Boogers Are My Beat

by Dave Barry

  So I think that, given the population down here, it was a big mistake to put arrows on the ballot. It would be better to use a system easier to grasp, such as putting actual photographs of the candidates on the ballot; voters could indicate their preference by using their hole-punchers to poke the candidate of their choice in the eyeball.

  For now, though, we need to figure out what to do about this election. Here's what I say we do: I say we take the 25 electoral votes away from Florida and give them to some less-populated but more-deserving state—say Delaware, or North Dakota—that is at least capable of figuring out which candidate it voted for. Do you think this is a good idea? Please take a moment to let me know by punching the correct hole in the ballot below:

  Okay, I'm tabulating your results now, and the winner is . . . Pat Buchanan. I'm moving to Sweden.

  Now It's Time to Say Thanks for the Chads That Don't Count

  Boy, am I ever thankful.

  I'm talking about Miami-Dade County's decision not to recount its presidential ballots after all.

  As you know, in Palm Beach and Broward counties, groups of wretched people have been spending long, dreary days looking at ballots, squinting at pregnant chads, gay and lesbian chads, dimpled chads, freckled chads, Kentucky Fried Chads, the Artist Formerly Known as Chad, etc.

  Their goal is to figure out what in God's name the voters were thinking when they did whatever they did to these ballots. This is not easy, because a lot of these voters apparently have the functional IQs of starfish. There's no other way to explain some of the things they did in the voting booth. (“Hey! I think I'll vote for . . . TWO presidents!”)

  Don't get me wrong: I'm all for these recounts. I agree with the thousands of out-of-state lawyers currently clogging every Holiday Inn in the state: We must discern the intent of EVERY VOTER. In fact, I think we should count people who had planned to vote, but, for whatever reason, never got around to actually go to the polls. I think we should count people who failed to register, but have a good excuse, such as they forgot. I think we should count people who live in less-dramatic states such as Delaware, but would have moved to Florida and registered if they had known how exciting this election was going to be.

  Why should these people be disenfranchised? We can discern their intentions, with the help of out-of-state lawyers!

  So I believe that recounts, in principle, are a swell idea. At least I did when they involved only Palm Beach and Broward counties. But I became VERY nervous when Miami-Dade County decided to recount its ballots. Because it appeared likely that the Miami-Dade recount would have been the deciding factor in the election. In other words—and if the following statement does not send a chill down your spine, then you do not have a spine—Miami-Dade would have chosen the next president.

  This would not be good for America. Because if there's one thing that Miami-Dade has proven, time and again, it is this: WE DON'T KNOW HOW TO COUNT. We're the county that cheerfully paid a contractor $400,000 too much for “royal” palm trees that were more like palm shrubs. (Although I still believe these trees should be allowed to vote.) We're also the county that paid more than $1 million for road-striping work that was not, if you want to get technical about it, done, in the sense of stripes physically appearing on a road.

  And Miami is of course the city that elected a mayor (at least temporarily) with the help of votes cast by, among others, Manuel Yip, who, at the time of the election, turned out to have been deceased for four years.

  My point is that, when it comes to keeping an accurate count of things—dollars, trees, live voters vs. dead voters, whatever—Miami-Dade has a poor track record. Not to mention the fact that our voters have probably done some REALLY weird things with their ballots. (“Hey, this one has some kind of white powder on it!” “Yeah? Well, THIS one has a bullet hole.”)

  So letting Miami-Dade recount its votes, and thus pick the next president, would have been not unlike turning the controls of a 747 over to a chimpanzee. There is no telling WHERE we'd wind up. There could be a BIG vote surge for Elián.

  That's why, today, I am thankful. I'm thankful that Miami-Dade has—incredibly—done the sane thing, and decided to stay out of this mess.

  The rest of the United States (which already wishes that Florida still belonged to Spain) can blame Palm Beach and Broward for whatever happens. For once, Miami-Dade won't be the Lunatic County. We should all be thankful for that, and today, when we prepare to carve our Thanksgiving turkey, we should pause to reflect on our good fortune, and to imagine—in the true spirit of Thanksgiving—that our turkey is an out-of-state lawyer.

  Party Time, Texas-Style: Even the Cows Had a Ball

  WASHINGTON

  Every four years, this stodgy city kicks off its wingtip shoes. Then it puts on shoes that are even less comfortable, and celebrates the inauguration of a president.

  And so the federal government—as only the federal government knows how—has gone into Festivity Implementation and Facilitation Mode. Unfortunately, the weather was awful. But the rain, freezing temperatures, and occasional death from exposure have not put a damper on the inauguration and its upbeat theme: “We're Cold, and We're Wet.”

  No, seriously, the official theme, as far as I can tell, is: “We're Texans, and By God We're From Texas!” This place is infested with Texans, who simply cannot get over how Texan they are. Many of them are wearing cowboy hats, though I suspect they're mainly business people who have never personally interacted with a cow that was not in the form of prime rib.

  So the new administration will definitely have a “Texas style,” as opposed to the old administration, which had an “Arkansas style.” The Washington news media have made a big deal out of this changeover, although in fact there is no discernible difference between the two styles, both of which basically consist of people going: “Whooo-EEE!”

  Speaking of Arkansas style: Bill Clinton had a very classy final full day in office, didn't he? Mr. Legacy signed a deal with the special prosecutor in which he finally came clean and admitted, in no uncertain terms, that he—to quote from his statement—“may or may not have said things under oath that may or may not have been less than totally truthful, or possibly not, depending on how you define ‘not.' ” Mr. Clinton also admitted to “a possible involvement” in four convenience-store robberies. Of course, these blemishes on his record must be weighed against the many accomplishments of his administration, which, according to the estimated four hundred and fifty farewell speeches given by Mr. Clinton, include peace, prosperity, gravity, pasteurization, the plow, and Handel's Messiah.

  But the focus now is on our new president, George W. Bush III Jr., who, along with his gracious wife, Mrs. George W. Bush III Jr., has been attending numerous inaugural balls, which are real Washington-style fun-a-paloozas.

  I attended a hot-ticket ball hosted by the Texas State Society for nine thousand paying guests and several head of actual cattle. I am searching for a way to tell you how much fun this ball was. Okay, try this: Imagine that you're at a major airport on a Friday night, and all the flights have been canceled, so that thousands of travelers are jammed together in long, jostling, increasingly hostile lines for food, drink, bathrooms, escalators, everything. Now imagine that everybody is wearing formal clothes, and the atmosphere is 97 percent hairspray fumes, and every few seconds somebody, who always seems to be right next to your ear, shouts “Whooo-EEE!”

  That's the kind of fun we were having. This ball was so crowded that it took me—a trained professional journalist with vast experience in this area—forty-five minutes to get a beer. I am fervently hoping that the highest domestic priority of the new administration will be: more bartenders. In between balls, they held the actual inauguration ceremony, featuring music by rap star Eminem.

  No, seriously, it featured traditional patriotic tunes, played by the traditional band of military people armed with tubas. The ceremony was very dignified, except when Al Gore, understandably, lost control, and Barbara Bush
had to coldcock him with the Bush family Bible. After that, George W. took the oath of office; he did this flawlessly, except for ending with the words “so help me, Rhonda.” Then he read a nice speech in which he pointed out—correctly, in my view—that the future lies ahead. Then it was . . . back to the balls!

  Call me corny, but seeing this in person—this orderly transfer of the greatest power on Earth—made me feel something that I have never felt before. I think it might be frostbite.

  Part Two

  * * *

  Next we have some columns I wrote from the 2000 Republican and Democratic national conventions. I have been to ten national political conventions, and I have yet to see a single important decision get made at one. Nothing important ever happens at these things: They're just an excuse to hold lavish parties where big corporations try to influence politicians and the media with free food and liquor. So I think they're great.

  * * *

  It's Party Time, As Philly Gets Phunky

  PHILADELPHIA

  It's convention time, and Republicans from all over the solar system have gathered here in the historic birthplace of our nation—the place where in 1776, as any American schoolchild can tell you, the Founding Fathers signed the Gettysburg Address.

  Very little has happened here since then. But that is about to change. We are in for a wild and wacky week, because the Republicans have declared that their convention theme this year will be “Get Phunky in Philly!” They are determined to shed their image as a stodgy, exclusive party for wealthy white conservative Mercedes-driving country-club members. This year, in the words of convention chairman Jim Nicholson, “We want to show the world that we also welcome people who drive certain models of Jaguar.”

  With that goal in mind, the Republican nominee, George “W.” Bush Jr. III, went out of his way to select a running mate who would broaden the ticket, in the sense of not being a member of “W's” immediate family.

  To help him narrow down the list of possibilities, Bush called on veteran political insider Dick “Dick” Cheney, who conducted an exhaustive, wide-ranging search that took him to every corner of his house before he finally settled on: himself.

  And with good reason. Cheney has an impressive résumé: At various times in his career, he has served as secretary of defense, presidential chief of staff, congressperson, senior lifeguard, Wyoming state tango champion, and bass player for the Sex Pistols. He also is the perfect balance for the ticket, because whereas Bush is a wealthy white Yale-educated Protestant Western oil guy, Cheney is a wealthy white Yale-educated Protestant Western oil guy who is a completely different age. As Bush himself put it, in a press conference announcing the Cheney nomination, “I'm fifty-four years old, whereas Dick is fifty-nine, so that's a difference of eight years right there.”

  These two men will formally be nominated on Thursday night, but not before the Republicans subject the nation to many, many hours of Harmony.

  They are anxious to avoid the hostile tone of previous GOP conventions, which usually featured Pat Buchanan setting fire to life-size mannequins representing the Supreme Court. This year will be different. This year the convention will feature a softer tone and, in the words of chairman Nicholson, “minorities out the wazooty.” The focus will be positive: There will be no references to the scandals of the Clinton administration, other than Tuesday night's scheduled eighty-five-minute prime-time address by Monica Lewinsky.

  Also, Bush has instituted a strict rule prohibiting convention speakers from making direct personal attacks on President Bill Clinton or his wife, Mrs. President Bill Clinton.

  To enforce this rule, the Republicans will be using a special computerized “smart” podium programmed to deliver a powerful electric shock to any speaker who utters code words or phrases that could be construed as subtle attacks on the first couple, such as “liars” or “criminals” or “big-thighed golf-cheating intern-groping cigar pervert.”

  This podium was tested over the weekend by a courageous volunteer, the Rev. Pat Robertson, who somehow managed to survive, although he did lose all his body hair.

  So if all goes according to plan, the Republicans' convention will be so smooth and glitch-free that even the actual speakers will have trouble staying awake.

  But that does NOT mean there will be no excitement! For one thing, numerous protesters are on hand hoping to gain media attention and thus transmit to all of humanity the urgent message that they are wackos without jobs.

  Also, the city of Philadelphia desperately hopes that it can use the convention coverage to showcase itself as a tourist destination where tourists would deliberately stop for some reason other than transmission trouble. There's lots to do here!

  For example (I am not making this example up), Philadelphia's Official Delegate and Media Guide lists, under “attractions,” both New Jersey AND Delaware.

  So it's definitely going to be an exciting week of GOP-style fun. I'll be writing daily reports for you, bringing you all the action, both from inside the convention hall, and from the streets. I am assuming here that Delaware HAS streets.

  Party Politics: Reporters Get Invited to Some, Crash Others

  PHILADELPHIA

  A critical function that we journalists perform at political conventions is to try to get into parties that we have not been invited to. There are dozens of these parties, sponsored by large corporations with a sincere public-spirited desire to become larger.

  We journalists crash these parties so that we can bring you the “inside story” on what the political “bigwigs” are doing “behind the scenes.” What they are doing, it always turns out, is standing around talking about what other parties they plan to go to. Nothing newsworthy ever happens. But we journalists keep trying to get in; we are like moths attracted to a street light, hurling their little moth bodies repeatedly against the glass, driven by a powerful natural instinct to obtain free corporate liquor.

  Thus it was that I found myself standing on a rain-slicked Philadelphia sidewalk with a fellow journalist named Joel, trying to get into a “tribute” sponsored by Daimler-Chrysler Corp. for Rep. J. C. Watts, who is the most prominent African-American Republican in Congress, in the same sense that Ringo was the most prominent drummer in the Beatles.

  This party featured entertainment by the Temptations. (Other entertainers at this convention include—I swear—Dick Clark, Chubby Checker, the Four Tops, the Shirelles, Bobby Vee, and Bo Derek; strict Republican bylaws prohibit appearances by any performer who has had any kind of hit since 1974.) Unfortunately, the security people would not let us in to see the Temptations, so we stood outside and watched the Republicans “jiving,” as only Republicans can, to the smooth sounds of the great Motown group, whose dance steps were as dazzling as ever, even with the use of walkers. Although I was not admitted, I enjoyed myself, and I feel no bitterness toward Daimler-Chrysler Corp., whose cars explode on contact with shopping carts.

  Things perked up when Joel and I latched on to Robert Novak, a conservative pundit with a tan like a traffic cone. He was walking to a party being thrown for him and some other CNN people by a company called “Sallie Mae.” In Republican circles, Novak is Elvis: People were calling out his name and applauding him as he strode along. At one point, I swear, an extremely excited man sprinted half a block to catch Novak and breathlessly report that he was going to run for Congress against Dick Gephardt.

  “Great,” said Novak, still walking.

  “The early polls look very good!” said the man. He appeared to be on the verge of wetting his pants.

  “Great,” said Novak, not slowing down.

  “This is breaking news, Bob!” shouted the man to Novak's back as Novak strode rapidly away, his tan radiating into the damp Philadelphia evening.

  Because Joel and I had latched on, lamprey-like, to one of the honorees, we got into the party, which was jammed with people talking about what parties they were going to next. Among the luminaries on hand was billionaire Steve Case, who started
America Online. I tried to start a conversation with him, but I kept getting cut off. (Rim shot.)

  But seriously, it was a fine party, in the sense that there was free beer. I want everybody reading this column to find out what “Sallie Mae” makes and go buy some of it.

  I'm out of space, so here are the headlines:

  CONVENTION UPDATE: The convention has started, and formally declared itself to be in favor of children.

  “DICK” CHENEY UPDATE: The Democrats, moving fast, have already released a TV commercial linking Dick to the JFK assassination.

  GEORGE “W.” BUSH JR. III UPDATE: He is, I swear, in Ohio. Somebody better get him a map.

  PROTESTER UPDATE: It turns out that the United States is run by corrupt corporate fascist pigs. I'll try to find out more by infiltrating their parties.

  “Rolling Roll Call” Makes Bad Idea Last Even Longer

  PHILADELPHIA

  Now HERE'S a great idea from the Republicans.

  You know the roll-call votes they take at conventions? I'm talking about when the state delegation chairpersons get up, one by one, and—before revealing how their states are going to vote, which everybody already knows—drone on about how great their states are, even if the state is a known armpit:

  “Mr. Chairman, the great state of Alabama, proud home of the largest Methodist-owned ottoman reupholstering plant east of the Mississippi; birthplace of the steam-powered pig castrator; site of the world's tallest free-standing pile of used truck tires; consistently rated among the top five states in the nation for spittoon safety; the state whose official state university proudly owns a complete set of the 1979 Encyclopedia Britannica except for volume IV (Dachshund–Easter Island), which whoever has it should please return it immediately; the state with more Big Boy restaurants per capita than. . . .”