number 1 on the future celebrated PBS series, "Greatest Administrations of All Time." By then, of course, we'll deserve a little rest.

Pipe-dreams are for smokers. Inhale a little of us instead and feel the real burning stench of possibility in your lungs.

It could be us