Real American Decider™

election time

If you’re a student of American history, you know that the founders envisioned an electoral process where every four years, the least-informed people in a handful of indecisive states would determine who’s in charge of the nukes. It’s not a perfect system, but it’s damn close.

Political scientists, campaign strategists, and the press refer to these special people as “undecided voters.” My boss has a different name for them: village idiots. A coworker shared a David Sedaris piece about undecided voters.

I look at these people and can’t quite believe that they exist. Are they professional actors? I wonder. Or are they simply laymen who want a lot of attention?

To put them in perspective, I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. “Can I interest you in the chicken?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?”

To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked.

I mean, really, what’s to be confused about?

I already voted. I picked the chicken, as I’m allergic to shit mixed with bits of broken glass. I also live in California, a decisive state that picked chicken over shit mixed with bits of broken glass by a 2:1 margin in 2020.

Not that every California voter has their shit together. While canvassing in 2018, I met a man who personified the founders’ vision of a Real American Decider™.

The man who answered was high as fuck. I know this because his house smelled like weed, and he was holding a joint. I explained that I was canvassing his neighborhood on behalf of the Katie Hill for Congress campaign.

“Cool. But I gotta be honest, I don’t give a shit about politics. I’m baked, and I’m about to make pancakes.”

“I’ll be honest, too. You’re clearly a man who knows how to crush Saturdays. I’m impressed.”

He smiled and told me I had two minutes.

“Are there any issues you’re concerned about?” I asked.

He looked at his joint and said, “I’m not worried about anything.”

“Dude, that must be some good shit if it can make you forget about Trump.”

“This weed is good, but it’s not that good.”

“Well, the first step to putting out this dumpster fire is to take back the House,” I said. “That means voting for Democrats up and down the ticket.”

“Cool.”

“But let me tell you why you should vote for Katie Hill.”

“OK.”

I explained Katie Hill’s positions on healthcare, jobs, and the environment. Then I asked how I was doing on time.

“You’ve sold me, man. I’m gonna make some pancakes.”

“I hear you. Let me give you one last piece of advice. It’s pancake-related, I swear.”

“OK.”

“I see that you’re not registered to vote by mail, but if you fill out this form, which will take thirty seconds, we’ll make sure you get a mail ballot.”

I could tell I was losing him.

“Here’s the pancake part. We’re going to be knocking doors like crazy in your neighborhood between now and November. But once you vote, that information is updated in our app. So if you vote by mail, you won’t have me interrupting your pancakes or killing your buzz with all this politics stuff.”

He filled out the form.

When I think about the stoned, pursuable pancake enthusiast, I fantasize about being just like him. The weed is appealing and the pancakes sound nice, but it’s the power of being a Real American Decider™ that I crave.

When the Harris campaign calls, I’ll hear them out. After they tell me her positions on everything, I’ll say I just don’t know enough about her. Then I’ll get them off the phone by promising to do my own research.

When the Trump campaign calls, I’ll tell them I like Trump, but I have concerns about voting for him. They’ll assure me that January 6 was a day of love. I’ll say insurrections don’t bother me, that I’m concerned about that weird town hall where he bopped to his Spotify playlist for thirty minutes.

With a little luck, both campaigns will call me every evening until Election Day. With a lot of luck, I’ll be asked to appear on one of those CNN focus groups. I’ll play it right down the middle, so the talking heads can really go to town on my answers. I’ll be famous for demonstrating that I am incapable of doing what tens of millions of Americans did with ease.

But eventually, my fifteen minutes will end. I’ll have to make a choice. A Real American Decider™ must do their civic duty. I can’t say who I’ll vote for on election day, but I can say with certainty that whoever I vote for will be the winner.

Unlock Burrito Journalism

Folks, my Note about a man who ate his burrito from the middle still haunts me. The man in question is likely a monster, but he may be a genius. It’s a fine line. To get to the truth of this burrito-eating mystery, I’ll need to eat a burrito from the middle out, then write about it. There are no other options. I need your help, situation normies. A burrito, a drink, tax, and tip costs $20. As soon as we hit that goal, we’ll learn the truth about burritos. It’s a win-win. Send any amount via PayPal, or smash the shit out of that subscribe button.

Stick around and chat!

I ask, you answer

1. Will you have the chicken, or the platter of shit with bits of broken glass?

2. Are you a Real American Decider™? What’s your secret?

3. Which founding father spent their Saturdays smoking dope and making pancakes? Hint: all of them.

4. If CNN is going to do focus groups with people who can’t make up their minds, shouldn’t they also do focus groups with people who know what the fuck they’re doing?

5. The American election system is damn near perfect, but it can always be better. What are your suggestions? Wrong answers strongly encouraged!