The election could have gone better for State Senator Rick Nagel, I-Montana. Of the 125,488,292 ballots cast November 4, Mr. Nagel received exactly zero votes. Factoring in random chance and voting irregularities – at least one voting machine overheated and burned its way two miles into the earth’s crust – Mr. Nagel’s perfect no-vote record is as statistically improbable as winning the lottery twice while being devoured by a giraffe in heat. There’s a reason no one’s ever witnessed the giraffe mating cycle and lived to talk about it. Predictably, Mr. Nagel has stayed out of the media spotlight for the past few weeks. Some media outlets speculated that he committed suicide or took a fatal interest in giraffe reproduction. Mr. Nagel put an end to those rumors this morning when he agreed to an exclusive interview with this website. The following transcript from that interview has been edited only to remove the State Senator’s prolific swearing, which reduced the overall number of words in the interview by about two-thirds. To read Mr. Nagel’s previous interview, click here.
Where have you been for the last three weeks?
When I found out that no one voted for me, I drank sixty-five cans of Natty Light in two hours. I didn’t regain consciousness until this morning. You should have seen my first post-coma trip to the bathroom. I peed fire, and that’s not a metaphor. I also learned an important lesson: Porcelain melts at like 1400 degrees Fahrenheit. My wife was not pleased.
How did you get zero votes? Didn’t you vote for yourself?
I don’t believe in voting. My wife didn’t vote for me, either. Let’s just say this isn’t the first time I’ve melted a toilet. My name didn’t make it on the ballot in most states. The only place I was actually listed was American Samoa, and apparently they can’t even vote for president. It’s just as well that they didn’t give me their support because I totally would have screwed them over. The best people to harass are the ones who can’t vote you out of office. That’s why my entire presidential platform revolved around giving foreigners the shaft. Madagascar would not have fared well under the Nagel administration.
In states where you didn’t make it on the ballot did you try to appeal to voters as a write in candidate?
No, and in hindsight I guess that was a mistake. “Elvis Presley” had over two hundred votes. “Hairy Balls” had six. I’m not bitter, though. If given the chance, I probably would have voted for “Hairy Balls,” too.
Did you actually campaign?
It depends on what you mean by “campaign.” If you mean hired and staff and tried to persuade constituents to vote for me, then no. If you mean got in an argument with my neighbor and hit him with a shovel, then yes. Although I guess we weren’t even fighting about politics, so I’m not sure that one counts. But I’ll tell you this much: That guy will never put out his Christmas lights at the start of November again.
How are you even a state senator?
There are only three sources of entertainment in Montana: Drinking, shooting, and running for elected office. Paradoxically, you can’t run for office if you’ve ever been convicted of an alcohol or gun-related offense. That basically disqualified everyone but me. My only opponent was a serial rapist. He was allowed to run because that’s only a misdemeanor in these parts.
What are you going to do now?
I’m still a member of the Montana State Senate, but there’s not a whole lot to legislate around here. Seriously, there’s like 28 people in the whole state. At least that’s how many people our census guy counted before he decided it was in his best interest to move to a better state. We state senators spend most of our days shooting paintballs at the zebras in the Helena State Zoo, although we do spend some time writing poetry, too. Most of that poetry centers on shooting paintballs at the zebras in the Helena State Zoo.
What’s your opinion of Barack Obama?
To be honest with you, I don’t watch much news. And by not much, I mean none. Instead of sizing up the competition, I was kind of hoping that everyone else would just forget to run. I figured if the country was distracted by the Iraq War or Dancing with the Stars, the election might slip everyone’s mind, allowing me to slide into office with just a few votes. Of course since I didn’t vote, even if my plan had worked I still would have been locked in a zero-zero tie with the other candidates. I’m no constitutional scholar, but it’s my understanding that in that scenario the candidates play in a round-robin Yahtzee tournament until a new president is crowned.
If it were up to you, would you bail out the Big Three auto manufacturers?
No, I’d submerge them further. I assume they have flood insurance. After the way the federal government botched the Katrina cleanup, no one would even raise an eyebrow is some government agency “accidentally” emptied one of the great lakes into Detroit.
Now that the campaign is over, are you glad to finally be out of the media spotlight?
The only time I made it on TV this year was when I was arrested for riding a moped without any pants on. But even in that one incident I could feel the obvious media bias. The KTRA Channel 9 news crew totally ignored my argument that jeans would have created too much wind resistance for my heroic attempt to jump a pen of paint-saturated zebras at the Helena State Zoo. When you’re trying to hit a ramp on a 30 horsepower vehicle running on a nine-volt battery, every little bit counts.
Will you ever run for President again?
If I do, I’ll make sure to change my name to “Hairy Balls” first. People seem to really love that guy.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Monday, November 3, 2008
Home Defense
As a man, I’m supposed to provide for and protect my home. I’ve already failed at the providing part, but only because my employer pays me in day-old donuts and left-handed compliments. I had to choose between that and stock options when I got hired. Given the state of the economy, I’d say I made the right call. I don’t provide much for my family, but I’m contractually obliged to make at least a nominal effort to protect it anyway. You’d think it’d be an easy job since I only have to look out for myself and my wife. If disaster strikes, I can leave here behind and still save fifty percent of the household. It’d take a lot of time and effort to coerce another woman into marrying me, though, so it’s probably a better use of my resources to protect the one I have now. There aren’t many situations where this whole protection thing even comes into play. Lola’s decision-making skills are better than mine, so anything that can’t be solved with blunt-force trauma is best left to her. That means my role as a protector applies only in the event of a middle-of-the-night burglary or impromptu game of whack-a-mole. As a large but inefficiently designed hominid who has exercised about three times this year, I’ll be useful only if the intruder is small, unarmed, and mildly dyslexic. That way I can slow him down with clever word games while Lola and I devise a better plan.
If the attacker possesses none of those qualities, my methods of defense may have to be somewhat unconventional – as long as “unconventional” is a synonym for “confused and desperate.” We don’t have a landline in this house, and we keep our cell phones on the first floor at night. If someone were to break in, we have no way to call for help unless I can somehow capture and train a pigeon to carry a message before the intruder climbs our stairs. Considering the only thing I’ve managed to train our dogs to do is look perplexed when I yell at them for defiling yet another carpeted room, I’d put my chances of success at this particular plan at about twenty percent. We live in an old house with tall ceilings, so our second-story bedroom is approximately ninety-five feet above ground level. Jumping out and running for help isn’t an option. The only other way to call for help is smoke signals, but lighting a fire inside the house in an effort to protect our belongings seems counterproductive. As is the case with most business disagreements and all standardized tests, violence is once again the only answer.
I’ve made it a point not to keep objects Lola could use to kill me on a whim, so I don’t have anything in the house sharper than my elbow. That’s also why I don’t own any guns, chainsaws, or poison-coated ninjas – although availability was also a limiting factor on the latter. Martial arts experts covered in deadly chemicals aren’t exactly in stock at most retail outlets. If someone breaks into our house, my arsenal for fighting back isn’t exactly extensive. I started this article with the intention of listing how I’d use each item in our bedroom as a weapon, but I just realized everything small enough for me to wield is either made of or filled with cotton. Unless the burglar is a sexy coed, initiating a pillow fight probably isn’t a wise move. Lola and I live in a relatively small town, so whoever comes crashing through our window will likely be high on meth and paint thinner. Rather than attacking him with a pillow, I think I’ll just hand it to him and hope he takes a nap.
There are more effective defensive strategies than hoping potential intruders have narcolepsy, but what that plan lacks in practicality it makes up for in economy. A slightly more expensive approach is purchasing an actual weapon. My friend Rocco, who became a homeowner a few months before Lola and I did, has a massive knife he uses for home defense. That’s not an option for me since Lola would eventually respond to my witty sarcasm with a thorough stabbing. Also, a knife would require me to get uncomfortably close to the hypothetical intruder. I think I’d rather invest in a really long stick that I could use to lightly prod said home invader until he becomes annoyed enough to leave. If I need something more assertive, the obvious choice is a baseball bat. That way I’ll be ready if the intruder is a drugged-up felon or a slow-pitch softball team. In all honesty I wouldn’t rush toward a confrontation in either scenario. I’ll just clutch the bat for reassurance as I cower in a corner. When the intruder sees how assuredly I cower, he’ll most likely lose heart and leave. If that doesn’t work, maybe Lola can drive him away. Even the most powerful mind-altering drugs won’t shield the burglar from her passive-aggressive nagging about vacuuming the dining room. That’s usually enough to make me leave the house.
This whole exercise is probably a waste since I’m such a heavy sleeper. I’m not quite as bad as my brother, Mitchell, who could sleep through someone filling his pants with live salmon. I only know this because we’ve done it twice. I’m not quite that hard to wake, but I’ve learned to sleep through Lola’s alarm clock and her ensuing forty-five minute morning routine, which for some reason involves the use of most of our power tools. Someone could probably smash in a window and steal everything on our first story without rousing me. It’s only when climbing the stairs that the intruder would run into trouble. Our squeaky stairs are quieter than a fog horn, but not by much. Even though we don’t have a phone on the second floor to call for help, the sound of someone going up those stairs in the middle of the night will probably be enough to alert everyone in a six block radius that trouble is afoot at the old Gilbert house. Then all I’ll have to do is bravely cower in the corner for a few minutes until help arrives.
If the attacker possesses none of those qualities, my methods of defense may have to be somewhat unconventional – as long as “unconventional” is a synonym for “confused and desperate.” We don’t have a landline in this house, and we keep our cell phones on the first floor at night. If someone were to break in, we have no way to call for help unless I can somehow capture and train a pigeon to carry a message before the intruder climbs our stairs. Considering the only thing I’ve managed to train our dogs to do is look perplexed when I yell at them for defiling yet another carpeted room, I’d put my chances of success at this particular plan at about twenty percent. We live in an old house with tall ceilings, so our second-story bedroom is approximately ninety-five feet above ground level. Jumping out and running for help isn’t an option. The only other way to call for help is smoke signals, but lighting a fire inside the house in an effort to protect our belongings seems counterproductive. As is the case with most business disagreements and all standardized tests, violence is once again the only answer.
I’ve made it a point not to keep objects Lola could use to kill me on a whim, so I don’t have anything in the house sharper than my elbow. That’s also why I don’t own any guns, chainsaws, or poison-coated ninjas – although availability was also a limiting factor on the latter. Martial arts experts covered in deadly chemicals aren’t exactly in stock at most retail outlets. If someone breaks into our house, my arsenal for fighting back isn’t exactly extensive. I started this article with the intention of listing how I’d use each item in our bedroom as a weapon, but I just realized everything small enough for me to wield is either made of or filled with cotton. Unless the burglar is a sexy coed, initiating a pillow fight probably isn’t a wise move. Lola and I live in a relatively small town, so whoever comes crashing through our window will likely be high on meth and paint thinner. Rather than attacking him with a pillow, I think I’ll just hand it to him and hope he takes a nap.
There are more effective defensive strategies than hoping potential intruders have narcolepsy, but what that plan lacks in practicality it makes up for in economy. A slightly more expensive approach is purchasing an actual weapon. My friend Rocco, who became a homeowner a few months before Lola and I did, has a massive knife he uses for home defense. That’s not an option for me since Lola would eventually respond to my witty sarcasm with a thorough stabbing. Also, a knife would require me to get uncomfortably close to the hypothetical intruder. I think I’d rather invest in a really long stick that I could use to lightly prod said home invader until he becomes annoyed enough to leave. If I need something more assertive, the obvious choice is a baseball bat. That way I’ll be ready if the intruder is a drugged-up felon or a slow-pitch softball team. In all honesty I wouldn’t rush toward a confrontation in either scenario. I’ll just clutch the bat for reassurance as I cower in a corner. When the intruder sees how assuredly I cower, he’ll most likely lose heart and leave. If that doesn’t work, maybe Lola can drive him away. Even the most powerful mind-altering drugs won’t shield the burglar from her passive-aggressive nagging about vacuuming the dining room. That’s usually enough to make me leave the house.
This whole exercise is probably a waste since I’m such a heavy sleeper. I’m not quite as bad as my brother, Mitchell, who could sleep through someone filling his pants with live salmon. I only know this because we’ve done it twice. I’m not quite that hard to wake, but I’ve learned to sleep through Lola’s alarm clock and her ensuing forty-five minute morning routine, which for some reason involves the use of most of our power tools. Someone could probably smash in a window and steal everything on our first story without rousing me. It’s only when climbing the stairs that the intruder would run into trouble. Our squeaky stairs are quieter than a fog horn, but not by much. Even though we don’t have a phone on the second floor to call for help, the sound of someone going up those stairs in the middle of the night will probably be enough to alert everyone in a six block radius that trouble is afoot at the old Gilbert house. Then all I’ll have to do is bravely cower in the corner for a few minutes until help arrives.
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