Running For Congress

Dear Old Phart,

I’m  tired of the ineptitude of Congress. I’m sure I can do a better job than that group of incompetents.  Instead of sitting on the sidelines, I think I’m going to put my money where my mouth is and run for office.

Can you help?

Foghorn Leghorn

Dear Foghornn Leg,

Yes I can help. To prepare you for running for office, I’ve developed a series of exercises to brace you for the journey ahead.

First, stick your head in the toilet and flush. Now do it again. This will give you a sense of how you will feel both on the campaign trail and if you become a Congressman. It will be more realistic if the toilet bowl contains some leftovers when you first flush. Then on the second flush you will actually feel as if you accomplished something.

Next, collect campaign contributions from your friends and family. Now take the money and stick it in a blender. Add prune juice. Set to purée and blend for 3 minutes. Take the contents of the blender and give yourself an enema. Soon you will poop out all the money you collected and the promises you made to your friends and family. You may not have cleaned up Washington but at least you cleaned out your colon.

Your next exercise is to lock yourself in a closet for 5 hours with only a bag of peanuts, 5 ounces of soda and a piss bucket. This will simulate what you have to do if you get elected and have to fly home every weekend to meet with constituents. When you get out of the closet after 5 hours, kiss your spouse goodbye and head out the door.

Drive to the nearest American Legion Post and thank the veterans for their service and promise to clean up the VA. Now, share a bowl of really greasy chili with them but do not, under any circumstances, go to the bathroom. Politicians can never be seen going potty–it’s a sign of weakness.

Get back into your car and look for the closest fast food restaurant to do your duty before the chili turns into military grade ordinance.  Look there’s a McDonald’s!  Nope can’t go there.  Might actually be someone in there who votes. Look for a Jack-In-The-Box in a bad area of town or, better yet, a Del Taco–definitely no voters there.

Now head over to a senior citizen’s facility. Tell them you promise never to touch their social security–even if it means their grandchildren will never receive social security or even a decent education. Let those whipper snappers eat beans out of a can as long as the old pharts can  afford their yearly vacation to Boca–and again, don’t worry about the grandkids, Boca will be underwater by the time they get old!

Finally, head home, kiss your spouse goodbye and head back into the closet for the flight home. Better yet, live out of the closet for the next week as that will simulate the living space you will have in D.C. as that is all you will be able to afford. Unless of course you are on the take, in which case, why did you run for office in the first place?

Old Phart

 

 

 

 

 

Silver Alert

Dear Old Phart,

I am writing you to help spread the word about “Silver Alerts.” A Silver Alert is triggered when an older American, possibly  with dementia or Alzheimer’s, has wandered away from his or her home. The public is notified through a variety of media about the missing senior and asked to alert the authorities if the senior is seen.

As a number of your readers are Older Americans (a.k.a Old  Pharts) I was hoping you would help me spread the word.

Save Our Seniors (S.O.S.)

Dear S.O.S.,

Than you so much for this information. You have just given me a roadmap for how I  wish to spend my final days. When I am old, decrepit and ready to croak,  I am going to trigger the Senior Alert system in a big way.

Before I check into that big Holiday Inn in the sky, I am going to sneak out of my smelly, vermin infested Medicaid old age home (care center…right).

Heading to the egress, I steal a carton of chocolate milk from the kitchen to rev up my lactose intolerance. Then I hobble out to my  4 cylinder, 265,000 mile, Toyota Tercel  that is rusting in the back parking lot.

Firing up the junkmobile, I head out on the highway.  Gunning her into the passing lane, cruising at a death-defying 35 m.p.h., I place my blinker in perpetual right turn mode to piss off all the honking drivers behind me.

With unrestrained gusto, I chug my carton of chocolate milk, roll up the windows, and make sure the ventilation is on recirculate while I let em rip.

Above me flashes the highway sign “Silver Alert, Old Phart On The Loose. ” Helicopters swirl overhead in a slower speed re-enactment of the O.J. Simpson chase. Then I …

Wait, what? By the time I am a really old phart, all cars will be self driving? And all people- driven cars will have been repossessed and crushed in a  government sponsored buy-back program?

And you say,  the GPS chip implanted in my arm would never allow me to leave my room without two Filipino robot nurses hauling my shriveled ass back to bed? Oh poop, there goes my fantasy. All that’s left now is my lactose intolerance!

Pass the chocolate milk please.

☹️

Old Phart