Truesday: Adios Mofos

Our site is, after all, Austinist. And not that she’s intentionally blasting our little Las-Manitas-sacrificing town just for shits and giggles, because I realize that dirt farmers in San Angelo refer to our state gub’ment, pejoratively, as “Austin”. But she is weaving an extra web of stink-eye all around us, just to curry favor from the poor, downtrodden home owners of Houston’s River Oaks or some shit. "Austin doesn't listen, spends money we don't have and taxes us when they want more,” is so finger-pointy it makes me want to hide her cane and unplug her bed for a whole week. I honestly don’t know shit about Strayhorn’s actual platform (does anyone?), or her glassy-eyed dreams of playing Boggle with her brood in the Governor’s Mansion foyer, but she must have some ten-pounders to go splaying her smuggish mug with a quote as vacant as that, on a blog-type site as irreverent as this.

And the irreverence couldn’t come thicker from a select set of us here. But I, for one, usually keep my political stances thoroughly cloaked by only discussing things that actually matter to real people who exist outside of pork-barreled “gimme mine, bitches!” fairy land. Politicians would never think to listen to, or participate in, discussions like that. Too difficult to find an angle on, and there’s probably an egregious gala somewhere that’s holding their campaign donations hostage.

Oh no I didn’t just shit on the illustrious and prestigious Texas political system! In the state capital no less!

SNAP!

Back hand it I did. A back hand it did deserve. Even if there are no galas in Texas, or I’m an illegal alien. Or perhaps I live in Maryland. It’s a free-for-all down here. Rules of the game, apparently. YEE HAW MOTHERFUCKERS!

It might appear that I’m singling out Strayhorn, and it might even appear that I have something personal against her. Or grandmothers in general. But it’s far from personal. It’s political. Which makes it like, meta-personal or something.

Really, it's just because she decided to advertise here. So she pretty much picked herself.

But honestly, it’s the whole situation that bothers me. Every candidate for every level of office in Texas (and everywhere, really) is muck-raked to the point where they all look like complete and utter bumbling fools. Like they lost a bet, and ended up running for something, knowing their infinite list of personal failures would be broadcast out to all those haters who need to judge others in order to feel better about themselves.

No one is perfect. We all know this. So why is this circus of political subterfuge, rumor milling, and backstabbing allowed to replace a system of decent and civil discussion of real issues?

Because again, real issues aren’t easily packaged and sold. There’s no sex appeal. No scandal. No catchy headlines for the wordsmiths to forge.

There needs to be some heat. Friction. Someone needs to get slapped, shunned, or outed before the getting gets good enough for votes to be counted.

It’s that rootin’-tootin’ politickin’ that we’ve all come to expect here in Texas. Whoopin’ and hollerin’, ball-bustin’ and gerrymanderin’, constitution ammendin’ and land grabbin’ or whatever. It’s an attrition competition to see who can stay in the defiled portolet the longest without choking on their own shit. Pearly-white photo-ops and blind-folded foot-races to see who is the least screw up.

I can see the exchange, clear as day…

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[mad finger pointing] “You’re a raving anti-Semite racist joke-of-non-cowboy!”

[spits on ground, taps cigar on head of lawn jockey] “No I’m… well that may be, but your nickname isn’t legitimate. Mmmmmmbitteryet?”

[madder finger pointing, toward a tanning bed] “Oh yeah? Well at least I’m not a closet case like box-o-rocks over there.”

[swings open tanning bed, wearing goggles and smiling] “Did someone say press junket?”

[scratches crotch, leans on lawn jockey] “Go back to your bath house, fag.”

[shocked silence, tanning bed slowly clams shut]

[spits ON lawn jockey] Oh, and that’s satire, by the way. Bath houses and fags? Satire.

[creepily emerges from shadow of tanning bed] “Bath house… that’s funny. Can I borrow a dollar?”

[flips a table of Aunt Jemima bottles] “Sunnofabitch! Who the fuck are you?”

[cowers back into the shadow, voice fading] “I… I don’t even know anymore. But I think Ann Richards liked me best.”

[hurriedly puts on blackface, dances in place, affects Sammy Davis Jr. voice] “No, baby! She was with me!” [starts to cry while looking in mirror] “It’s satire goddamnit! SATIRE!”

[tanning bed door violently flies open, in apparent terror] “What the, who? Ann? Sweet Jesus NO!!!!!!”

[fingers pointing wildly in all directions] “WHAT THE HELL DOES SATIRE MEAN!”

[everyone goes to Luby’s for macaroni, hand holding, and hopscotch in the parking lot]

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In the immortal words of our most brilliant elected haircut, “adios mofo”.