Just So Much Flotsam and Jetsam
This post, I shall be mostly using f-words.
Friday the fourf: a fair football-field full of folk for the fireworks, with no apparant plowmen in sight.
Saturday: fickle and fitful like the affections of a feckless
Right, I’m fed up of that now.
Sunday: after Wimbledon was Wimblewon, one lazy, hazy, crazy day of summer ensued. We had a going away party for a
friend. The good thing about California is that you can party outside all day and night so your floors never get sticky or crumbed upon.
And it all just goes to show that
the simple things are the best, cats are feckers, not all things go to show something.
With any luck, by next 4th of July I will be a citizen of these United States and so able to vote. By George (but not for him), I can’t wait to vote! I will roll up my sleeves and press my pencil extra hard on the ballot just to show how votey I am. I expect I’ll hum an Eagles classic or The Battle Hymn Of The Republic or maybe something by the Pollice because I’m all about the pertinent tunes, yo. Uh-huh, oh yeah.
Citizenhood probably won’t happen before November (the INS website estimates the process currently takes a speedy 426 days) but my piffling vote in national affairs wouldn’t have the slightest bit of effect anyway. I don’t live in a swing state and California will probably turn a cool shade of Obama blue just fine without my help – not that Obama is blue, People Who Haven’t Seen Him Before. America wouldn’t elect a Smurf to the highest office in the land. Not again.
I’ve been disenfranchised for so long now though that my constitutional prerogative is starting to wither from lack of use. I’m sure there’s a pill for that but I’d rather cure it the natural way with a *cough* well-hung Chad. Not being resident in Scotland for the past 11 years has rendered me ineligible to vote in both Scottish and British elections, and being a mere legal alien in the US has meant I haven’t been able to vote here either. Nobody in the whole wide world gives a toss what I think, in other words, except perhaps the Toyota customer survey people. That’s fine, but I still want my voice-that-nobody-cares-about to be heard! I’d rather be a persona non grata than a non persona grata.
But yet, but yet I am taxed. Then let the cry go up throughout the sitting-room, “No taxation without representation!” The pot-plants agree greenly but they don’t envy me, that’s just how they do everything.
But when I can vote I still won’t be happy because even the voteless me ponders long and hard over the issues and choices at hand and I know that there are people somewhere who will be voting on which of the spouses is most First-Lady-like or which candidate has the larger lifetime consumption of apple-pie. And some people won’t bother voting at all because they want to watch that show with that guy who does that thing. And I will be of the uppity opinion that what these people need is a jolly good murdering – I will be careful not to say that at my interview, of course, in case they deem me cruel and unnaturalizable.
Only, ssssshh! You won’t tell them, will you? Don’t tell them about the real me because then they will not let me join America but I’ll have to pay the membership fees all the same, and my children will grow up not having the example of their mother voting causing them to not vote and one day when they should be voting, they will decide to go to the beach instead and there they will meet unsuitable men called Stone and Troy whom their daddy and I will hate and we will therefore be forced to write our own daughters out of our wills in a scene of brandy and complex emotions, and then the ProbHub will die but the girls and I will be too stubborn even to make up at the funeral and then I will die all alone and smelly in a flat in Croydon and the neighbours will say I was always a quiet one and what will become of the cats, and whoever is doing Shirley McClean-type roles in the future will play me in the harrowing movie they will make of our lives because one of the unsuitable men at the beach turned out to be the spoilt son of someone big in corporate Hollywood, and I will not come out of it terribly well at all.
So you won’t, will you? Aah, great. Ta, petals, I knew I could count on you.