Tuesday, November 1, 2016

Digging Up Shovel-Ready Jobs

For the second week in a row the president didn’t show up in the Ovoid Space for the state-of-the-campaign meeting. Word has it he really didn’t like most of the people there as they had no miracle ideas about how to get him a third term.

Apparently, he had no interest in solving the puzzle of the economy – no thoughts on the subject and there were more fun things to do, like fly around the country in a 747, plead for money and play round after round of golf. Those who keep track of such things report BHO by far and away holds the record for campaign pleadings and golf dates during a presidential term. He seems to have no interest in anything else – the country withered while BHO dithered, it is safe to say.

With nothing going on in the Ovoid Space, I decided to hang around Shamalot and find some newsworthy material for our area newspaper. It was just becoming evening and house lights and street lamps dotted the landscape. I sat on a bench along a walkway through a park and fell asleep.

I awoke hours later to the sound of people moving through nearby bushes. That is, they looked like people but they were somehow different. They were dressed in everyday clothes, but the clothes were torn and ragged. They reeked of a rottenish, earthy smell. The creatures walked slowly, trancelike, like there wasn’t a thought in their heads and seemed to be heading in one general direction. Curious, I followed. I was amazed at the number of zomboidal creatures moving ominously toward Shamalot. Puzzlement rumpled my brow. Then I saw the guys with shovels digging in a nearby cemetery. As with most men in the company of shovels, they spent most their time leaning on the tools and talking.

“Hey, boss, just what the heck are we doin’ out here in the middle of the night diggin’ up bodies?” asked a particularly adept shovel holder-upper.

“Never mind, just keep diggin’,” says the boss. “You welfare guys don’t move a lot of dirt on a shovel-ready job, do ya? The public was told by our presidential type there would be shovel-ready jobs a long time ago. This is them.”

“But where do all these zomboidals come from?”

Boss BO told us to dig up some Democrat voters for the election coming up. So we’re diggin’ up voters and showing he’s created shovel-ready jobs.”

“Could I take a couple home to my kids for Halloween? They would really like to have a couple of zombies around, for when other kids come trick or treatin’. These guys could  lurk in the shadows and when the kids come along and yell Trick or Treat, they could jump out and scare the crap right out of the little rascals, you know? How about it, just a couple?”

“Yeah, all right, but just a couple. And you got to replant them after they vote. With a shovel.”

‘Yeah, all right, sure! Hey, it seems like there’s a lot more zomboidals around than we’re diggin’ up for our friend BO. Where do they all come from.”

“Democrats kept ‘em warehoused under the ground, secret-like, whence nobody kin find ‘em. They stack ‘em ten, twelve to the hole. Everybody knows they’re around; they just don’t know where to look.”

“But why are they here? What use kin half-dead humans have?”

“Look, dummy, be careful what you say ‘bout these folks. These is VIPs, every one, though they come up a bit short of looking like it.”

“VIPs? Yer kiddin’, right? C’mon, who are they – really?” said the confused, sort-of-worker.

“These here is dead VIPS. We dig ‘em up every now and then to vote for Democrats in important elections. This year BO wants to show he’s actually created shovel-ready jobs, so we’re diggin’ ‘em up so HRC can show them off to the voters We’ll herd ‘em over to the voting booths next week, so they kin cast their lot, then we’ll bury ‘em or store them till next election.”

“O-o-oh-h, I get it!”

“Pretty neat, huh?

 “Hey, don’t forget to write down the names of the people you dig up. They have to be accounted for on the voting rolls. Democrats don’t want to get caught with their pants down, you know?”

“Hey, what am I gonna do with this is one?” asked the welfare guy, looking google-eyed at a tombstone.

“Why, what’s the problem?”

“This guy has one of them mile-long Eyetalian last names. It’ll take a day to write it all down.”

“Ah. Don’t worry about it. Just skip it, go to the next one.”

“Ah, nah. I don’t want to cheat the poor guy out of his chance to vote.”



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