The Circus Nobody Wanted
(Note: This was a late arriving dispatch from one of our roving correspondents Padriac Slivovitz.)
Awakening in the early morning just inside the border of Northern South Carolina, Padriac glimpsed a group he’d been searching for all night. It was the GOP circus. As the circus wagon creaked into Beelzebub, South Carolina, a slim crowd of cranky old white men assembled along the road wearing American Legion hats and waving NRA cardboard cutouts of AK-47s. Next, they were greeted by the high school band, the Beelzebub Bible Thumpers. About six of them, all dull-eyed white boys with tubas, trombones and a bass drum. They were playing “Dixie” as it might have sounded if written by Kurt Weill while he was drunk.
The Circus Ringmaster, Colonel John McDeaf, limped in, waving his battered, high silk hat, giving an occasional thumbs-up with both hands. His feet really seemed to hurt. Romneo, the incredible elastic man, came right behind the Colonel. Elastic Man was dancing, prancing and doing cartwheels, none of which got any reaction from the small group of onlookers, many of whom seemed badly in need of dental work. When one youngster yelled out, “Pa, when they gonna kill the president?” some good-natured laughter ensued. “Elrod, that boy of yorn ought to be on TV!” More laughter.
Urged on by Colonel McDeaf, the townsfolk walked through the dusty town park, past the statue of Colonel Jubilation T. Jones, “Hero of the Battle of Beelzebub.” Ahead, the battered circus tent had been set up.
McDeaf was telling his troupe that these were their kind of people, real Americans. But the real Americans seemed disappointed. Fat Fatima wasn’t that fat, the Wizard Paul just mumbled a lot of numbers, and the clowns kept squabbling with Newtie, the evil clown. A teenager yelled that Rock Strongarm couldn’t bench-press his own weight. The audience was drifting away.
“Pa, let’s go. The shootin’ range has got Obama targets!”
“Why didn’t Dixie Lee Michelle Bachmann show up?”
“And where’s Cowboy Rick and his Magic Horse Super PAC?”
“He’ll be here any minute,” Colonel McDeaf reassured them. “Let Rock Strongarm read you some funny stuff about ho-mo-sex-uals!”
“Where’s the darn Horse Super PAC?”
“Cowboy Rick,” Newtie the Clown sneered, “keeps fallin’ off his horse!”
Right on cue, Cowboy Rick rode in, waving his hat and firing his imitation NRA pistol. He promptly fell off his horse. The crowd began to walk away.
“Wait! Wait!” the Colonel could be heard wailing.
Cowboy Rick was struggling to get back on his horse, but the evil Clown Newtie kept biting him on the leg. Romneo was twisting himself into an incredible shape, but no one paid any attention.
“Come on, boys, let’s go down to DQ and get some Blizzards.”
“But Pa, I wanted to see the clowns!”
“You just did, son.”
Padriac must have fallen asleep behind the wheel of his car parked near the statue. Because when he woke up, there was no trace left of the circus. Everybody was gone. Hungry, he started out to look for something to eat. After driving around for hours, he found a McDonald’s. Inside, there were two locals having a snack. Slivovitz mentioned that he had been wandering around the area day and night searching for that circus in Beelzebub. The men looked surprised and one laughed.
“Mister, Beelzebub went off the map more than ten years ago. Ain’t no such town.”
As they walked out, Padriac rubbed his eyes asking himself if he’s wandered into The Twilight Zone. No, he decided, it was just the Republican Party 2012.