It Takes A Village of the Damned

Yes, as you might have expected, and probably dreaded, my wife and I watched the opening night of the Democratic National Convention.

"Well hon," I said, "you're witnessing political theater at its finest. I don't know why people are so down on politicians. They're paid to entertain us, just like Hollywood celebrities, rap artists, and professional athletes."

Shellie looked up from her crocheting, "The only reason I'm watching is because of Elizabeth Warren."

"I'd go back to British rule if she could be the Queen. Besides, I want to hear what the junior Senator from the great and important State of Vermont has to say," I said. "Oh, no offense to their maple syrup."

"I didn't know you were a Bernie or buster," Shellie said.

"Sure, but I voted for Buster," I pointed out.

We watched a few inspirational speeches, and during a pause I asked Shellie, "What do you think of Hillary naming that old guy from the Republican party as her running mate?"

"What are you talking about?" she said.

"You know," I continued, "the guy that ran for president a few years back with that crazy lady from Alaska. McCain, wasn't it?"

"Hon, Hillary chose Tim Kaine, the Democratic senator from Virginia. He's a centrist party hack."

They came back from commercials to the comedy stylings of stand-up congressman Al Franken. Even these bon mots of the Beltway did not prepare me for the remarks by elder stateswoman and political philosopher Sarah Silverman.

The few minutes of unexpected ad libbing required to fill time before the next act was ready, felt like I was being forced to watch the awkward first date of a biological-clock-ticking Jewish couple at a Catskills honeymoon lodge.

After a brief eternity, they were given the signal to introduce the legendary Paul Simon. I wondered why they were wheeling the deceased former Illinois senator out on stage. True, he was a Democrat, but still. Imagine my astonishment when the dead body of Senator Simon began to sing the old 60s folk classic, "Bridge Over Troubled Waters."

I sputtered out, "Dead guy... singing..."

"What are you talking about!" she exclaimed.

"P... P... P... Paul Simon... Senator... dead guy..." I stammered.

"Hon! That's not Senator Paul Simon. That's the SINGER Paul Simon," she huffed.

"D... D... Dead guy," I said pointing at the apparition on the screen, not shaken in my belief.

Fortunately, the horror was short-lived, and the mood was inspired with the soaring rhetoric of the former child actor from the late 70s sitcom, "Diff'rent Strokes."

"You know, he's a lot taller, and somewhat better looking, than he appeared on TV," I observed.

"Again," my wife said wearily, "what are you talking about?"

"Cory Bookman, that funny, little, black kid that was adopted by the rich, white dude," I tried to jog her memory.

"Sweetie, I love you dearly, but you're either going to drive me to drink, drive me to murder, or drive me home to mother. The child actor was Gary Coleman. After the TV show went off the air, he did a few guest appearances, then faded away. He had a rough life and died in his early 40s of natural causes. This is Cory Booker, the junior United States Senator from New Jersey. He's 47 years old, and he's a rising star in the Democratic Party."

"Well, whoever he is, I love him!" I said. "I actually would like to have his illegitimate political lovechild, but why isn't he the nominee?"

"Cuz Hillary wants her turn," my wife said in a snarky voice. "I was a faithful party girl, while that... upstart... got to live in MY house for the last eight years. I wanna be president now. You promised, and I'm going to hold my breath till everyone plays 'yes, madame president' with me."

"Okay, here come the heavy hitters anyway," I said.

The First Lady took the stage, and I was struck with her poise, her grace, her dignity, her bearing, her beauty. I must have been, because I don't remember much of the speech, except that she played the pride of country card, the pride of family card, and the pride of husband card. Spoken like a true doormat.

And forget about those pesky emails, stolen by those pesky Russians, and leaked by that pesky foreign guy who looks like Andy Warhol. I just don't want my mother, daughters, aunts, cousins, girlfriends, neighbors, and coworkers (okay, maybe some of my coworkers) to be repeatedly abused at the hands of Trump and his Mad Max hordes of slavering white male trash.

The smooth-as-silk finish was greeted with thunderous applause, as yet another Kennedy family scion (what would a Democratic Convention be without a token Kennedy?) introduced the next speaker - his former law professor, now US senator from Massachusetts, and our legislature's most outspoken crusader against Wall Street, Elizabeth Warren.

Yep, these were the  rock stars of the Democratic Party.

I said, "Hon, I keep hearing references about a glass seagull. Do you know what glass seagull they're talking about? Isn't there a big glass seagull outside the aquarium?"

"No, it's a bill regulating big banks and Wall Street. It expired in 1999. The Democrats want to bring it back, the Republicans don't."

Then, when I least expected it, Warren started talking about the TP and how it was on the floor. "Why's she talking about TP? If there's some on the floor, the janitor should clean it up. Oh, I get it. Asking the janitor might be offensive to the illegal immigrant community."

Finally the man himself took the stage. No, I don't mean Morgan Freeman. I mean Senator Bernie "Don't Start the Revolution Without Me" Sanders. Raucous (there's no other word for it) cheering engulfed the auditorium. The cameras panned in on young women, tears streaming down their cheeks as they beheld their savior - another Jewish guy. When Sanders whipped out a guitar, and I recognized the first few chords of "I Wanna Hold Your Hand," I knew I'd come full circle.

I switched off the TV. "I know Trump is the Anti-Christ, but in terms of pure entertainment value, his reality show presidency would probably get higher ratings."

Shellie added, "And if the pesky US populace doesn't shape up, he'll simply turn to America and say, 'You're fired.'"

We settled down a bit, and Shellie said, "Before I turn off the light, do you have any last observations?"

"Well, I couldn't help but notice, Bill's looking pretty good. I think I'll apply for an internship."