It’s caucus day in Iowa, the day that ordinary Iowans participate in the caucuses and so become Caucusians and gather to celebrate their Caucusianity by standing around and … I don’t really know how this works. I just know that it’s Caucusian Day in Iowa. (Of course, in Iowa, every day is Caucusian Day … pay very close attention to how I spelled that, OK?)

Lest the flame wars start, allow me to reassure everyone who is reading this that I am joking. I happen to know that the first mosque in the good ol’ US of A was built right there in Cedar Rapids, Iowa (bet you didn’t know that, did you?), and that both of Iowa’s African-American residents are fine, upstanding citizens who retire to their homes before dark and lock the doors tightly.

Again, I’m kidding. I’ve been to Iowa. Lovely state. Go Hawkeyes!

I could turn on the news right now and probably see a number of diagrams of how the caucus process actually works, but I don’t particularly care that much. At the end of the day, they have a candidate … or three … and the news media sits back in a heated, sweaty, post-masturbatory slump, resting long enough to be on the airwaves tomorrow morning to tell us the deeper significance of What Voters Are Actually Looking For. Like they know.

I’m already over this election. I don’t really care who wins today in Iowa, and as much as I do like my former roommate whose Nashua, New Hampshire family once hosted then-Governor Bill Clinton in their living room, I really don’t care about New Hampshire’s election next week, either.

You see, I really don’t care about Hillary’s stance, Obama’s chances, Mitt’s hair, and Huckabee’s squirrel recipes. The reason I don’t care about them is because we won’t be voting on a new president until November. That’s eleven months from now. Things will change a lot between now and then, and I am eagerly awaiting to see who crosses the nasty-ad threshold first (Mike Huckabee had a false start, but recanted).

Granted, these are the primaries. I decided who I want to vote for months ago (doesn’t matter who, because he isn’t going to win), and I won’t pay attention after the primaries because I already know who I’m going to vote for in November. I’m going to vote for the Democrat.
(I’m gay: duuuuuuuuuuh.)

Of course, I live in Texas. It doesn’t matter who I vote for. I could vote for George Washington, and it still wouldn’t matter. Texas will go Republican in November. Texas always goes Republican. Hence, my deep voter apathy (take that and analyze it, Matt Lauer!).

On this first of many election days that will follow in 2008, I will recount to you a delightfully wicked story that supposedly recounts how the Thai used to choose their king when there were rival claimants to the throne. I read this in a magazine once — and not one of those magazines, and I presume that this is fiction. I think the article was written by Gore Vidal, who is a Wonderfully Dirty Old Man. (Note: if you’re in Thailand, please read “Burmese” where I’ve written “Thai”).

There is in Chiang Mai (again, if you’re in Thailand, please read “Mandalay” here) a monastery where rivals for the throne would retreat upon the death of the king. There they would meditate with the monks, display their swordsmanship with the courtiers, and prepare for the ultimate Election of the Fittest in order to succeed to the throne.

Upon the day in question, the two contenders would be brought into the great hall. There, they would shed their robes and sit with their legs spread apart upon the floor, which would have been covered in honey the night before. Each of the contenders would hold his, um, member, up and then allow it to impact the honey-covered floor. He who killed the most flies would become king.

From this ritual, Mr. Vidal informs us, the Thai got the name for their capital: Bangkok. (If you’re reading this from Thailand, I’m sorry: Rangoon just doesn’t work as the punchline, not that it’s the capital of Burma anymore. And yes, I know that Bangkok is actually called Krung Thep in Thai. I’m so very sorry for the offensive joke.)

The reason I bring this up is that I think it would actually make a most fascinating way to elect a president. It certainly would herald us much more attractive candidates, and we’d have a much better mental image to use when the inevitable sex scandals break. We wouldn’t even need special allowances this election because [Insert Hillary has a penis joke here -- I'm too tired to come up with one]. Plus, the FCC would have to fine each candidate for indecency on air before their term started. I mean, this is absolutely worthy of Christopher Buckley, if not Gore Vidal.

It would certainly solve the voter apathy problem, too.

Tags: bad-humor, elections, politics