So back in my Myspace days-- before I abandoned it like a majestic, dignified rat sauntering off a sinking boat-- I became painfully aware of the copious number of survey-style "bulletins." I also got in touch with my burning passion for well-intentioned parody. So with respect to those who take these seriously, forgive me. It's really an addiction. I need help (maybe in the form of 1990's "slap bracelets," "pogs," and other nostalgic detritus from bygone days). In keeping with this month's awareness theme, let's see if we can't have a bit of extra fun with this.
(the job was to add one's own words after the ellipses):
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I live... to see the day that Sasquatch is elected to public office.
I work... toward that goal by educating voters (and trash cans and various subspecies of mule deer) about how the Yeti Platform is in their best interests.
I talk... to these voters even when those with less attuned senses persist in their claims that "there's no one there" or "I'm talking to myself" or "moldy bagels don't even have suffrage so why canvas the dumpsters behind Panera?"
I wish... that ol' Sassy could get the nod from one of the major parties. He's not picky... he'd work with either one so long as they respected his stance on hedgehog control, protecting our coastal borders from illegal mermaid immigrants, and the proper use of internet gambling to chip away at the deficit.
I enjoy... listening to him talk-- or grunt, rather--about how he'd reform Washington... the state, mind you, not the capital. He has a lot of ideas about preserving the trees there (which some say is merely to appease his running mate, The Lorax).
I look... forward to the day when Sasquatch Sapiens and Homo Sapiens can get beyond the Henderson Incident and realize that they are stronger together than they were apart.
I smell... like a wet yak, but that's the price one pays for being Sassy's campaign manager.
I hide... the smell of sasquatch under cheap cologne and a cloud of bourbon. Or, rather, I try to hide it.
I pray... that Sassy's flatulence dies down before the debates. He gets gassy when he's agitated. Or when he's happy. Or when the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving Special is on TV.
I walk... upwind of him, but yeti stench is mighty powerful and there's no real escape.
I sing... his campaign song, "Teddy Bear Picnic," not because I agree that it "conveys the heart and soul of his political agenda" but because the asinine song sticks in my head like maple syrup in a lumberjack's beard!
I can... only tolerate so much of that song before I reach again for that bottle ol' Kentucky. The liquor makes the singing stop.
I watch... the various "attack ads" that Sassy endorses, but I just can't seem to convince him that they need to contain something other than old clips from All in the Family. His "compromise position" was to add a voice over narration of Sam Waterston reading Frost's "Fire and Ice" in falsetto. He's either a genius or a lunatic. Sassy thinks its a false dichotomy.
I yearn... for the coveted Secretary of Squatch position. After all I've done for him, he'd better realize that a little nepotism goes a long way (toward me forgetting my incriminating photos of him stealing veggies from Mr McGregor back when he was hanging out with that unsavory Peter Rabbit).
I daydream... about various styles of campaign posters. The Sasquatch image does not exactly lend itself to anything other than World War I and II propaganda.
"I want...you" works well when it is coming from Uncle Sam, but people might get confused if they saw a poster of bigfoot saying that. It would only add fuel tot he myth that he eats children.
I cry... when I dwell on that urban legend. It was one incident in college that the media has spun WAY out of context. I mean he only ate the kid because it was Halloween and she was dressed as a cupcake! It could have happened to any beast of legend and lore!
I read... about how the lumberjack union is using that Halloween fiasco to chip away at Sassy's credibility. They've also called his judgment into question over tapping the Lorax for VP. They say American can't trust anyone who eats children and teams up with Barbaloot sympathizers with anti-thneed sentiments.
I love... how so few of the talking heads see how obviously biased the lumberjack group is. Clearly they have an axe to grind.
I wonder... if Paul Bunyan will use this momentum to run in the next election.
I touch... on this conspiracy in my new book "How Bunyan, Captain Crunch, and The Jersey Devil Hoodwinked the American Middle Class." You can find it wherever fine books are sold (i.e. Spencer Gifts, The Dollar Store, and the parking lot behind Denny's).
I hurt... on the inside because I've had to learn to stifle my gag reflex whenever a post-jog Sassy returns to the office citing "no time to grab a shower, just be a good chap and power through, yeah?"
I fear... that prolonged exposure to the fetid odors of a yeti has had irreparable harm. I've already noticed one symptom of yeti fever--hearing imaginary British accents.
I hope... the stench has not permeated my pores and infected my blood.
I break... into a sweat just thinking about it.
I eat... less and less because my olfactory cells only register the one scent.
I bathe... seven times a day, but to no avail. I feel like I'm living inside a skunk. A skunk with an irritable bowel.
I quit... eating solid food in mid-October. I now survive on those medical supplement shakes that they market to retirees... what are they called? Oh yeah, the Mc Flurry.
I drink... these shakes twelve times a day because I need to keep up my strength.
I save... the receipts and charge them to the campaign. Sasquatch is none the wiser (he doesn't believe in numbers. He says he only believes in himself).
I hug... my knees and try not to hyperventilate when I'm stuck in the cramped and humid campaign Volvo, riding with Sassy when he goes stumping (which, in this case, means looking for forensic evidence to link stumps to illegal lumberjacking).
I miss... having the ability to exhale without de facto vomiting into my mouth. I've tried to covertly febreeze him and I've tried to breathe through my mouth. Nothing helps.
I forgive... him for getting angry when my fifteen Yankee Candles almost burned down campaign headquarters. I realize he is afraid of fire, but it still took some time for me to get over his arm-flailing reaction.
I've learned... do without some modern convenience in light of Sasquatch's social quirks--fire, shoes, any hair style except the mullet... these are all items that my superstitious boss has banned.
I have... to admit that this campaign mullet is rather stylish in a "I want to gouge out my eyes" kind of way.
I don't... know if he has a reasonable shot at getting elected, but I'll try to stick around til the bitter end... it only for the embezzlement opportunities.
I kiss... my chances of a non-sasquatch political career goodbye. If this fails, I'll have to help The Abominable Snowman run for Canadian Prime Minister or something.
