In Iowa, We Call It: Embracing the Crazy

There is a method to the madness. Of that I can assure you.

Iowa is beginning to be the butt of a whole lota jokes around the nation, and believe me, there are states in our fair union who have a lot of nerve, given their own goofiness. You know who you are!

But one can hardly deny that things are weird here during this election cycle. We give new meaning to the world “surge” as each of the clowns in the GOP circus have had their moment in the spotlight.

Are we fickle? Or crazy? Or both?

I have lived in this fair state since March of 1999, and I know a few things now. Even though we live in what can best be termed a unencorporated hamlet, where “everybody knows your name”, that is till largely not true for me. When we go to vote, all the fine ladies and gents who work the polls, people by the way that I recognize, they all holler, “hey Parker, how’s it going with you?” To me?  “Name please?” They still have no clue who I am, nor do they particularly care. I am simply “not Troy.”

Knowing this helps a lot in understanding this state. One of the first things my darling Contrarian explained to me is that Iowa is the fairest and bestest place in all of the planet earth in which to live. I pondered this, and thought, that well, I didn’t know it well, so perhaps he was right.

You see, it matters not whether you agree or not–they believe it. And all is understandable given that.

All these GOP morons have tramped the state, some for months now, shaking hands, babies (err holding that is) and eating battered butter on a stick. If a farmer tells them that the sky should be purple, they endorse purple skies, and if a lady with blue hair says that only people of age 65 or better should vote, they are for that too.

Fully four of them have glommed onto the fertilized egg being a person, which has scary implications if you really think about it, but it hardly matters, since these pledges only last until next week when the “vote” comes. Then the losers will tear up their set of promises, move on to the next bunch and try to figure out what they want them to say.

Now, to keep it interesting, Iowans engage in an elaborate game of “keep away.” They dangle the prize of frontrunnership before each of the sycophants until they get the scent, and follow around the “people” like puppies following a ham bone. They jump and spin, and find themselves saying the most god-awful things to please the ringmasters.

Then, slick as an otter down a water slide, they hide the bone and look to see who they can favor next.

Over the months, each and every one of the GOPer wannabes has had their turn. Each has danced a jig worthy of Bojangles. Each has been discarded in turn.

Some suggest the Iowa GOP voter is a fickle beast. No, not in the least. This is all planned.

Money is pouring into the state, and even Mittens have been seduced into coming here and spending his dough. Our unemployment is somewhere around 6% and frankly, housing prices are high, compared to most.

If you look historically, Iowa has only a 50% success rate in “picking” the ultimate GOP candidate. Remember they picked Hucky and Buchanan before him. In actuality, they simply close their eyes and throw a dart at a board. They could care less.

Get this straight. There are two Iowas. One is in the East (where the sane people mostly live) and the other is the West, where Steve King lives with his bunch of slow-wits. We are hemmed in by two rivers, which caused people in this region to cling to the flat earth theory for some three generations longer than the rest of the country.

And look around. Do you see anything on our borders that is the least bit encouraging?

You can now see the problem?

Or don’t you?

We get no attention. We are smack dab in the middle of  B O R I N G. In fact, there may be no more boring section of the entire lower 48 than Iowa. It is the center of boring.

You ever heard of  “playing the fool”?

We get attention by acting this way. People come here and grovel at our feet, begging for a vote. They whine, placate, promise, and cajole. They in a word–grovel. And it’s fun to watch rich folk grovel, the richer the better. We dress them up in hunting suits, and give them sticks to drive the pigs around in a pen, and watch them consume phallic-looking crap food that we would never touch. And they drop money EVERYWHERE.

And then, we pick a “winner” who is nothing but a real joke to most of us, and we pocket the cash and return to our idyllic life, safe and secure, knowing that we have put on such a show that no self-respecting sane person would ever consider moving here. So we get the whole place to ourselves.

Which is the objective.

Except for me. I still find it boring. But then, they don’t accept me here yet anyway. Takes twenty years I’m told. Which is five more than it takes in Maine.

The welcome mat is not extended.