If I have the time I usually try to run from my house to the Capitol and back. On most days, especially in the fall, it is a beautiful run. Baby faced staffers sit on park benches playing brick breaker on their blackberry’s, grade school kids on field trips hold each other’s hands, forming giant chains so they don’t get lost, and gusts of wind sweep red and orange tinted leaves off the pavement and into the vomit crusted beards of homeless men.
Today, however, something wasn’t right.
As I approached the Capitol, I noticed a raucous band of misfits, clad in early 90’s apparel. I couldn’t quite make out who they were; it looked as if an evil scientist had cloned the entire cast of Roseanne. But something must have gone terribly wrong during the experiment -- they were so angry.
As I came closer, a woman in a pleather jacket, clutching a half-eaten jelly doughnut, yelled “New Jersey is Republican.” The crowd cheered. A man next to her holding a sign that was written in faded purple, misshapen block letters, which read: GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY WIFES COUNTRY yelled “Virginia, baby.” The crowd erupted, again.
I scanned the pack of mongrels, expecting to find a pale, obese scientist, dressed in white linen and flanked by a piano playing midget, but he was nowhere to be found. Despite appearances, I guess this wasn’t Moreau’s island.
Who are these people, I accidentally said aloud.
“They’re tea partiers” a scared reporter whispered.
As the chaos mounted, I became overwhelmed with a feeling of deja vu. I had been here before. I had seen these creatures elsewhere. Somewhere, sometime I had been a part of defeating this toothless aggression.
Then it hit me -- the scene was reminiscent of a Lakers game I had gone to last Christmas. It was the year’s biggest contest. We were facing those miserable bastards, the Boston Celtics. My girlfriend, her family and I showed up to the Staples Center about an hour early, so we decided to go to the bar. I ordered my usual, Dewers on the rocks with a splash of Pellegrino and a lemon twist. Things were going swimmingly for about two delicious sips.
Next thing I knew my senses were pummeled. The smell of clam chowder and Budweiser accosted us. Sophomoric chants about the Lakers, so foul I shant repeat, followed. In an instant the hallowed grounds of the Staples Center looked more like the food court at a Kmart( Though, I've never actually been to a Kmart).
How these inbred New Englanders afforded the airfare to God’s Country was beyond me. Perhaps they saved coin by electing not to replace their disgusting, stain ridden Celtic rags. Rather than buy new, more relevant gear, they made a collective pact to let their guts hang out of Larry Bird jerseys that looked as if they could have been on display in the children’s section of a Salvation Army.
Brothers, it was terrifying.
That afternoon the Lakers defeated the Celtics and I left the Staples Center feeling euphoric. Although, I couldn’t help but wonder if anyone else noticed how much Paul Pierce looked like a giant, Trig Palin with pubic hairs glued to her grill.
Little did I know that less than one year later I’d be confronted by these lowbrow guerrillas, again. I suppose it made sense. The original Tea Party was held in Boston, and, as every sane person recognizes, nothing good has ever came out of Massachusetts except the Kennedys, Matt Damon and Thanksgiving. They also had in common an ineffective means of organizing and a faulty cause. Just as the Lakers are now world champions despite the belligerence of Celtic fans, NY-23 went to the Democrat for the first time in one hundred years, despite the screaming and sign waving of the Glen Beck contingency.
I ran home faster than usual, hoping that increasing my heart rate would purge my mind of what I had seen and remembered. It didn’t work, but I wasn’t scared. If anything, I was more convinced than ever of a future dominated by Democratic rule and Lakers Championships.
Go Well, Brothers
