Thursday, July 17, 2008

I saw a bumper sticker yesterday that said...

Monica Lewinsky's ex-Boyfriend's Wife for President

Funny.

4 comments:

harrogate said...

Although Harrogate resists beating a dead horse, as it were, and examining this recent outburst of anti-Clinton jocularity, thy post reminds him of a principal he has long held close.

Harrogate very much dislikes bumper stickers in general, and for something of the same reasons that he has never wanted to get a tatoo.

Not too long ago Harrogate saw a Dukakis/Bentsen bumper sticker. It was embarrassing to behold.

Oxymoron said...

Tell me more about the Dukakis bumper art. I'm primarily interested in the context. Seen on campus? Displayed on a crusty Volvo? A full-sized van, perhaps? Was the person driving bearded? A greasy comb-over, maybe? Transition lenses? Details please.

harrogate said...

Scene:

Downtown ______. Late afternoon. The sound of construction, the smell of Pizza comingle in the air.
Getting out of his own car, Harrogate's mind is on his money and his money is on his mind.

An old car, perhaps a Volvo, perhaps not. Certainly of a worn and faded quality, but by no means banged up; au contraire, this car clearly continued to enjoy a degree of fastidiuous care.

Parked, temporarily driverless. To the absentee owner, likely a sentimental attachment to the vehicle factors in importance only second to the sheer pleasure of not having to make a car payment. Yea, perhaps the owner conceives this vehicle an injured giant among cars.

On the bumper sports a Dukakis/Bentsen '88 bumper-sticker. No catchphrase necessary, as the assertion speaks for itself. A simple outcry for us to forget Willie Horton and hypotheticals involving whether the brutal murder of Dukakis' wife would substantively affect his stance on the Death Penalty.

Blue background, large white lettering. Suggestions of red, white and blue fireworks appear hither and thither across the breadth of the paper.

Oxymoron said...

Beautifully painted, Harrogate.

Oh, if only you had caught glimpse of the driver.

His short-sleeved dress shirt, and his brown and khaki striped tie. Sansabelt slacks.

And a certain swagger to his walk, the product of cracked Rockports whose unevenly-worn soles roll his feet to outside.

Indeed.