MODERATOR: Welcome to today’s presidential debate, held in historic Harvard University, between the Americratic candidate Porter Worthberger, and the True-Bluepublican candidate Reginald Van Luxe. Mr. Van Luxe, you have the opening statement.
VAN LUXE: Thank you. It is a great honour to be here on Harvard Yard for this debate with my esteemed opponent, Porter Worthberger. Of course, he’s no stranger to these grounds, as he was educated here at America’s oldest, and most exclusive, university. I myself had the mixed blessing of a Yale education – I say ‘mixed blessing’ because while it taught me the often rough-and-tumble rules of the road, it also robbed me of the chance to rub elbows with the de facto aristocracy that has so ineptly run our nevertheless-great nation for the past several decades. Did I make the right choice? Ladies and gentlemen, yes I did. Thank you.
MODERATOR: Mr. Worthberger, your turn.
WORTHBERGER: Thank you. Now, I must admit that I attended Harvard. This is a truth I cannot deny. However, I did not have the benefit of a trust fund or anonymous benefactor to help me get here. No, I worked my way up. I washed dishes, I mowed lawns, I sold newspapers, and yes, I even stole the occasional pie off the occasional windowsill. I earned my place in these hallowed halls through sweat and toil, because I came from a poor, average, relatable family. My esteemed opponent, the lavish Mr. Van Luxe, made his way to Yale by virtue of a scholarship. Would that I could have had so much time to properly study for my courses so that I could benefit from such a handout. No, I had to work four full-time jobs during high school to pay for my parents’ twin iron lungs. I had to wash dishes while pushing a lawnmower over the yards of Picayune subscription-holders, and still keep an eye out for any unguarded pies on any unguarded sills. And so it is that I look back with pride on my time at Harvard, and even more proudly at the backbreaking work and everymanism that got me to where I am today. Thank you.
MODERATOR: Mr. Van Luxe.
VAN LUXE: Thank you. Good people, I beg you to listen to common sense, and not the fancy, fifty-thousand-dollar-a-year sense they teach at Harvard. By listening to my ever-so-esteemed opponent, you would think that my scholarship-funded Yale experiences were nothing but formal regattas, beef wellington, and prostitutes who can afford to use their real names. This is not true – maybe that’s what Harvard expects goes on, but it could not be farther from! Good people, I had to live in a mud hut out in the backwoods of Connecticut, commuting in the big rig I had to drive to make ends meet. Every morning, I had to wake up at 11 PM, drive down to Kentucky, lasso wild stallions, wrangle ‘em into the truck, then haul them off to Harvard for their fancy polo games and other indiscretions that good taste forbids me from describing in public. Then I had to hose down the hold – which was made more difficult by my inability to afford a big-city hose like my super-esteemed opponent buys his servants to hose down his fleet of German cars. I had to chug water and power-barf it onto the truck, then wipe it down with my naturally-weathered Levi’s – then drive back to Connecticut in time for class. Of course, I never missed a beat to talk with and listen to any good ol’ boy with an open ear and a CB, and in this daily ritual, I grew deeply acquainted with the problems facing everymen like them and, dare I say it, myself. Thank you.
MODERATOR: Mr. Worthberger?
WORTHBERGER: Thank you. That was truly an inspiring story – especially coming from one who overcame such obstacles as having enough money to afford a trucker’s license! My college job – driving a mobile anti-abortion clinic from town to town, resuscitating infants that no one believed in – needed both a van and a license, neither of which I could afford. I stole the van, I stole the license, and I stole the face of the guy I stole the license from – had to wear it like a mask to avoid the wrath of John Q. Big-Government and his cronies, such as my esteemed-as-the-day-is-long opponent over here! And I damn sure couldn’t afford a backcountry retreat like he had – I had to live in a ten-gallon cowboy hat I inherited from ten generations of ranch hands before me! I didn’t have enough water to chug, let alone power-barf – I had to dunk my head in a grease fryer in a local diner to clean myself in the morning! But, good people, while being scalded by that all-American grease and talking to the good people of Fran’s Diner, on I-90 – thank you, Fran, and I’ve never forgotten you – I learned more about America than I ever learned at Harvard. Hell, how could I have learned at Harvard, what with my having to work 30-hour days 9 days a week?! I never once attended a class, and had to find time on the job to build a robot clone of myself to take my exams. I then destroyed the robot with a Smith and Wesson when I found out it was going to vote Green, and I’ll destroy the old boys’ club with the very same gun the second I get into office! Thank you.
MODERATOR: Mr. Van Luxe?
VAN LUXE: Thank y’all. If’n we might all could drop the formal-alities of big-city, Ivy Coast speak here, I’d’n like to speak out m’mind on some head-bugs what’ve been craw-stickin’ me of late. Now, bearin’ in mind that this ol’ opponent here is ‘bout as esteemed as rice in a Chinaman’s bistro, let the Garth Brooks record show that his unnecessary add-ifyin’ of the letter “G” to the ends of any ol’ word under God’s golden sun is a-costin’ us hard-workin’, tax-payin’, wife-faithful-bein’-to, four-point-two-children-havin’, spittoon-usin’ Joe Moonshine-Jugs an arm, a leg, a soul, a flag, and an eagle clutchin’ an Arabiac’s head. By which I mean to say, by roundabout way, that this G-pronouncin’, tea-sippin’, homo-humpin’, passport-havin’, Jew-toleratin’, Sopranos-series-finale-understandin’, New-World-Orderin’ wankareeno is hellbent on sellin’ our great nation secondhand to the gol-durned Russkies! Vote for me, Ol’ Paw Van Luxe, and I’ll full-and-a-half nelson this clove-smoker m’self, personal! Thank y’all!
MODERATOR: …Mr. Worthberger?
WORTHBERGER: Thank you, humanoid. As much as my programming would simulate the experience of taking pleasure in answering my mega-esteemed opponent’s mouth-words, I am instructed by my programming to reveal at this time that I am, in reality, a mechanical bull in a human exoskeleton. My programmers – the direct descendants of Abraham Lincoln and Archie Bunker – have requested that all humanoids in ear-function proximity be informed that I am constructed of 100% US steel, and greased with the blood of a thousand D-Day veterans. I operate at three settings: “Buckin Bronco”, “Patton With Tourette’s”, and “Hiroshima + Nagasaki + 4th of July – Medical Coverage”. I am powered by the tattered flags of our godless enemies, and have a cargo hold capable of cooling 72 bottles of American beer, or interning up to 5 Japanese citizens in case of emergency. My programming instructs me to now dispense beer and hot dogs, and request that we all party, because data indicates it is Monday Night fucking Football tonight. Is my programming not correct?
Moderator pleads for order and sanity, but is ignored.