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Sammy Sportface beat all Americans to the voting precinct this morning.
First in line at 5:47 am. “Be first or be last,” Sportface thought to himself.
Showed his ID, a snapshot of his bulbous countenance. His name was not on the list. Belinda Bureaucrat said she couldn’t find Sammy Sportface on the citizenry log.
“Nope, no Sammy Sportface here,” she said.
“Is that your real name? Sounds whacked.”
“Go by two names, Sportface and Charles Hartley.”
Belinda: “US Constitution holds that no voter can vote under two different names. That’s called voter fraud.”
Police officers accost Sportface. Grab handcuffs.
“Wait, my real name is Charles Hartley.”
“That name is not on our list either.”
Belinda researches and finds out Hartley belongs in precinct 127.
“You mean I got here first but have to go to another precinct where I will no longer have first mover advantage and have to take my place 768th in line? America asks so much of its people.”
“Sorry, Sportface.”
Galactically irritated, Sportface got in his car and cussed out all bureaucracies everywhere. Thought about dysfunctions and how he was being bulldozed by them into a bodacious boondoggle this dark and drizzly morning in North Carolina.
Went to what he thought was precinct 127 and saw a line wrapping around a building 150 times. Figured eight hours of torture minimum. More realistically, he would be standing there in line until St. Patrick’s Day 2025.
“I’m screwed,” he yelled at his car windshield.
He intensely wanted to not vote. Wanted to get away from adult obligations. Found out 127 was not where he was.
Zero for two.
If he didn’t vote his wife and kids would think less of him. He thought of Charley Barkley once saying “I’m not a role model.”
“I’m no role model either,” Sportface muttered to himself.
Had to press on not for Sportface but to avoid eternal family wrath. Arrived at 127. Another line winding across the state. Settled at the back.
Bernie Bureaucrat kept calling people with every last name except the Hs. Some H guy was gumming up the H line ceaselessly. H like in the Holland Tunnel Tuesday’s at 5 pm: Hell on Earth.
“Can’t I just go in the I or J line?” Sportface pleaded. “This H guy is never getting past customs.”
“No sir,” said Bernie Bureaucrat. “Voting laws must be abided by.”
“Can I come back tomorrow when there’s no line?”
“You can but no one will be here and your vote won’t be counted.”
“At least there won’t be a line and that’s what really matters.”
“What’s your name?”
“Sammy Sportface.”
“Thought your last name begins with an H.”
“Not when the guy in H line is driving this process into The Holland Tunnel.”
A lifetime later Sportface got to the polling booth.
Wrote in Sammy Sportface for President of the United States.
While walking to his car, he noticed hundreds of signs stuck in the ground touting the “Sportface Hartley” ticket.
He has stuck them all there.
“Sammy Sportface would fix this bureaucracy and get this country thinking the right way,” he said to himself on his way to Dunkin Donuts for a Peppermint Mocha Schmoka. “I wonder how many people are going to vote for me. Pistol will. Spars won’t. Janby won’t. But what about everybody else?”
At Dunkin’ Donuts he saw more signs stuck in the grass with the “Sportface Hartley” ticket being touted.
He had stuck them in the ground the day before on his way to get his Peppermint Mocha Schmoka.
Author Profile
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Sammy Sportface, a sports blogger, galvanizes, inspires, and amuses The Baby Boomer Brotherhood. And you can learn about his vision and join this group's Facebook page here:
Sammy Sportface Has a Vision -- Check It Out
Sammy Sportface -- The Baby Boomer Brotherhood Blog -- Facebook Page
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