Quashing Dissent
“Welcome!” proclaims the Host, scattering sequins as he sweeps his arm in an arc. “Welcome to The Election!”
The audience cheers madly as the smiling Host escorts a young voter onstage. She is blonde and beautiful, radiating an aura of enchanting naiveté.
“You all know how the game is played,” the Host reminds the studio, leading the voter to her stool. “Two candidates sit in isolation booths, completely cut off from reality. Miss Voter will ask questions we wrote for her. She will then choose her favorite for a four-year-long date. Who will win … THE ELECTION???!!!”
More applause. The two candidates settle inside twin cubicles.
“Candidate No. 1,” Miss Voter says, clearing her throat. “If you were a bowl of soup, what kind would you be?”
“Well, Miss Voter,” Candidate No. 1 purrs, “being a bowl of soup is hard work, but I promise I will hold up the honor and dignity of all things soup, and together, we can make our soup strong again. After September 11, I know how important it is to be a strong soup, a consistent soup — so I would be tomato, because tomato is red and patriotic, and while I don’t question the patriotism of my opponent’s soup, I know he would be chicken noodle.”
There are hoots of agreement from the right side of the audience. Miss Voter clears her throat again. “Candidate No. 2, what kind of soup would you be?”
“That question has many deep and thoughtful nuances that must be elaborated upon,” Candidate No. 2 says, reading the notes he scribbled furiously during his opponent’s diatribe. “My opponent underestimates the strength of chicken and of noodles, missing the point of soup altogether. Though I would be soup, I would look outside the bowl. I would form a coalition with the bread and the cheese. And though my soup might taste gray and indistinct, you would say, ‘That soup did not win a war only to lose the peace. That soup is the right soup at the right place at the right time.’”
“Er, OK.” Miss Voter swaps cue cards as the left side of the theater cheers. “Candidate No. 1, if we were on a date, where would you take me?”
Candidate No. 1 scowls. “I reckon my opponent is wrong, Miss Voter. He’s disrespectin’ the allies, the sacrifices Tony Blair’s soup has made –“
The toupee of the Host almost falls off as he intervenes, “I’m sorry, Candidate No. 1, but you must stick to the question.”
“But … Poland!”
“If you can’t keep to the question we’ll have no choice but –“
“Pola — er, what was the question again?”
“Perfect date.”
“Right.” Candidate No. 1 sits back down. “Well, I’d like to take you to a ranch. I would not mislead you, but if we went down to the ranch and you didn’t find what you were looking for, it would be OK because the ranch would be safer. Then we’d sit down for some apple pie, maybe watch a baseball game with the Cheneys (I’d offer you pretzels but I can’t have any because Dick-who-I-did-not-choose-for-his-hairdo says I can’t eat them anymore), and we’d share champagne and tax cuts. Then I’d take you back to bed and ride you like I rode Rummy. Yee-haw!”
Candidate No. 2 snorts. “I would not take you to that ranch, but I would have brought others to the ranch. And although I dislike the ranch, I would not ignore the ranch. I would have inspected the ranch and fixed it with the screwdriver of diplomacy instead of the hammer of war.”
“I don’t want to hear about your opponent,” snaps Miss Voter. “I want to know what you bring to the table.”
Candidate No. 2 looks mildly confused, as if trying to comprehend his existence outside the other. “Oh, we could throw a football around or something. Or go hunting. Because I need to prove my manliness in dumb photo-ops.”
The swing side of the audience seems unconvinced.
“One last question,” Miss Voter says. “Candidate No. 2, if we went on our date, and it turned out I was actually a man, what would you do?”
Candidate No. 2 ponders a moment. “I would respect you and your way of life, but I’d drop you like a hot potato. You’d still vote for me because I’m not the alternative.”
Candidate No. 1 is incensed. “Dirty politics!” he spits. “I’d insult the other guy for bringing you into the campaign!”
“Ooh,” says the audience.
“Aah,” says the Host. “Well, Miss Voter, have you reached a decision?”
“Not really,” she replies. “Isn’t there another option?”
“Yes!” a man shouts.
“No,” retorts the audience, and the man leaves, covered with wet tomato.
“Well,” Miss Voter sighs, “if there really is no other option …”
“Wait!” Suddenly, three men in black sweep onto the soundstage, scattering the audience as they grab Miss Voter. “We, the lawyers of Poly & Ticksonson, want to make sure you have your say.”
“But I –“
“No,” the lawyers reply in unison. “We have to protect you from yourself. We’ll tell you who you’ll go out with in a week or so.”
“But this was supposed to be my choice!” Miss Voter squawks.
The lawyers gasp. “Are you criticizing democracy?”
“I just want –“
The curtain descends as everybody continues shouting. The Host smiles broadly as the theme music plays him out. “Well,” he grins, “that’s it for today’s show. See you in another four years!”
