A Tulip is Blooming

I am so tired of the elections that I think I’ll retire to the bathroom and throw up.
I am so darn sick of Hilary and the Trump tribe that I think I’ll commit hari kari and throw myself off the nearest Trump tower.
I am so exhausted with CNN for covering every second of the conventions that I think I’ll write hate letters to the network, pledging that I’d rather submit to sexual harassment at Fox than tune in to one more blow by blow by Anderson Cooper or Don Lemon.
I am so troubled by ISIS and their merciless attacks that I’d like to wrap a bomb around all of Iraq, Syria, Afghanistan and the rest of the Middle East and blow it to kingdom come.
I am so disgusted by racial killings of police officers that I want to hold my nose and stay under water for the next few centuries.
I am so scared that Trump will win the election that I’m seriously considering a move to Canada where I don’t have to look at his fat infantile face for weeks on end.
But wait! Inside this compost of a muddle of a brain, I am fertile with renewed life and hope. In a spirit of optimism I plucked a tulip the other day. I found it first on my computer and I was so thrilled that I clicked my mouse twice and the photo enlarged until it covered the entire screen. It was a beautiful yellow-orange tulip whose smell I could enjoy right through the CRT. I wanted not just to pluck it instantly but to bring it into my home and surround it with gifts and treasures worthy of its innate value.
I got so carried away with my mission to gather that tulip that I completely forgot to curse Donald Trump and Hilary Clinton before I left the house. As of late I had been doing that just to work off hostilities so they didn’t morph into something evil like road rage or an all-day splurge at the mall.
As soon as I arrived at my destination in my orange VUE that Saturn left me before it departed this evil world, I knew I had arrived at the right place. I opened the door to this lovely 43,000 square foot-facility and inhaled the aroma of body odor mingled with fecal matter mixed with a tinge of mud. This was going to be perfect, I told myself. No one of any substance could last long at a place like this. So I won’t run into any presumptive presidential candidates and Anderson Cooper will probably not be here positioning himself by the gerbils to get a better look at the summer sales display of winter coats, raincoats, booties, and diapers.
I didn’t hesitate for a moment. I walked right up to the first lady in a uniform and asked her where Karen was. She looked at me blankly and I was so relieved she didn’t hit me that I smiled and kicked her in the shins. Then I took off in a flash to accost some other uniformed person. And there she was, poised elegantly by a long row of what appeared to be caged structures. She laughed at my confusion and told me to get lost so I took it as a sign of confidence and proceeded to peer into the cages. There were little animals cavorting with balls and furry objects and they seemed happy. I wondered how these four-footed creatures could be so happy knowing as I did what would befall the entire U.S. electorate in just a few months. First, there’d be a gruesome lineup of unenlightening debates, then a media rehash of who plagiarized who, who sprayed the lecturn with saliva, or who made the mistake of flirting with the press questioners.Then there would be cocktail parties where people would argue over who was the stupidest candidate, who would bring the economy down, who would unleash Ebola onto an unsuspecting public, and a lot of other dumb stuff. Didn’t these small, innocent creatures know their lives were in the hands of incompetent candidates, boring reporters, and networks that didn’t give a damn if they informed the public of the truth. The only thing that mattered to anyone was ratings…and Godiva chocolate… but these tiny animals didn’t give a whit about ratings or chocolate. They only cared to be uncaged.

I wanted to scoop up all the pretty ones and take them home immediately and feed them liverwurst and malteds, but I knew that wouldn’t be a good idea given a husband who liked his dinner on time and preferably palatable. So I narrowed it down to the most beauteous one in the bunch. Yes, I admit I discriminated against the uglies and went for cute. But I couldn’t resist this Tulip. He stood up with his little paws batting at the bars on the cage and mouthed the words “Take Me.” I swear he did. So what could I do? I had to write the check and pluck the Tulip and drive home real fast so I could put him in water. I figured a bowl or two would do the trick, but he opened his mouth and out came a request for tuna. So, yes, I admit I fed my Tulip tuna and he seemed happy about it. So happy in fact that he purred really really loud–so loud that it drowned out CNN and all that Hilary-Trump crapola. And now we can live happily ever after in the Land of Pre-Election Boredom where the days melt into nights of blundering faux pas by people not fit to call themselves the followers of Lincoln-Jefferson-and Adams. Tulip doesn’t turn on the TV yet–so I think I’m safe for a while. We can just cuddle through the elections, doesn’t that sound just swell?