Iowa? So?

The good news is that that Iowa caucuses will be over in seven days.  The bad news is we will have to endure seven more days of Iowa hysteria.

Every four years we are subjected to the presidential elections circuses intended to name the two parties’ candidates.  The ritual begins with the Iowa caucuses when everyone in the United States is expected to agonize over polls and pundit commentary, breathlessly waiting to learn who Iowans will select as their nominees.

In the interest of political science you are invited to participate in a political survey to determine your Iowa tolerance quotient:

Question 1:  Do you have any idea why all the presidential candidates are groveling to Iowans and the news media are going nearly berserk about covering, analyzing and speculating on the Iowa caucuses?

Question 2: Do you really care who Iowans want to be the presidential candidates?

Question 3:  Do you know what a caucus is?

Question 4:  Do you know where Iowa is?

In the interest of full disclosure here are my answers.

Question 1:  No, I have no idea why I every four years presidential candidates ingratiate themselves to Iowans.  I get very tired of endless interviews with white, wholesome looking Iowans, mostly seniors, drinking coffee in local diners offering their assessments of presidential candidates and the candidates’ fervid, public declarations of how much they love Jesus Christ.  I do not know why a state that is 92 percent white, 3.4 percent black and 5.6 percent Hispanic and largely rural is somehow considered a representative cross section of all American.  We are told that the reason Iowa is so important is because it is first to declare a nominee, whatever significance that has.

Question 2:  No, I do not give a damn about who Iowa farmers think should be the presidential nominees.  I have nothing in common with them and they, in my opinion, do not represent the American public and are certainly not representative of me.  Of course Iowa television stations make a lot of money on political advertising during this period and over the years Iowa corn farmers have gotten huge Federal Government handouts to subsidize corn for ethanol.

Question 3:  No, I do not know what a caucus is and I don’t care.

Question 4: Yes, I do know where Iowa is.  I have been there and I found it probably the most boring, dull, uninteresting place in the entire universe unless you like driving through flat fields of corn and soybeans.

But this whole Iowa thing is just indicative of how ridiculous our American political system has become.  Last Sunday in the pursuit of political research I watched the three major network morning news programs where they interviewed the top candidates and then did panel discussions interpreting and analyzing what the candidates just said.  Then I watched the pre-game shows for the NFL playoffs. 

It was hard to tell where politics left off and the football began.  It has all—football and politics—become so much hoopla and show business, hyperbole and hysteria.  The caucuses and primaries are like the playoffs leading up to the Presidential Election.  You get play-by-play and commentary with announcers hyperventilating about how exciting all this is and attempting to generate suspense about the outcome.

There is one major difference between the NFL Super Bowl and presidential elections.  The playoff run up to the Super Bowl only lasts a couple months.  We have to endure the run up to the presidential election for well over a year.

Note: I don’t give a damn about New Hampshire either.

Warning:  This short story contains language that may be offensive to Republicans and N.R.A members.

The Legend of Bobby John

It was probably the finest moment in Bobby John Klinger’s life, that night when he strode into the Hog’s Neck BBQ and Bar and proudly displayed his concealed gun carry permit.

He walked slowly to the bar, enjoying the admiring gazes of his friends.  After a dramatic pause in the hushed silence of the room, he slapped the document on the bar and gently, almost reverently, placed his Glock 9mm on top of it.  His crowd of friends burst spontaneously into applause and shouted everybody was buying Bobby John’s beers that night.

Bobby John was a natural leader.  He founded the local group called Super American Patriots dedicated to all the things he fervently believed in.  In a rousing, inspiring, eloquent speech at the Hog’s Neck when he established the group he had said, “We gotta make sure them fuckin’ liberals don’t take our guns away.  We gotta show that black Muslim Obama we don’t want no Aye-rab Muslims comin’ into our wonderful country and we gotta get rid of them rapist Mexicans livin’ here illegally and taking my money to pay them lots of gov’ment benefits.”

  

When he declared “We gotta bomb the shit out of them fucking ISIS Muslims,” The crowd at the Hog’s Neck went ecstatic with cheers and a deafening ovation shook the room.  Yes, Bobby John was absolutely sure he and his pals represented the heart and soul of America and the best of American values. 

 

Bobby John firmly believed that every American man, woman and child should own a gun to protect him or herself.  There was absolutely no need in Bobby John’s mind to specify what you needed a gun to protect yourself from.  As long as you could scare people enough to think they needed a gun, that was good enough for him. 

But the real threat, according to Bobby John was that Americans had to arm in order to protect themselves from their own government.  “Just like the Constitution says,” Bobby John declared, “we gotta have a well-regulated militia--that’s us my friends--to keep the gov’ment from takin’ over our lives.”  The fact that the existing government spends billions of dollars to maintain and equip highly trained armed forces didn’t seem to make him think he might face overwhelming odds in case he wanted to rise up against the government.

But that didn’t matter because Bobby John knew absolutely that God was on his side.   Anybody who did not agree with him and the Super American Patriots would have to answer to God. 

 

Then came that fateful night in Wal-Mart.  Bobby John was there to buy himself a new pair of camouflage underwear, carrying, of course, his concealed Glock 9mm.   As he turned the corner of the underwear isle, he saw the man, a dark silhouette at the end of the isle wearing a ski mask and wielding an AK-47.   The man started firing his weapon off to the left.

Suddenly, all Bobby John’s dreams of being the heroic, concealed gun carrier who would valiantly save everyone from a mass shooting in a public place flashed through his mind.  Yes, he was destined to be the good guy with the gun who puts down the bad guy with the gun and to be hailed as a hero in his home town, to be praised on national television as an example of that courage, resourcefulness and exceptionalism that makes this country great.

Then something strange happened to Bobby John.  When the shooter turned his gun down the aisle towards him, he frantically began pulling at his Glock which seemed to be stuck in the holster.  Finally he ripped it free but his hand was shaking so wildly the only shot he managed to get off hit the light fixture in the ceiling sprinkling him with flakes of neon tubes.

Then, as the shooter pointed the AK-47 at him, he felt the flood of urine running down his legs and when he saw the flash from the shooter’s weapon the burst of feces exploded in his pants.

Bobby John never knew that the police arrived about 15 seconds later and dispatched the shooter immediately.    Unfortunately, four people were killed including Bobby John, and three injured, qualifying the event for the national news.

Two of Bobby John’s friends were in the store that night and saw his crumpled body on the Wal-Mart floor his Glock 9mm firmly in hand with just a trace of a smile on his face. One of his friends remarked, “Jesus, look at all that blood, piss and shit.”

What followed, however, was truly inspiring.  The city commission passed a resolution to erect a monument in the town square to Robert Johnathan Klinger declaring him the local hero who bravely stood up against an oppressive government that wanted to take away the people’s gun rights and who died in a dramatic, self-sacrificing armed confrontation against a fanatic Muslim terrorist.  Since the event was reported on national news, the N.R.A. immediately began running “The Bobby John Story” in tv ads claiming this fine, brave young man was a perfect example of why more law-abiding Americans should carry guns.

The fact that an investigation showed the Wal-Mart shooter was an angry, mentally-challenged white Evangelical Christian loner who bought the attack weapon at a gun show after he had lost his minimum-wage job at the local MacDonald’s was never mentioned. 

 A Christmas Fish

By William Raser

            "Hey mom, what's a Christmas fish?"

            Miriam Collins stopped mixing the cookie dough, wiped her hands on her apron and turned to see her eight-year-old son looking up at her with that familiar quizzical expression.

            "A what?"

            "A Christmas fish," Jimmy repeated, "I heard Mr. Steinman talking about the tradition of giving people a Christmas fish."

            "Now what would Mr. Steinman know about Christmas?"  Miriam said to her son. Of course, she herself had no idea what a Christmas fish might be.  "Mr. Steinman is Jewish and doesn't celebrate Christmas," she said in a tone that indicated the matter was settled.

            "But I was in his store with my pal Artie," Jimmy insisted, "and I heard his grandpop talk about giving friends a Christmas fish."

            Although Millersville was a small midwestern town, it had a large enough Jewish community to warrant a Kosher butcher, a function Mr. Jacob Steinman had performed from the time he immigrated to America as a young man.

            "I really never heard of a Christmas fish, Jimmy, now run out and play," Miriam said shooing him out the door. "And keep your mittens on."

            Miriam Collins was now perplexed.  She hated it when she could not give Jimmy an answer for something, and she knew he would persist with her and everyone else until he had one.  And she really had no time to waste over Mr. Steinman's Christmas fish. The holiday was tomorrow and she still had her baking and other preparations to finish for the big family dinner.  Miriam crossed the kitchen and picked up the phone.  In matters of Christmas there was only one person to call.

            "Millersville Lutheran Church, Gladys speaking, how can I help you?"

            "It's Miriam, Gladys, can I speak to Pastor Gunderson?"

            "Miriam, are you baking your spice cookies again this year?  They were so..."

            "Could I please talk to the pastor?" Miriam interrupted, impatient and in no mood to talk about spice cookies.

            "Well, of course," Gladys sniffed in her most indignant tone.

            The phone clicked and the pastor came on the line.

            "Pastor Gunderson," Miriam began, "I know this will sound rather silly, but could you tell me what a Christmas fish is?"

"Well, uh, it..." Gunderson hesitated. "I really don't know of any reference to a Christmas fish.  The early Christians, of course, used a fish as their symbol, and there are quite a few references to fish, fishing and fishermen in the Bible, but I can't recall any mention of a specific fish  pertaining to Christmas.  Why do you ask, Miriam?"

            "Well, my son Jimmy overheard Mr. Steinman talking about giving people a Christmas fish and I didn't know how to tell him what it is. I thought you would know."

            Pastor Gunderson coughed slightly, rubbed his ample double chin, and felt slightly offended that his theological credentials were being questioned.

            "I'll certainly research the matter and will get back to you, Miriam."

            "Thank you Pastor Gunderson."

            It was close to lunch time, so the clergyman put on his coat and began to leave.  As he passed through his secretary's office, he paused.  "Gladys, I may be a little late coming from lunch. I'm going to stop at the Presbyterian and Catholic churches to confer with my colleagues about something."

            Gladys was in the habit of not always hanging up the phone when she transferred calls to the pastor which is why she inadvertently overheard many conversations.  Checking to be sure the pastor had left, Gladys dialed a number.

            "Hello Janice.  It's Gladys.  Well, here's something interesting for you.  You know that Jewish butcher.  Yes, Mr. Steinman.  Well, he's telling all the little children in town that there's such a thing as a Christmas fish.  Yes.  Can you imagine?  He's telling them they absolutely must give people a Christmas fish."

            That beautiful day-before-Christmas had spread itself gloriously over Millersville.  A cloudless, crystal blue sky shimmered off the pure white snow that had fallen the night before.  Ovens throughout the town gave forth the rich aromas of cookies and cakes and pies.  Last minute shoppers with rosy cheeks and mittens and mufflers, hurried in and out of the stores on Main St.  Another perfect Christmas was about to descend on Millersville.  Perfect except for one thing.  No one could figure out what a Christmas fish was.

            After Gladys's phone call the word about the mysterious Christmas fish had spread quickly through the town.

            During the afternoon, the Lutheran, Catholic and Presbyterian church offices were beseiged with calls and all the pastors instructed their secretaries to assure parishioners that their spiritual leaders were carefully researching the matter.

            Reverend Everett, the Presbyterian minister, had suggested they might just call Mr. Steinman, whom they all knew, and ask him.  But on second thought, the pastors decided it was not appropriate for three Christian clergymen to ask a Jewish butcher, Jacob Steinman, to explain something pertaining to their own holiest of days.

            By nightfall every family in town was pondering how Mr. Steinman, the Jewish butcher, could know all about the traditional Christmas fish and they did not.  It was almost as if a feeling of collective spiritual inadequacy had spread over the town.

            Christmas day came as scheduled to Millersville.  Bright, beautiful, clear and cold.  The pastors all preached of joy and peace and love but made no mention of Christmas fishes.  As they shook hands with their pastors at the door, parishioners decided to limit their conversations to exchanges of "Merry Christmas" and avoided bringing up the question that was foremost in everyone's mind

            A dancing yellow, red and blue fire spread its warmth over the family gathered in the Collins home.  Grandmom and Grandpop, Uncle Albert and Aunt Bertha were there.  Jimmy had received all the toys he had wanted, and he knew he would have his favorite pumpkin pie for dessert after the abundant meal his mother was preparing.  But he was still bothered.

            "Grandpop, why can't anybody tell me what a Christmas fish is?"

            "You know, Jimmy, the only person who can answer that question is Mr. Steinman.  We've got a little time before we eat.  I know Jacob very well, and he doesn't close on Christmas, so why don't we just go over and ask him?"

            Jimmy and his grandfather bundled into their heavy clothes and walked downtown.  As they turned the corner at the entrance to Mr. Steinman's butcher shop, they were startled as they colided with three men -- Pastor Gunderson, Father Thomas and Rev. Everett.

            "I guess we're all here for the same reason," Grandpop Collins said with a smile.  After an awkward pause, the pastors acknowledged they were, and they all entered the butcher shop.

            Mr. Steinman, a short, rather large, jovial man, clapped his hands and smiled broadly as his visitors entered the shop.

            "Jacob, we wanted to talk to you about Christmas fishes," said Grandpop Collins.

            "Ah yah," Jacob Steinman said, his round, reddish face bursting into an even wider grin. "I vas going to do da same ting vit you."

            Despite his 30 years in the United States, Jacob had never lost his thick accent.

            "To all of you, my Christian friends, may you haf joy and happiness for your holiday and da New Year.  Dis, for you, my friends, is my Christmas vish."

##