Hi, my name is Eric Pfeiffer. This is the beginning of a new column about politics. I’m a socially progressive, fiscal conservative, and generally considered a shy, sensitive, incredible pain in the ass. My job is to entertain you. I also hope to share some fresh ideas and views on national politics.
Now, let’s talk a little about me. There have been a good number of tirelessly bland writers to shuffle and slide through this institution. To the best of my ability, I aim to be a mensch. I can promise you that I will never write about animé, sexual exploits or New Age crap. I will not try to be Hunter S. Thompson.
I will, however, write about that lovely, oftentimes bloated, monolith known as government.
The 18-to-25 age group has been tagged the most apathetic group of voters in America. I don’t expect too many of you to run home, proclaiming, “Finally, a column on politics!” But many of you will read, and for you, I am your humble servant.
As this is our first date, I’ll keep my hands to myself and politely walk you to the front door. Since I’m asking you for your time and your thoughts, I think it’s only fair that you know a little about me. First, the label: I’m a 22-year-old, white male. Statistically, in this town like anyway, that makes me the little clone who could.
Why, then, am I qualified to be writing this column?
Since transferring to the University, I’ve been a student senator, worked for the campus radio station, volunteered on political campaigns, and once worked as an editor for this paper.
Right now, I’m writing for a magazine called the National Journal in Washington, D.C.
I’ve spent most of my life living below the federal poverty level, and have worked since I was 14 to support my family and myself. I also have an illness called Crohn’s disease.
For most of my life, I have enjoyed a rich and somewhat unusual love affair with politics, beginning as a six-year-old, when I distributed fliers for the Jesse Jackson Rainbow Coalition. I wasn’t educated on the issues, but Ronald Reagan scared me.
But those times have passed like so many empty bags of jellybeans, and we’re now in an era of unparalleled prosperity, right? Wrong.
These days, Bush 2.0: Project “W”, reminds me of a children’s Christmas tale. We’ll call him “Shrub, the red-nosed Wrangler.”
An outsider in the corporate gift empire, nobody expected much out of lil’ Shrub. His nose was red from too much snorting, and all the Ivy-Leaguers used to laugh and call him names. Then, one foggy election eve, Daddy came to say, “Shrub, we know you ain’t so bright, but won’t you guide our campaign tonight?” Then, all the shareholders loved him, and they cackled out with glee, “Shrub, the red-nosed Wrangler, you’ll make us a lot of money.”
I swear to you, this election isn’t as boring as political insiders and the mainstream media want you to believe. They benefit when you don’t vote. And even if Bush and Gore appear to be similar on many of the issues, don’t listen to the fork-tongued fools who tell you they are exactly the same. Anyone with conservative, liberal, or even moderate values has a stake in this election. If you are a woman who values choice, the candidates are worlds apart. If you value a free market, Bush has the industry-approved plan. And if you really want something different, there are third-party candidates, like Ralph Nader, who literally make every vote count. I’m not telling you who to vote for (unless you ask), but I am saying that anyone who claims your vote doesn’t matter is either oblivious to the issues, or a liar.
Of course, most of you won’t vote, and who can blame you? But by choosing to remain in the dark, your vote isn’t going to “None of the Above”; instead, you’re endorsing the decline of democracy.
People say Americans are entitled to their opinions. I disagree. We are entitled to our informed opinions, and everything else is sewage rotting across the airwaves. The sign that reads: Welcome to MTV Hell, where a person can use words like Dachau and Iran-Contra and not register a blip on the cultural radar.
I’m telling you, the way things are headed, you’re going to long for a president who wore black sunglasses, played the saxophone, and wanted an occasional blow job.
Well, that’s enough from me. I promised to keep my hands to myself. Introductions are always the hardest part.