How to Purchase a Politician

I took a trip to the local Coney Island politician monger -- we'll call him Frank -- with a single question in mind: how do I pick the perfect politician?

Upon entering the market, Frank greeted me with a smile and a firm shake.

"The first thing you need to know when picking a politician," said Frank, "is they are smart. You know why politicians are so smart? Because they travel in schools."

"And within schools are classes." I dared to quip.

"Exactly," said Frank. "And what do you find in every class?"

"A teacher?" I queried.

"No no no," Frank reprimanded. "Every class has a fat kid. And that's the one you want. The really fat one, because they taste the best."

Before I could even ask, Frank answered my next question: "You know which one is fat by watching who the others mock and torment. Plus, they are generally much larger than the others. Come with me."

Frank invited me behind the counter and gestured to follow him into a back room. I was led down a series of dark and ever-narrowing hallways with many twists and turns, steps, tunnels and secret doors.

Eventually, we met a tall, muscular man who wore dark sunglasses, a headset and a stony expression. He stood guard at a sleek metal door.

Frank tapped a card on his key chain to a series of dancing red dots on a small screen. The guard stepped aside and we passed.

We entered into a sort of aquarium -- a strange and marvelous aquarium that surrounded us entirely, with no right angles. We stood in a glass bowl surrounded by water.

Schools of politicians swam under and above me, right in front of my face, with beady eyes, erratically flapping fins, little puckering fish faces.

Jeb Bush gave me an empty sideways glance as he nursed lazily on the glass. Shivers shot through me and I turned to my guide.

"When buying a politician," said Frank, "it's important that the place you buy it does not smell like fish. This is very important."

"Well," I said, "it certainly doesn't smell like fish here. But what is that odd scent I am smelling?"

"Fear," Frank replied.

We picked out the fattest politician in the tank -- a nice chubby Gerard Larcher -- and started back on our return journey.

That night, I invited my sister for the feast. We were both so excited about my purchase, we didn't cook it right off. Instead, we propped Gerard Larcher up on a chair at the dinner table and laughed at him and his socio-political concerns for a good two or three days.

When we were really hungry, and my sister felt sick from laughing, we covered Gerard Larcher in Kosher salt, threw him in the oven at 350 degrees for roughly 2 hours. The meat slid right off the bones. I served him up with a wedge of lemon an a glass of Pinot.

As a toast, we reminisced about the days in which Gerard Larcher had said such things as "our aim is not to create a clan or to be social vigilantes, nor to collect a maximum number of signatures, but to bring others with us in our wake."

Well, Gerardy, perhaps we can send out an invite to bring those people to your wake instead.

He was superb.