A Pat and Bruce Election Fairy Tale
This is awesome. Absolutely AWESOME.
Illinois Politics.
Summed up in a nice little fairy tale.
The battle between Princess Pat and Blowhard Bruce.
Enjoy!
Out for now.....
Matt
Election Day Fairy Tale
John Kass
Chicago Tribune
jskass@tribune.com
Freedom is messy, and uncertain, especially with the state's economy so lousy, jobs running across the borders and Illinois' fiscal foundation rotten to the core.
So for those of you who think it's all too intense, how about a bedtime story?
Just put on your footie pajamas, please don't spill your hot cocoa on Mrs. Kass' sofa, look deep into the fire and I'll tell you a tale........
Of a land long ago, once rich and green, but which became as dead as the mouth of a spider.
And in this wasteland there were two knights, both of whom were flawed.
Sir Pat smiled a lot and tried to hug the peasants to make them feel better about their lives. And he brandished his shiny sword as he vowed to protect the people.
Unfortunately, his sword was flabby because he'd made it from a piece of aluminum foil taken from his mom's refrigerator. It couldn't cut a thing. And it bent every time he brandished it.
Worst of all, it smelled vaguely of his mom's meatloaf. And other knights made fun of him.
"Ma!" cried Sir Pat. "Ma! The other elected officials are making fun of me again. Can't I have a real sword?"
"No Patrick," said his mother. "You'll put your eye out."
"Oh, ma!"
Sir Bruce was a wealthy knight, and forceful. He had many weapons. His black shield was decorated with a bull in a china shop.
He brandished not a blade but a strong battle ax, and vowed to pound the enemies of the land into the ground.
And he would pound that ax to show he meant what he said. But this often terrified the peasants, some of whom wanted nothing more than to be hugged and reassured.
Sir Bruce rode a great black steed that ate nothing but meat.
Unfortunately, this diet included occasional random peasants with political jobs. The steed would grab them with its big horse teeth, and the peasants would cry piteously.
Meanwhile, the economically deprived villagers fled to other kingdoms for work. The crops failed and the land became infertile and a cry rose up among the people:
We need a leader to save the realm!
The two knights decided against single combat, since Sir Pat's sword smelled like meatloaf. Instead, they would draw the sword from the stone.
As everyone knew, he who would draw the sword would be the rightful ruler of the land.
Sir Pat walked up to the sword, grasped and pulled and pulled with all his might. But he couldn't budge it.
"Stupid sword," said Sir Pat. "Ouch. My arms hurt. I hate that sword."
Then it was Sir Bruce's turn. He pulled and pulled and couldn't move it either.
"What manner of witchcraft is this?" cried Sir Bruce.
Just then a columnist from a great metropolitan newspaper pointed to the base of the stone, and there, in the green mossy ground, was a deep, dark, hole.
Inside the hole was a great cavern, and inside the cavern was a stupendously powerful dragon that had wrapped itself around the sword so no one could move it.
A tiny voice rang out from the darkness:
"Hey knights, don't wake the dragon!"
It was an imp wearing a foolish, malevolent grin, and curly toed boots and a cone-shaped hat with bells. The imp was one of those jester imps who run errands for dragons.
"Get ye gone!" said Sir Bruce.
"Yeah, evil imp," said Sir Pat. "Who are you anyway?"
"You know who I am, Pat," cried the imp. "I'm Johnny the state Senate President."
But the dragon didn't react to the knights or to his little Johnny in the curly toed boots. He didn't even blink.
The dragon just glared, motionless, his gigantic blue eyes piercing the darkness, glowing like icy, all-seeing orbs from deep within the dragon's lair.
"Can we please have the sword, please, dragon, please?" whined Sir Pat. "I need a good sword. Mine's bendy and it smells like ma's meatloaf."
Sir Bruce just pounded the stone with his great ax and the dragon snickered.
"You may be knights," said the dragon "But I'm Speaker of the House. I draw the political maps. I call the legislation. I am the boss in Illinois."
And that's the end of my story.
What's wrong? Oh, you wanted a happy ending?
Hmm, let's see. The state is broken, the bills aren't paid, businesses and jobs are leaving, layers of corruption and clout and taxes are killing opportunity. And you want a fairy tale to make you feel better?
Sorry. This is Illinois. We're out of fairy tales.
But we do have dragons.
Illinois Politics.
Summed up in a nice little fairy tale.
The battle between Princess Pat and Blowhard Bruce.
Enjoy!
Out for now.....
Matt
Election Day Fairy Tale
John Kass
Chicago Tribune
jskass@tribune.com
Freedom is messy, and uncertain, especially with the state's economy so lousy, jobs running across the borders and Illinois' fiscal foundation rotten to the core.
So for those of you who think it's all too intense, how about a bedtime story?
Just put on your footie pajamas, please don't spill your hot cocoa on Mrs. Kass' sofa, look deep into the fire and I'll tell you a tale........
Of a land long ago, once rich and green, but which became as dead as the mouth of a spider.
And in this wasteland there were two knights, both of whom were flawed.
Sir Pat smiled a lot and tried to hug the peasants to make them feel better about their lives. And he brandished his shiny sword as he vowed to protect the people.
Unfortunately, his sword was flabby because he'd made it from a piece of aluminum foil taken from his mom's refrigerator. It couldn't cut a thing. And it bent every time he brandished it.
Worst of all, it smelled vaguely of his mom's meatloaf. And other knights made fun of him.
"Ma!" cried Sir Pat. "Ma! The other elected officials are making fun of me again. Can't I have a real sword?"
"No Patrick," said his mother. "You'll put your eye out."
"Oh, ma!"
Sir Bruce was a wealthy knight, and forceful. He had many weapons. His black shield was decorated with a bull in a china shop.
He brandished not a blade but a strong battle ax, and vowed to pound the enemies of the land into the ground.
And he would pound that ax to show he meant what he said. But this often terrified the peasants, some of whom wanted nothing more than to be hugged and reassured.
Sir Bruce rode a great black steed that ate nothing but meat.
Unfortunately, this diet included occasional random peasants with political jobs. The steed would grab them with its big horse teeth, and the peasants would cry piteously.
Meanwhile, the economically deprived villagers fled to other kingdoms for work. The crops failed and the land became infertile and a cry rose up among the people:
We need a leader to save the realm!
The two knights decided against single combat, since Sir Pat's sword smelled like meatloaf. Instead, they would draw the sword from the stone.
As everyone knew, he who would draw the sword would be the rightful ruler of the land.
Sir Pat walked up to the sword, grasped and pulled and pulled with all his might. But he couldn't budge it.
"Stupid sword," said Sir Pat. "Ouch. My arms hurt. I hate that sword."
Then it was Sir Bruce's turn. He pulled and pulled and couldn't move it either.
"What manner of witchcraft is this?" cried Sir Bruce.
Just then a columnist from a great metropolitan newspaper pointed to the base of the stone, and there, in the green mossy ground, was a deep, dark, hole.
Inside the hole was a great cavern, and inside the cavern was a stupendously powerful dragon that had wrapped itself around the sword so no one could move it.
A tiny voice rang out from the darkness:
"Hey knights, don't wake the dragon!"
It was an imp wearing a foolish, malevolent grin, and curly toed boots and a cone-shaped hat with bells. The imp was one of those jester imps who run errands for dragons.
"Get ye gone!" said Sir Bruce.
"Yeah, evil imp," said Sir Pat. "Who are you anyway?"
"You know who I am, Pat," cried the imp. "I'm Johnny the state Senate President."
But the dragon didn't react to the knights or to his little Johnny in the curly toed boots. He didn't even blink.
The dragon just glared, motionless, his gigantic blue eyes piercing the darkness, glowing like icy, all-seeing orbs from deep within the dragon's lair.
"Can we please have the sword, please, dragon, please?" whined Sir Pat. "I need a good sword. Mine's bendy and it smells like ma's meatloaf."
Sir Bruce just pounded the stone with his great ax and the dragon snickered.
"You may be knights," said the dragon "But I'm Speaker of the House. I draw the political maps. I call the legislation. I am the boss in Illinois."
And that's the end of my story.
What's wrong? Oh, you wanted a happy ending?
Hmm, let's see. The state is broken, the bills aren't paid, businesses and jobs are leaving, layers of corruption and clout and taxes are killing opportunity. And you want a fairy tale to make you feel better?
Sorry. This is Illinois. We're out of fairy tales.
But we do have dragons.
