“W. With Tits”

YOU know what it’s like, I’m sure.  The perfect phrase, the perfect metaphor, occurs to you because your mind is open that way, the perfect demolishing description of an important political candidate, occurs to you because you’re kind of a jazz musician guy, and at the very moment those three words come into your consciousness, the guy at the other end of the bar, a real uptight-looking, larger-than-life character, well, his Blackberry rings, he answers it quietly and immediately looks up at you and back down, and you just KNOW he’s had his attention on you the whole time, he glances at you one more time real quickly, pays his bill, and goes out the front, and so, I’m sure, like I did, you go out the back, quietly, we can pay the bill tomorrow, out the bathroom window, and immediately you hear sirens and look toward the nearby wall, measuring it for jumping.  And the whole time, you’re thinking, “More than 50% of people who read this phrase are going to be offended by it” – your old liberal feminist buddies – the guys worst of all – and all the faux outrage you’ll get from the rightwingers once they receive their talking points – leaving only the rough and rowdy progressives to defend you – and the worry of the moment PROPELS you over that wall and you are on a sprint to your car, heart pumping, your head cherishing the thought “I and only I have the perfect three-word phrase to describe how things really are in this election season” – and then a German shepherd starts up with his barking – you toss him the hot dog which had been conveniently though inexplicably kept in your pocket all day – and there’s your car and you’re off!  Will your blog-boss even let you use that word, especially in the title of a post?  Who cares at this point?  The adrenaline is pumping and somebody is going down, hopefully it’s a Republican candidate.  Damn!  Sirens, flashing lights!  Is that for me?  Does this cop really know what the stakes are this year?  More war and injustice versus a vista of hope?  No, of course he is focused on his job.  I know this neighborhood.  QUICK right and I totally lose him.  OK.  I do not really need this car.  THIS neighborhood, I practically own.  They will hide me as this phrase gains currency, I don’t care WHO gets credit for it.  I will hide out, regain my strength, blog under fake names with newfangled IP-concealers… and we will pull this off, my brothers and sisters.  Oh, did I say:  “W. With Tits.”


About Vern Nelson

Greatest pianist/composer in Orange County, and official troubador of both Anaheim and Huntington Beach (the two ends of the Santa Ana Aquifer.) Performs regularly both solo, and with his savage-jazz quintet The Vern Nelson Problem. Reach at vernpnelson@gmail.com, or 714-235-VERN.