Election got you stressed? Fear not. Here comes some humor to lighten the mood.
It used to drive my wife a little bit batty when I’d pump out punk rock first thing in the morning. I told her it helps me knock off the dust of sleep. Keeps me from dragging ass for an hour. Gets me going.
I can empathize with her position. She’s just trying to eat a bowl of Greek Yogurt with granola in peace. Me rising above with Black Flag or going on holiday in Cambodia with Dead Kennedys may be a touch much at 6:00 AM. Since marriage is about mutual respect and maintaining an above average level of sanity in between four walls, I bought noise-cancelling headphones.
This morning, as I was listening to punk rock in my headphones, a song came on I hadn’t heard in years.
Which sparked a memory.
The First Time I Ever Voted for President
The first time I ever voted in a Presidential Election was 2000. I’d turned 19 years old two weeks before. It was the infamous election with the hanging chads between Bush and Gore. Also, Ralph Nader. Can’t forget Nader because he was the deciding factor in our nation’s history.
I was pumped to vote. Because I wasn’t voting for The Man. The establishment. The corporate-controlled puppets of our two major political parties was my thinking. I was voting for the man who helped make seatbelts a requirement in vehicles. I was voting Nader.
My vote wasn’t just a vote.
It was a protest. A fist held high in the air.
A middle finger of defiance.
Okay, before anyone hates on me here and says I was the reason your guy didn’t win, or thanking me because my vote meant that their guy won, I was voting in Virginia, not Florida or another battleground state. Gore didn’t stand a chance in winning Virginia that year. Bush took 52.47% of the vote in the Commonwealth of Virginia in 2000. Gore nabbed 44.44%. Nader snagged 2.17%.
Also: I was two weeks into 19 years old. My prefrontal cortex wouldn’t develop fully for another six years.
Anyway, I was pumped. I think I had three mohawks then. Almost positive I did. But it may have been November 1999 I’m thinking about. Let’s go with it anyway. Bleached blonde. Almost white. One in the center of my head and two others (one down each side of my head). Absolutely ridiculous look in hindsight. There’s a picture of my three mohawk phase somewhere in a shoebox of photos at my mom’s house. Wish I had access to that as I’m typing this.
I hopped in my car, blasted punk rock through the speakers, and drove down to the voting precinct where I live.
I’m going to stop here and paint a visual for anyone who isn’t from where I grew up. Because if you grew up where I grew up (in a town of <200 people), you know that the voting precinct where I lived is, no s—t, twenty-five feet from my backyard at the town’s municipal building.
And I drove there.
I drove twenty-five feet.
So writing that previous line puts tears of laughter in my eyes even if the rest of the Internet has no true visual understanding for the hilarity.
As I open the door of my car, my key is still in the ignition and the punk rock is soundly going. Did I make a playlist for this day? You damn right I did.
How many anti-authoritarian punk rock songs can I burn on a Maxell CD? Approximately 26 is the answer.
Anti-Flag’s “You Gotta Die for the Government” is roaring at decibels my factory speakers can’t sustain. You can hear the speakers tearing and rattling inside the doors. I let a few lines play. Then, after the chorus, turn the key of my ignition. It’s time to vote!
Let’s do this!
I walk in and my friend Ricky’s grandmother, Alma, checks my voter registration card, gives me the thumbs up, and points me to a closed curtain booth in the municipal building.
I walk in, close the curtain.
I remember the bubbles next to the candidate name didn’t match up exactly. They were placed somewhat between each candidate on an almost separate line.
This was decades before I was diagnosed with astigmatism.
Nowadays, you have a bunch of conspiracy theorists (and yes, you are a conspiracy theorist) who talk about elections being rigged. I didn’t think then, nor do I think now, that the ballots used at my precinct were intentionally printed this way. I think it was a printing error and it may not have even affected all the ballots.
I selected my candidate.
Or I thought I selected my candidate.
Shit, did I just vote for Gore?
I came here to vote for Nader.
Can I ask for another ballot? Is that allowed?
I didn’t ask. I just crossed my fingers. Told myself I voted Nader. Did it matter? Neither stood a chance in hell of winning in Virginia.
My first time voting in a presidential election and I didn’t even do it right. Son of a b—h!
I think I just voted for The Man.
Or one of The Men.
I wanted The Seatbelt Guy.
The guy that genuinely seemed to care about the environment.
The Green Party dude before the Green Party fell to hell in this country and any chance at a viable third party diminished by way of a Supreme Court ruling one month in the future.
After I cast my vote, Ricky’s grandma hands me my “I Voted” sticker. Ever since this day, and for years since, my immature mind has always wanted to find a way to replace all the “I Voted” stickers with “I Farted” stickers.
So many unsuspecting people wouldn’t realize they were walking around at work and in public spaces with red, white, and blue “I Farted” stickers on. I’d see them and laugh slyly at my ingenious ways.
“I Farted” on aisle three at Food Lion.
“I Farted” at the gas station.
“I Farted” everywhere.
Target. Wal-Mart. TJ-Maxx.
Everywhere you’d turn, “I Farted.”
Legendary! One for the ages.
But I’ve never done it because I don’t know if swapping out the stickers would somehow qualify as election interference.
Doubtful. But risk it? Hell no.
Better to steer clear of federal prison for something as minor and short-lived as that prank would be.
And if you see anyone walking around with an “I Farted” sticker on Election Day, it wasn’t me. It was someone who has stolen my idea after all these years of occasionally writing about the “I Farted” sticker on various online platforms.
You can indeed buy “I Farted” stickers now.
But rest assured, I have been talking about this online since 1999 when I first became eligible to vote. Someone finally capitalized on my idea. Good for you capitalist scum.
I digress.
So I leave the municipal building, my vote cast, my sticker on, and turn on the ignition of my car. I switch songs to Good Riddance’s “Shadows of Defeat.”
There’s a sample of Martin Luther King, Jr. at the beginning:
When we look at modern man, we have to face the fact…that modern man suffers from a kind of poverty of the spirit, which stands in glaring contrast to his scientific and technological abundance. We’ve learned to fly the air like birds, we’ve learned to swim the seas like fish, and yet we haven’t learned to walk the Earth as brothers and sisters…
Doesn’t matter when you hear those lines, still relevant.
Still very relevant.
MTV may have rocked the vote back then, but I was punk rocking the vote in my small town. I pump up the volume so all three or four people headed into the municipal building now will think about their choices in voting for The Man which I may very well have accidentally voted for myself.
Perhaps they will inadvertently vote for Not-the-Man because of the lopsided bubbles and cancel out my vote for The Man.
Win-win.
It’s doubtful any of these people can clearly hear what’s jamming through my speakers, because as loud as it is to me, a more reasonable assumption is I am deafening myself inside my sedan and creating permanent hearing loss that will return as I age.
The song continues and I drive away and stop at B&D Mart for a 35 cents Pepsi from the soda machine. Yeah, 35 cents. The good old days. I had that extra dime to go with my quarter. No RC Cola for me today though the White Grape soda was a find back in the day.
The rest of election Tuesday is fairly ordinary. Such is my life. I drive around in circles over all 1.2 square miles of Phenix, Virginia, blasting punk rock.
“California Uber Alles” by Dead Kennedys? No, no, buddy. Not today. The earlier rendition: “We’ve Got a Bigger Problem Now.”
Black Flag.
Rancid.
Bad Brains.
Hear my punk rock music! Hear me roar! I voted for Not-the-Man.
Or I may have accidentally voted for The Man.
Pretty sure I voted for The Man.
Whatever man or not-the-man I voted for, neither won. Another man won: George W. Bush. It would take another month before the election was decided when the Supreme Court stepped in and settled a recount dispute on December 12, 2000.
From that day forward, no male child born in the United States of America was bestowed the birth name of Chad.
Because chad, chad, chad is all we heard for over a month straight.
Could you imagine this happening now in the political climate we’re in?
People were losing their minds then and social media didn’t even exist but the Excite chatrooms and Internet message boards were off the chain let me tell you.
Now?
Hopefully it doesn’t come to that.
But if it does, everyone needs to take a chill pill.
Remember that line in the bible, “Love thy neighbor.”
We made it through once. We’ll make it through again.
Unplug from the Internet.
Turn off the TV.
Put on some punk rock.
Kick up your feet.
Relax.
The Man always wins.
Or The Woman.
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