Picking the Nominee for the DNC, Some Alternate Venues...

Scores of articles have been written about how letting the process go to the convention floor could cause massive fall out for the Democratic party. Here are a few modest solutions to the current problem of picking the candidate for the job.

Beauty Pageant Method

Okay, We have the candidates and Hillary won the Evening Gown competition hands down but our judges had to concede the swimsuit to Barack…so it comes to the critical personality question. If you were given the nomination, what would you do?


Hillary: “I’d be honored. So very honored. I’m sorry, I’m human. I’d cry. Yes…I’m crying even now, just thinking about it. It would be the most moving experience of my life since those little kids waited on the tarmac for me in Bosnia despite heavy sniper fire.”


Barack: “It would be a sign…a sign that the nation was ready for change. Our world would step forward into the light, and all the past sins of America, brought forth by the evil Republicans and oppressive majorities everywhere, would be righted in that moment. We would as Americans, again have the audacity to hope that people could just make ends meet on $257,000 a year via public service.”


What about Mr. Congeniality? Al Gore: “It’s a good thing they dropped the talent part of this competition…though I am known for my sparkling sense of humor. About the question, what would happen if I were given the Democratic Nomination for the 2008 election…hmmm…well, I’d have to say that the Planet would breathe easy again, knowing Oscar Winning Carbon Credit buying Putting the Salt back in the Earth type people were trying to again be in charge.”


The Iron Candidate

Place the potential presidents in a real work situation on live reality television.

Hillary, you have thirty minutes to draft a speech that will move the majority of Republicans to vote in favor of more taxes. You may use any means necessary but in addition to that, you also must cope with a major Bill First Husband Gaffe where he appeared to come on to the French President’s wife. There is no working phone and the only media outlet availble at the moment is Fox News. Go.

Barack, your proposed policy on health care just got stalled in committee in part because Hillary has lead a charge against you in the Senate, creating massive grid lock on every proposal unless you agree to appoint her Supreme Court Justice. What do you do? Also, your former pastor wants to know when he’s coming to dinner. You may not use esoteric or mystical language in your response.

Deal or No Deal

Someone needs to contact Howie Mandel and see if he’s interested in emceeing the Denver Democratic National Committee Convention. He could bring all fifty of his babettes –and that would make Bill happy, even if his wife lost the nomination.

They could put the remaining super delegate votes in the briefcases and let the two contenders duke it out answering questions and being goaded on to pick which number…do you want briefcase number six…possibly holding a super Super delegate card, allocating 500 votes to you, or the guarantee of briefcase number 42, wherein you’ll find a secure twenty.


It would at least eliminate the possibility of the convention ending in pure riots and chaos with accusations of stealing, if people could just shake their heads, “Man, she should have picked twenty-six. I knew it! The hot blonde always has the best prize!”

imagine how much damage and mischief I could manage if we only had cable...or go to http://www.humor-blogs.com/ to see what people more plugged into popular culture than me can manage...

Now What?

Today, I made the A team.

I had the Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer moment "I'm Cute. I'm Cute...they said I'm Cute!"

It took 41 years but I did it.

After multiple After school ABC special worthy auditions to volley ball, high school musicals and college dance troops and bands, where I always wondered when I was put in the chorus or on the b-team if they were just having pity on me, today I made the cut. I'm doing standup comedy in front of 400 humor writers in Dayton, Ohio at the close of the Erma Bombeck workshop. 34 brave souls auditioned. 12 will perform.

I'm first.

Suddenly, that bench warming spot is looking very comforting.

It's not that I'm afraid of public speaking. Speaking my mind has never been much of a problem. I'm afraid I'll bomb.


You see, every time I write a piece, the instant it's polished and published, I have three seconds of peace and then the nags begin.


That was a good piece.
What if that's the last funny I ever write?
What if there is no more in the tank?

Oh No!

And then I get to reading and obsessing and following my toddlers around writing terrible first drafts about the fight they're having over two wooden blocks and who gets to stare at the cereal box while they eat.


I've pointed out that neither of them can read but this never seems to matter much.


Six half sputter starts later, I'll throw the notebook into my huge bag of must come everywhere with me stuff and call my husband about the dry spell.


“Sherry, you just got a piece accepted yesterday.”
“Yes, but I haven't written anything today!”


Now my husband is a very patient man. He has a variety of tricks for handling my roller coaster response to success and failure.

When I complain because I got rejected for example:
"Well, I guess it wasn't what they were looking for, maybe it needed more work."


"What? It was wonderful! I proofed it. I vetted it. It got good responses. That's it, I'm submitting it again and they'll be sorry."


Other times, he uses reverse psychology.

"You're right, you'll never write something that funny again."
"How do you know?"
"You just said so."
"No. I won't write like that again. I'll write something even better. You'll see."


When he's busy and I pull this stunt, he has an emergency escape button. "I'll bring home two Chocolate! Chocolate! truffles. (It's a store on the base floor of his office building)." This mollifies me instantaneously.
“Thanks sweetie, I’ll call you later. Sorry to bother you.”


Finally, he has a trump card. "Why don't you let me read it?"

Nothing makes me edit better or faster than knowing He's going to read my stuff. It’s like my writing is getting ready for a date with his brain. I have to primp before I can show it.


Except I've never done stand up.


I tried telling him the routine over the phone. This was a bad idea.
After five minutes of talking and hearing the sound of fingers clicking away at the computer sound an awful lot like crickets chirping, I told him, I'd call back later.


In his defense, he Was working.


So I hijacked my kids for an instant audience.
Little did I know, I'd just signed on the three judges of American Idol.


Would be Simon: "I'm very surprised, I almost laughed." I think it's revenge for my critique of his English paper last week.

Paula Wantabe: "It was wonderful. What are you going to wear?" She began bringing me sparkly things.

Randy and the Dawg Pound: Started making up their own material, ignored me completely.



But I'm not discouraged. At 41, there are precious few things one gets the opportunity to do that are "cool" that do not involve:


1) an outlay of serious cash to cover medical expenses,
2) breaking the law,
3) engaging in self denial.


April 5th in Dayton, Ohio. Mark your calendars. I may need a few more Chocolates for this one.
for possibly less neurotic doses of humor than this one, try http://www.humor-blogs.com/!

Worst Christmas Song Ever

Christmas Shoes…

The tortured scenario is quintessentially Dickensian. (I’ve been wanting to say that phrase for years). The only way I can envision this song being made worse frightens me more than the third ghost of Christmas yet to come. It is only a matter of time before some American Idol reject, former child star suffering from anorexia and an inability to get media traction after hitting puberty, or a decrepit past glory celebrity seeks to reinvent themselves and bag a few bucks by doing a remake.

It happens to the very best of songs, why not the worst? Santa Baby never needed a remake, and as for Madonna’s version of Eartha Kitt’s classic, her voice makes me think….she was a beautiful bar fly once.

Part of the reason I get worked up is the sheer volume of music that gets plastered against my ears during this time of year. It used to be a once a year treat, you dug up Dad’s scratchy records and hoped they wouldn’t get stuck during one of the boring songs like “I Wonder as I Wander.”

We had That Christmas Feeling, that old chestnut of a record put out by K-Mart or K-tel Records. I belonged to a dance studio that performed regularly all over town during the Christmas season using its selections. I pined for the day when I would get picked to dance in a red leotard and skirt, trimmed with white fur and wearing a Santa hat. Never happened. I lost out on that Christmas Sorority and so “We Need a Little Christmas” always makes me both neurotically nervous about what I haven’t done and rekindles my feelings of envy at not getting picked to be an elf.

Now Christmas music starts on one station here on November 1st. That’s just wrong. WRONG. I’m waiting for some radio exec to decide they can make more profit by playing all Christmas songs all the time 365 days a year. I also keep vowing to stay up on Christmas Day until December 26 starts to see what the first song is that the DJ’s break loose with when they get to return to their normal format.

I’ve never done it but I do have my personal suggestions, something from Meatloaf, Rush or Bon Jovi. Sort of like a lemon sorbet to cleanse the mental pallet.

But I digress…

The Christmas Shoes song repeats on the all Carols all the time station at least once every three hours, and as such I revisit my irritation. Fortunately, there are others who share my views. I have read the bad reviews. They are entertaining in the same way reading about the next train wreck of a movie provides a bit of schadenfreude. I won’t attempt to outdo the clever bits out there that suggest the whole story was a con, that question why a kid is out buying shoes if his mama is dying and what daddy lets their kid off at Kohl’s en route to the hospital for a bit of last minute shopping?

No. This is supposed to be a clever blog; a kinder gentler blog that does not resort to cheap exploitation of the contrived and the stupid, the saccharine and the maudlin for laughs. I must wrestle with my conscience. Do I want to spend an extra few eons in purgatory for abusing my gifts by piling on what is obviously an imperfect vessel of communication created by a person who thinks Christmas is all about creating Hallmark Moments so sweet they were rejected by Chicken Soup for the Soul?

I answer my concience honestly. Well…maybe a little.