An Excerpt from My Narrative

As we all know, nowadays it’s not sufficient for a presidential candidate to stand on the right side of all the issues. He has to have a narrative, a story of a life dedicated, from infancy, to the themes that appear in his present-day speeches. His campaign staff must produce a stirring, motivational documentary, intoned by a rich and resonant voice, showing how the candidate’s childhood helped shape the youngster into the dynamic adult force he is today.

Unfortunately, in my case, I’m afraid that the filmmakers would have to resort to a heavy dose of fabrication. I didn’t have any themes as a kid, except for maybe wangling to get my mother to buy Sugar Pops instead of Shredded Wheat. Still, I know that if The Exterminator/Chaplain ticket is going to be a viable one, the audience at our convention deserves to see an inspirational movie. We’ve already invested in plenty of buttered popcorn, so what the hell, huh?

OK, then. It’s your lucky day, because here’s a short excerpt from The Man From “Bullshit”: A Word We Can Believe In.

Imagine, if you will, a Gregory Peck type reading the following rousing script, as a montage of appropriate Bronx childhood pictures, bathed in a warm and surreal glow, flickers on the screen.

When that young boy's mother, struggling, as all American mothers did, to make sure her children grew up happy and healthy in a world that cared about everyone, regardless of race, religion, gender, sexual preference, or sports affiliation ...

... when that mother looked up at her inexpensive clock, the only clock the family could afford, with a second hand that took more than a minute and a half to make its poor but proud circuit ...

... when she looked and saw that it was time for her son to get his much needed, life-enhancing rest in his humble, but red, fireman pajamas ...

... pajamas which were made by American workers toiling in American factories on American soil with American needles and American thread, and paid for with American credit that accumulated American interest ...

... when that young boy’s mother would see him in those pajamas, rather than his street clothes, she’d know in her heart, even then, how well she had impressed upon him the crucial need for change ...

... and when she would summon up the meager energy she had left after a grueling day of working in an office for an uncaring boss who actually made her work in that office, although he never did manage to pronounce her name correctly ...

... when that mother would whisper, "Ex, it's time for you to go to bed" ...

... then ...

... then that young boy, with the spark of greatness already deep in his non-soul, would say, "Ma" ...

... and that word “Ma” would be imbued with the lovely loving love and the hopeful hoping hope that all boys in this beautiful and free land of beauty and freedom feel when they speak their mother’s name ...

... "Ma," he would say, in the same strong and ringing tones, and in the very same straight-talking phrase he might still use today when faced with a similarly difficult problem ...

... “Ma,” he would say. "I'm not convinced."