Post by Von Vagabond on Aug 22, 2020 19:35:32 GMT -5
Given the current socio-economic climate we find ourselves in, you might think politicians are inept and useless and spend their days doing nothing. But that simply isn’t true. Instead their schedule is jam packed with meetings. Problem is none of the meetings revolve around making your life any better.
Utah Governor Gary Hebert and his Aide have just left a fundraiser at the Downtown Salt Lake City Marriott. After 11 years in his role as governor, Hebert is unwittingly retiring in favor of young up and comer Spencer Cox, his Lieutenant Governor and face of a new, welcoming conservative approach to politics. Hebert and the Aide are inside a Lincoln Town Car driving in the Rio Grande neighborhood of Salt Lake City.
AIDE: That was fantastic, Mr. Governor. When the Lieutenant Governor wins in November, it’ll be all thanks to you.
The Town Car drives alongside the front façade of the Vivent Smart Home Arena. A long line of people are raucously waiting outside.
GOV: When Huntsman left office to be the ambassador to China, I swore I was going to clean this place up. We’re a proud people, us Utes. Clean, moral. Eleven years later and what have I to show for my hard work? Huh? Look at this shit. All these bums. May as well be San Francisco.
AIDE: Sir, those aren’t bums. Those are people. They’re waiting for the wrestling event this week.
GOV: Are you shitting me? A wrestling show? I catch a flak of shit from everyone for wanting to open restaurants, but we’re allowing a god damned wrestling show to go on? Where are all the masks, huh?!
AIDE: You mean the luchadores?
GOV: Who’s-a-door?
AIDE: The luchadores, Sir. The Mexican wrestlers.
GOV: Oh, Christ! Now my last three months in office are going to be marred by bums and illegal immigrants! This is just fuckin’ peachy. No, clean it all up. I want the Sherriff’s department out here today putting all these degenerates in the Paddy Wagon. Spencer doesn’t stand a chance come November with this shitshow.
AIDE: Actually, Sir, I believe the Lieutenant Governor knows about both the homeless population and the ordinance allowing the wrestling show to commence. He’s been working with Mayor Mendenhall about it.
GOV: Has he now? That little shit’s been plotting behind my back for two years. I’ll put my post-electoral pension up against your pittance of a paycheck that when Cox wins in November, he doesn’t mention my name in the first five minutes. The Mormon fuck, conspiring with that Libtard Mayor to make me look like an idiot. Fuck 'em! Send out a press release, I’m going to run on the Libertarian ticket! I’m not done yet!
Governor Hebert takes a big sigh.
GOV: Oh, what’s the fucking use? This game has passed me by. There’s new players, new rules, new ways of doing things. This world…it ain’t what it used to be.
The car stops at a light. On the corner is a greasy haired man holding a cardboard sign:
Why
Lie? Need Alcohol.
Governor Hebert rolls down the window and hands the man a twenty dollar bill, who
emotionlessly accepts.
GOV: Did ya see that? The first ever Republican led Social Works Program. Whoever said I wasn’t a trendsetter?
****************************************
Lars Wooden has spent the last ten years manning the far-left counter (the one nearest the
automatic door) at the Department of Alcohol Beverage Control’s Downtown Salt Lake City
location. He has thick Coke bottle glasses, a face shaved thrice a week, and a gnashing smile
that is part inviting, part wild animal. A layman would take a look at Lars and
think he’s firmly on the spectrum. But Lars has two things going for
him that, when in conjunction, create a super human feat any man in his 40’s
would kill for: 1) He has no wife or family to support and 2) He has a stable
career with benefits that promise to support him for the rest of his life. Lars,
without even knowing it, possesses the rarest jewel of them all: the paradoxical
ability to live life both free and secure.
Like any other liquor store in a greater metropolitan area, the DABC sees its fair share of characters—businessmen in between meetings, tourists staying at hotels, patrons for local live events too cheap to buy marked up liquor. The one subset of clientele Lars sees most is vagrants. So the greasy haired, unkempt man with a brown-stained t-shirt and denim shorts didn’t even register on the awkward scale for Lars.
MAN: [Sets down bottle of Jack Daniels and $20 bill]
LARS: Your total is thirty-one dollars, sir.
MAN: [Incredulous, bug-eyed] That’s ludicrous. It’s Jack Daniels.
LARS: Correct, sir.
MAN: Thirty-one? For this?
LARS: Yes, sir.
The Man begins to caress the square edge of the bottle.
MAN: Well, you see, I have but this here twenty dollar bill. President Andrew Johnson, who himself was actually a Senator from this wonderful, beautiful, great state of Utah. So I will give you this bill in exchange for that bottle, and we can do as the Ute tribe would do and shake forearms. [Extends arm]
LARS: We will not shake forearms, sir, because this note is of President Andrew Jackson, not Johnson, of which I assure you there is a major difference. However, I can tell you at least three similarities—both morally and philosophically—between Presidents Andrew Jackson and Johnson. The first is that neither has served this great State of Utah in any singular governmental capacity, the second of which is they were both Senators from the State eof Tennessee, and the third of which is that neither’s likeness is portrayed on a federally issued note that is monetarily sufficient to purchase this here bottle of Jack Daniels.
MAN: Is there not a discount for using Tennessee tender to buy Tennessee whiskey?
LARS: No, sir. Perhaps you’d be more inclined to buy our 350 milliliter bottle. It is within your Andrew Jackson note.
MAN: That’s it? That’s what I get for twenty bucks in Utah? Won’t even last me an hour!
LARS: You can add a pack of Juicy Fruit, as well.
***********************************
Von Vagabond walked out of the DABC Liquor Store and stuffed all five pieces of Juicy Fruit into his mouth. It was the first sustenance he’d had in a day. He couldn’t have stopped himself from chewing even if he’d wanted to: the juicy sweetiness of the gum was too tantalizing.
To Von, there was no better place to let a meal digest than a public park, so he took up space under a large oak tree outside the public library. He uncapped the bottle of Jack and took a swig. He leaned against the tree for lumbar support.
VON: Ahhhhh. Ricky Schorg. Fucking fitness freak. Fucking Winnebago man. Hey Rick: since you lost last week, doesn’t that mean you’re riding around in a Lose-a-bago? Ha!
Von hits the Jack again.
VON: Little Ricky. Daddy issues. How boring is that? How prevalent is that in wrestling, in life? [Mocking] ‘Oh, my daddy brought me in the ring when I was a week old and piledrived me on my head which explains why I’m an idiot!’ Like a Greek tragedy. Or a regular tragedy. Straight-edge, overly disciplined, obsessively neurotic young pup desperate to prove Daddy wrong, to be better than Daddy, all as a cover to bury his latent homosexual tendencies three layers deep.
Doesn’t it bother you, Ricky, that your Mom, your Dad, your pedophile Uncle, your inbred Cousins, your idiot Brother—your whole fuckin’ family tree was planted and conceived for wrestling, and that no matter how much time, energy, or resources you dedicate to it you still end up in the ring with a guy like me?
Maybe this is your big break, though. Maybe this is all part of the universe’s plan and your path is supposed to lead here. Maybe you’re not supposed to be a wrestler. Maybe the biggest wrestling match of your life is the one within. Guy like you, Ricky, well, you’d do well in a place like this. Utah’s fucking paradise. Maybe you’re meant to be a Mormon. Sell the RV, find a nice girl who has the vaginal dexterity to take all five inches of Lil Ricky twice a year, and squeeze out a few pups. Let your retarded brother sleep in the attic, even!
Shit, Ricky, you don’t need to flunk out of a community college Psych course to know you’re all projection. You think less of yourself. You hate yourself. You hate your life. What you see in me is what you wish you had in yourself: freedom. See Ricky, we’re mostly the same, except for one key difference: you’re B-lining to the finish line and I’m enjoying the journey. Maybe after Monday, when the bell sounds, you’ll want to walk on the road I travel.
[Swig.]
Might do you some good.
[Fade to black.]
Utah Governor Gary Hebert and his Aide have just left a fundraiser at the Downtown Salt Lake City Marriott. After 11 years in his role as governor, Hebert is unwittingly retiring in favor of young up and comer Spencer Cox, his Lieutenant Governor and face of a new, welcoming conservative approach to politics. Hebert and the Aide are inside a Lincoln Town Car driving in the Rio Grande neighborhood of Salt Lake City.
AIDE: That was fantastic, Mr. Governor. When the Lieutenant Governor wins in November, it’ll be all thanks to you.
The Town Car drives alongside the front façade of the Vivent Smart Home Arena. A long line of people are raucously waiting outside.
GOV: When Huntsman left office to be the ambassador to China, I swore I was going to clean this place up. We’re a proud people, us Utes. Clean, moral. Eleven years later and what have I to show for my hard work? Huh? Look at this shit. All these bums. May as well be San Francisco.
AIDE: Sir, those aren’t bums. Those are people. They’re waiting for the wrestling event this week.
GOV: Are you shitting me? A wrestling show? I catch a flak of shit from everyone for wanting to open restaurants, but we’re allowing a god damned wrestling show to go on? Where are all the masks, huh?!
AIDE: You mean the luchadores?
GOV: Who’s-a-door?
AIDE: The luchadores, Sir. The Mexican wrestlers.
GOV: Oh, Christ! Now my last three months in office are going to be marred by bums and illegal immigrants! This is just fuckin’ peachy. No, clean it all up. I want the Sherriff’s department out here today putting all these degenerates in the Paddy Wagon. Spencer doesn’t stand a chance come November with this shitshow.
AIDE: Actually, Sir, I believe the Lieutenant Governor knows about both the homeless population and the ordinance allowing the wrestling show to commence. He’s been working with Mayor Mendenhall about it.
GOV: Has he now? That little shit’s been plotting behind my back for two years. I’ll put my post-electoral pension up against your pittance of a paycheck that when Cox wins in November, he doesn’t mention my name in the first five minutes. The Mormon fuck, conspiring with that Libtard Mayor to make me look like an idiot. Fuck 'em! Send out a press release, I’m going to run on the Libertarian ticket! I’m not done yet!
Governor Hebert takes a big sigh.
GOV: Oh, what’s the fucking use? This game has passed me by. There’s new players, new rules, new ways of doing things. This world…it ain’t what it used to be.
The car stops at a light. On the corner is a greasy haired man holding a cardboard sign:
Why
Lie? Need Alcohol.
Governor Hebert rolls down the window and hands the man a twenty dollar bill, who
emotionlessly accepts.
GOV: Did ya see that? The first ever Republican led Social Works Program. Whoever said I wasn’t a trendsetter?
****************************************
Lars Wooden has spent the last ten years manning the far-left counter (the one nearest the
automatic door) at the Department of Alcohol Beverage Control’s Downtown Salt Lake City
location. He has thick Coke bottle glasses, a face shaved thrice a week, and a gnashing smile
that is part inviting, part wild animal. A layman would take a look at Lars and
think he’s firmly on the spectrum. But Lars has two things going for
him that, when in conjunction, create a super human feat any man in his 40’s
would kill for: 1) He has no wife or family to support and 2) He has a stable
career with benefits that promise to support him for the rest of his life. Lars,
without even knowing it, possesses the rarest jewel of them all: the paradoxical
ability to live life both free and secure.
Like any other liquor store in a greater metropolitan area, the DABC sees its fair share of characters—businessmen in between meetings, tourists staying at hotels, patrons for local live events too cheap to buy marked up liquor. The one subset of clientele Lars sees most is vagrants. So the greasy haired, unkempt man with a brown-stained t-shirt and denim shorts didn’t even register on the awkward scale for Lars.
MAN: [Sets down bottle of Jack Daniels and $20 bill]
LARS: Your total is thirty-one dollars, sir.
MAN: [Incredulous, bug-eyed] That’s ludicrous. It’s Jack Daniels.
LARS: Correct, sir.
MAN: Thirty-one? For this?
LARS: Yes, sir.
The Man begins to caress the square edge of the bottle.
MAN: Well, you see, I have but this here twenty dollar bill. President Andrew Johnson, who himself was actually a Senator from this wonderful, beautiful, great state of Utah. So I will give you this bill in exchange for that bottle, and we can do as the Ute tribe would do and shake forearms. [Extends arm]
LARS: We will not shake forearms, sir, because this note is of President Andrew Jackson, not Johnson, of which I assure you there is a major difference. However, I can tell you at least three similarities—both morally and philosophically—between Presidents Andrew Jackson and Johnson. The first is that neither has served this great State of Utah in any singular governmental capacity, the second of which is they were both Senators from the State eof Tennessee, and the third of which is that neither’s likeness is portrayed on a federally issued note that is monetarily sufficient to purchase this here bottle of Jack Daniels.
MAN: Is there not a discount for using Tennessee tender to buy Tennessee whiskey?
LARS: No, sir. Perhaps you’d be more inclined to buy our 350 milliliter bottle. It is within your Andrew Jackson note.
MAN: That’s it? That’s what I get for twenty bucks in Utah? Won’t even last me an hour!
LARS: You can add a pack of Juicy Fruit, as well.
***********************************
Von Vagabond walked out of the DABC Liquor Store and stuffed all five pieces of Juicy Fruit into his mouth. It was the first sustenance he’d had in a day. He couldn’t have stopped himself from chewing even if he’d wanted to: the juicy sweetiness of the gum was too tantalizing.
To Von, there was no better place to let a meal digest than a public park, so he took up space under a large oak tree outside the public library. He uncapped the bottle of Jack and took a swig. He leaned against the tree for lumbar support.
VON: Ahhhhh. Ricky Schorg. Fucking fitness freak. Fucking Winnebago man. Hey Rick: since you lost last week, doesn’t that mean you’re riding around in a Lose-a-bago? Ha!
Von hits the Jack again.
VON: Little Ricky. Daddy issues. How boring is that? How prevalent is that in wrestling, in life? [Mocking] ‘Oh, my daddy brought me in the ring when I was a week old and piledrived me on my head which explains why I’m an idiot!’ Like a Greek tragedy. Or a regular tragedy. Straight-edge, overly disciplined, obsessively neurotic young pup desperate to prove Daddy wrong, to be better than Daddy, all as a cover to bury his latent homosexual tendencies three layers deep.
Doesn’t it bother you, Ricky, that your Mom, your Dad, your pedophile Uncle, your inbred Cousins, your idiot Brother—your whole fuckin’ family tree was planted and conceived for wrestling, and that no matter how much time, energy, or resources you dedicate to it you still end up in the ring with a guy like me?
Maybe this is your big break, though. Maybe this is all part of the universe’s plan and your path is supposed to lead here. Maybe you’re not supposed to be a wrestler. Maybe the biggest wrestling match of your life is the one within. Guy like you, Ricky, well, you’d do well in a place like this. Utah’s fucking paradise. Maybe you’re meant to be a Mormon. Sell the RV, find a nice girl who has the vaginal dexterity to take all five inches of Lil Ricky twice a year, and squeeze out a few pups. Let your retarded brother sleep in the attic, even!
Shit, Ricky, you don’t need to flunk out of a community college Psych course to know you’re all projection. You think less of yourself. You hate yourself. You hate your life. What you see in me is what you wish you had in yourself: freedom. See Ricky, we’re mostly the same, except for one key difference: you’re B-lining to the finish line and I’m enjoying the journey. Maybe after Monday, when the bell sounds, you’ll want to walk on the road I travel.
[Swig.]
Might do you some good.
[Fade to black.]
