Hillbilly Buffoonery by O.D. Stance

Like most dumb children, my parents told me I was smart. That way, whenever I came across a nosy stranger, I could lay claim to having a high IQ. Though I still don’t know what a “quotient” is, it helped get me a solid reputation in my hometown. Still, I always distinguished between “intelligence” and “smarts.” Intelligence is something I don’t have, never had, and am never going to have. It meant understanding concepts, complex mathematics, and knowing when to move my Queen. Smarts was different though. Smarts meant I could change my principles and personality depending on which way the breeze was gusting.

When I was a kid everyone in town would salute a piece of tinfoil on the ground. I remember asking a homeless person and he told me why. “Because, son, we like shiny objects. We’re morons.” It was then that I started a long, vibrant love affair with porch lights and open flames. I began to look at the sun with a telescope I rescued from a dumpster. We didn’t dumpster dive, since that would’ve required a bit more athleticism than anyone had. It was more dumpster wading, treading in trash and at times, stumbling over something worth salvaging. The damage to my retina gave me clear vision about what’s ailing this country. 

Unlike public pools, dumpsters lack lifeguards. Why is that? I wanted to find out and enact real change for my community. 

You might say I have street smarts. Though, despite being reared within the padded confines of suburbia, my heart belongs to rural America. You could also say I have unpaved street smarts. Real dirt smarts. Mud smarts. I like ditches and wouldn’t mind digging them if they helped get me a few extra votes. 

I don’t have morals, per se. I know what ethics are without having read Aristotle. Maybe one day I’ll grow a better beard, but that seems unlikely. There are parts of the country grass just won't grow.

I’m running for office, fueled by anger and an ancient deep fryer. And since I appeal to the lowest common denominator, I am starting to understand fractions. I believe that’s what Madison warned us about in The Federalist Papers. Not having read it, I can’t say for sure. 

I’m a meathead. That’s not an insult and were it one, it's okay, it's my noggin. My head has been assessed by locally sourced meat purveyors as something that would garner a pretty penny on the open market. But I’m planning on keeping my head right where it is. There it can do the most damage - to me, as well as the country. I’d be wasted on a plate, surrounded by celery and carrots, ranch and blue cheese. I belong in Washington, flanked by plenty of pork. Hold on, I think I just saw a siren. I’m gonna go chase it now. Wish me luck and a good dental plan.