IN
THE BARNYARD
of a quaint little farm on the Potomac, Farmer Gore sat on the
ground applying a third coat of lipstick to Bessie, his favorite
pig. "Darn it," he thought as he blotted a smudge
of Dusty Rose from the swine’s chin, "I am gonna git
this pig airborne, I swear!"
Farmer
Gore had grown up on a farm down in Tennessee. He spent nearly
three weeks every summer shoveling manure, making pigs look
pretty, and generally learning by doing. He reckoned he knew
just about all there was to know about farming, and now it was
time to prove it to the world.
Just
then pesky little Haley Barbour from down the road leaned over
the fence. "Farmer Gore, Farmer Gore, that pig ain’t
gonna fly no-how!"
"We’ll just see about that," replied Farmer Gore.
"Way I figure it, enough lipstick on her and she’s
bound to at least clear yonder oak tree."
"Oh yeah, that pig’s gonna fly," smirked Haley.
"When pigs fly!"
That
made Farmer Gore mad. "Well, you’re just jealous because
your pig has a whole tube of Magic Magenta on her snout, not
to mention Pretty in Pink on her nails and $30 million in soft
money from HMOs, gambling and tobacco interests, and she still
hasn’t flown more than a foot," snapped Farmer Gore,
hurling a handful of mud at his persecutor.
Farmer
Gore turned his attention to Bessie. Maybe if I used a different
palette, he thought. Yes, that must be it. She’s more of
a Winter. He dug out a new shade and resumed his painting.
After
a moment Farmer Gore noticed Miss Irene, the local soccer mom,
watching him from her front porch.
"Howdy, Miss Irene. I’m puttin' lipstick on Bessie
here in order that she’s gonna fly. It’s just one
way that I’m fightin' for workin' families."
"I see that," Miss Irene replied, batting her eyes.
"I do believe it’s gonna work too, Farmer Gore. I
think with enough lipstick, that pig is gonna fly clear over
to the ol’ McCain-Feingold place."
Farmer
Gore smiled. She believed him! She believed it was going to
work!
And
in the end, that mattered much more than whether or not it did.
