Column 11

Despite numerous recount demands and rabid partisan bickering, it is becoming increasingly apparent that I, Dylan Fort Meggs, have indeed lost every single election in the year 2006. I consider the fact that I was not actually on any ballots not only a technicality, but a point in my favor. However, as usual, The Man has to defy The People and rely on that cliched, outdated tactic of awarding political office to “the dude who got the most votes.” There’s nothing like kicking a dead dark horse when he’s down, huh?

It is with great sadness (and no small amount of intoxication) that I concede my defeat. I wish I could say congratulations to my intelligent, charismatic, benevolent opponents, but, unfortunately, I don’t have any. So all I have to say to the insipid bastards who did win is “Great job, jerks. Now you get to look like idiots/morons/French in front of the entirety of America for two/four/six years. But don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. But you, you’ll get yours you grapefruit-eating sons of hell biscuits!”

I apologize for the vitriolic quality of my sentiments, but I’m afraid it’s entirely called for. I ran a great campaign, damn it! My platform of a chicken in every pot and pot in every chicken was inverted genius! People loved the individual flexibility of my “pay more taxes or get poked in the eye” plan. And, of course, the release of “Polio 2.0: This Time, It’s Personal” was sure to raise hygiene and handicap awareness throughout the nation. It doesn’t add up! The only logical explanation for my defeat: massive voter fraud. Or widespread infectious diarrhea. Or voter intelligence.

How on earth could this have happened? I mean, yeah, I came in rather disadvantaged, as a middle-class, white, snappily dressed, buoyant, charming, incandescent, buxom, jobless, pantsless-er, SINGLE male (ladies?). And, sure, I only managed to raise three dollars and seventeen cents by selling a hobo a bottle of bleach I convinced him was ‘super whiskey.’ And my only advertisement may have come from that news story involving me, a dead stripper, a plastic bag, and forty gallons of shoe polish. But despite all these shortcomings, I still think I could have pulled it off. It’s just not fair. It’s not right. It’s not even kosher!

Well, maybe things aren’t that bad. I mean, maybe because of my political potency I’ll get appointed to some fancy office like Secretary of Suspense or Chief of Taffy. All I have to do is make a few phone calls, beg desperately, and possibly offer up a goat or a kidney... or two.

You know what? Fine. They can have their stupid political offices! It’s not like I care. I’ve got plenty going for me! I have a car. And I’m literate. Hey, I even have a functional endocrine system. Things are... looking up?

Oh God, this is terrible. I’m fat and lonely, with no future. I’m washed up, and the shampoo got in my eyes! The end of the line segment, man! The end of the line segment! Now I’ll be reduced to a footnote of a citation of a reference in some history textbook, doomed to obscurity!

Well, you know what? I did lose. I’m a failure. And that’s ok. Plenty of other people have lost before, and they’ll probably lose again. I think I’m ready to move on.

What the hell am I saying? I’m not going to move on! I’m going to stay right here and complain until the next election. It’s like my mother always said, after I finally found the scotch and she put down the belt: If at first you don’t succeed, cry cry again.