The Governor of NH is up for Re-Election
The governor of New Hampshire is up for re-election. In the stratosphere, her luxury ship carrying societyâs elite is making record time to get home. A sitting-duck ship painted disco orange and yellow is bobbing peacefully in the distance, a millennium remnant in the stars. It is an exact replica of the hot dog trolley that sits on Broad street in Philadelphia. Per orders of the governor, the captain pummels headlong toward the trailer. We smack violently into it.
Despite the reality that it is filled with people, the crummy discotrailer fishtails out of orbit and toward a black hole. It disappears, of course.
The decision was easy to make; it was clear that it would have the effect of getting the governorâs ship home faster, something to do with every action having an equal reaction. Scientific reasoning has long surpassed the social value of the disco people.
A funny thing happens back in New Hampshire. With my morning coffee and paper Iâm thinking about what unfolded up there, grappling with the loss of those people. Just because theyâre from the past doesnât mean they donât equally deserve to live. Wasnât it already enough that we launched them into perpetual orbit in their own antiquated spacetrolley? Did we really have to kill them needlessly, too? I donât agree with the captain that theyâre only worth the phosphoric fuel they produce.
The governor is my neighbor. She steps onto her lawn this morning as the contents of that very spacetrolley come pouring down, like a very neat waterfall, in front of her. Tables, chairs, outdated flight equipment, people. Itâs a space smoothie that burns a pinhole into the ground. Like clowns into a prehistoric clown car. The black hole must have had a NH function on the backend.
Iâm sure she didnât expect this. Itâs not often you have to look your casualties directly in the eye these days, much less right in the acidic death funnel.
And thatâs when she flipped. Maybe I am giving the governor too much credit, but the only viable reason I can think of is that the guilt was too great. It seems like she had to clip free moral conscience altogether. When youâre that far in, when the guilt is that overwhelming, you kind of just need to become a new person. You adapt to the conditions youâve created.
AND ANOTHER THING, she says.
NO MORE SOIL, EITHER. She starts putting out the few flower pots of personal soil she has left, maybe six or seven containers of dry stuff. A telepsyche is sent out to New Hampshirites that soil is illegal now, is to be disposed of rather immediately. Like all mass communications she distributes, the sender only shows up as âMGMT.â People have somehow not connected this back to the governor. Itâs just my opinion, but this disembodiment is what has allowed her to continue her rule as a beloved icon.
I donât know what else.
NO MORE DOGS, EITHER. She sits her black Doodle on the sidewalk next to the soil pots.
Sheâs really on a roll.
It strikes me that all this isnât okay. Actually, itâs kind of fucked up. No more soil, I think we could probably deal with that in the gLabs. Whatever is left of it anyhow is mostly just novelty. But no more dogs? No more dogs? We already know they canât be perfectly reproduced, at least not for a long time. There is something in their doggiealities, some organic substance that the teams havenât been able to manufacture the random uniqueness of. If they go now, theyâre not coming back. The Doodle looks at the governor through overgrown bangs.
I have to do something. A panic sets in as I grab the dog by the collar and take off at a brisk pace down the street. Instinctively I grab the next one I see, a wire-haired cattledog. Iâm just going to save them. I start looking for other dogs to smuggle when I run into Jeffu.
Heâs on board, but heâs got a better formula. âWe need two of each, duh.â
We set off on this archaic mission, searching for what seem like probable matches. For every dog we take we explain to its owner that soon theyâll understand. It is for the dogsâ sustainable future. This is primo dog-walking hour, so there are plenty to grab, but we soon start to run out of fingers to hook collars (we didnât bring our own leashes). We have to do this on a bigger level. Two by two isnât going to cut it.
âWe have to make waves,â Jeffu says. âWe need to get the attention of a mass body of emotionally fertile people.â
We get word that the governorâs re-election rally is taking place down at the fairgrounds. And, as it just so happens, it coincides with the meeting of Regional Dog Enthusiasts. Clearly, this event was arranged before the trolley catastrophe occurred/was swept under the black hole rug, but when I really think about it, the last century has been filled with an uncanny amount of coincidences.
Jeffu and I get to the fairgrounds, dogs in tow, and charge through the enormous backstage pavilions toward the stage. We can hear the large crowd of pro-governor pro-dog attendees. A few government employees in red baseball jackets trail us, but are largely ineffective. When we reach the stage I have a surprisingly easy time of taking the microphone. Whoever is lauding the governor just kind of hands it over. The lady of the hour sits quietly next to the podium.
Iâm sure that most of the historic speeches in the cloud archives are far more inspiring than what I might say next. But I really give it everything I have.
I point at her accusingly. THIS WOMAN, THIS VERY WOMAN SITTING NEXT TO ME JUST THIS MORNING RENOUNCED SOIL. SHE IS THE ONE WHO HAS INSTRUCTED US TO DO AWAY WITH THE VERY THING THAT FIRST GAVE OUR ANCESTORS LIFE THROUGH AGRICULTURAL FOOD.
The crowdâs interest is piqued.
THIS VERY WOMAN HAS GONE SO DANGEROUSLY FAR TO RENOUNCE DOGS. DOGS!
What could be called a fevered hush runs through the rally. Iâve complicated their idea of our leader.
SHE IS SYSTEMATICALLY GETTING RID OF THEM. AND DO YOU KNOW WHY? BECAUSE IT WAS HER SPACECRAFT THAT KILLED THOSE POOR DISCO PEOPLE IN THE SKY LAST NIGHT. THATâS RIGHT. THIS WOMAN IS GETTING RID OF THE DOGS, AND ALSO HAS NO RESPECT FOR HUMAN LIFE. IS THIS REALLY WHAT YOU WANT? DO YOU REALLY WANT TO RE-ELECT A PERSON LIKE THIS?
Iâve won them over. Theyâre gently chanting NO.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, I bleed into the microphone in what could be called a moment of glory.
The rally erupts into full protest--itâs really a large crowd, and theyâre starting to lose control--as the governor continues to sit ashamedly next to the podium. My work feels done.
As I walk back across the fairgrounds through the confetti of justice, a media photographer asks to take my picture. I ask him to hold on until I can find Jeffu, who is walking toward us, a bath towel wrapped around his lower half. During the course of my speech he apparently set up a guerilla encampment, with showers, just outside the fairgrounds.
âTake our picture together, please. Jeffu is a huge part of this movement.â The telescope eye blinks.Â
The next morning, over coffee, I unfold the dayâs paper. After some searching I spot the small photo that was taken of Jeffu and I, crammed at the bottom of page 8. We look pleased.
What I do not see at first, and have to flip back to, is the full-page photo of me occupying the front page.
I only recognize my face. It then becomes obvious that my head has been superimposed on top of a huge, over-sexualized, cartoon super heroâs body.
Some highlights are a scant leotard and buoyant cleavage; vintage elbow-length star trek gloves; and knee-high boots that offer a very fictitious understanding of my thighs.
I throw the newspaper against the wall and select glass shatter scream.Â
You actually canât win.
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