This second installment of my musings finds me full of hoary angst. The White House has thus far neglected to reply to my score of phone calls and my 50,000 word letter (which I fastidiously typed on my 1952 Underwood). I can only assume the letter was misplaced by some floozy of a secretary. I can see it now, languishing under a desk, just waiting to be found. The letter is probably down there too. Hopefully, at least my letter will show up during a cleaning when the next administration takes over. This depresses me, as I do not have high hopes the next president will have the wisdom to recognize my singular genius. And that brings me to politics. Does that make you uncomfortable? Fucking good.
There are two leading candidates in the race. One of them will be president. In the interest of eschewing bias, I shall refrain from mentioning them by name. I will only tell you that one candidate name rhymes with Rump and the other rhymes with Winton.
Having draped this clever cloak of anonymity, I now feel free to continue.
Neither Rump nor Winton have the stamina, the brains, the fortitude, or an asshole capable of enough puckery to do the job. Only one person is qualified. And that is me. Yes, you heard me, you demented little asshats! Angered by the state of the country and our blundering diplomacy abroad, your misanthropic curmudgeon has decided to throw his hat into the ring. As long as I can have the hat back right after; I really like that hat. Got it back when I was in the Navy, you see. I used to wear that hat every time I fucked a whore when we made port.
This reminds me of a whore story, and who doesn’t like a good whore story?
This may come as a surprise to you, but I was pretty green under the ballsack back in those days. I didn’t know my wiener from a corn cob. Used to get them confused all the time, which made for some embarrassing family dinners, let me tell you. I joined the Navy and got sent on patrol in the Far East. The guys would tell me all the mysteries of Asian whores, how they hung out at the docks to pick up homesick sailors. These stories spared no detail and by the time we hit our first port, I was as hard as J. Edgar Hoover shopping for a new camisole. I galloped down that gangplank like a three-legged horse and was immediately accosted by a tiny little Asian woman.
“You!” she said. “You come!”
“Right now?” I said. “I mean, I’m willing, but I’m not sure everyone wants to see that.”
“You stupid. You come with me. I make you heaven.”
I followed the woman to her lair, where she removed her clothes and motioned for me to strip. She lay on the bed. I was no dummy, despite her rather rude remark at port, and so I lay down next to her. Then I realized I had no fucking idea how to fuck. I was a virgin, the virginiest of virgins. But here I was, supposed to be a man of the world, a man with a girl in every port. My face burned and my erection throbbed. In desperation, I began banging my dick into her leg. She lay there, watching me with a mixture of curiosity and pity. At first she probably thought this was just my thing, but her expression shifted as it became clear I didn’t know what the shit I was doing.
She sighed and pointed emphatically at her crotch. “It go in HERE, sailor!”
Back on the ship, my pals gave me a hat to commemorate my first Navy fuck—I had given them a slightly altered version of the story. Humiliation aside, the hat represented a rite of passage for me. I have since fucked many women, with varying degrees of success, but all more skillfully than that first attempt. And that is why this hat means so much to me.
Speaking of my hat, this brings us back to politics. (See, you thought this senile old fool had lost his way, didn’t you?) I am throwing my hat in the ring. Stay tuned for further installments of these musings to learn more about my platform. You won’t be disappointed. Actually, you will be. But you’ll make an old man feel as if his twilight years actually count for a fuck. Speaking of which, I wonder how much it costs to get a plane ticket to the Far East? I just remembered I never paid the woman.
Craig A. Hart writes shit. Sometimes it’s less shitty. Sometimes he thinks it might be good shit. He is the stay-at-home father of twin boys, has served as editor-in-chief for The Rusty Nail literary magazine and as manager for Sweatshoppe Media. He is the host of the Raw Writing Podcast. He lives in Iowa City with his wife, sons, and two cats. You can visit his personal website at: craigahart.com.