Election Day at the World’s Favourite Whorehouse

We are on the cusp of yet another election day in the United States, which whether you like it or not, has some bearing on the rest of the world.

I say that not with a riot of patriotism and deep fried food overflowing from my mouth as one would expect from an American, but rather, as a keen observer into the nature of my country’s role in the wider world.

America has been the prettiest thing at the whorehouse for sometime and like the Cathouse’s highest earner she hasn’t climbed to that position without a little shrewdness, and a few loose morals; she’ll do pretty much anything for the right price. She doesn’t mind that the other girls hate her for taking food out of their mouth; the John’s get what they want, but never the way they want to get it; and both she and the proprietor know that without her the house has nothing. Everyone wants something from her, but it’s all something they wished they could get from home.

So, what we’re getting this Election Day is not a new call girl, but rather, a new proprietor. This isn’t anything new, it’s something continuous; something woven deep into the fabric of American politics–the President of the United States is the figurehead, the individual who takes the glory and the criticism for four, or eight years. But, the policymakers, the wheel turners spend their life in Washington, and it’s crazy to think that they’d let someone with a finite position of power dictate how they do their job. That is why once the fiery rhetoric of the campaign trail reduces to a simmer and there is only action to do, we’d be foolish to believe that what was said will be done for our benefit, or even done at all. There will only be the altruistic ankle grab for god and country–and god is the individual who is calling the shots, and makes the money; country is the conduit through which it is filtered or fumbled away.

Election Day in the United States has the same wild clamour as the pre-coitus anticipation of prostitution, but the pretty words whispered in throws of paid for passion can’t be rightly believed. The induced drama, feigned emotion and the loveable scamp who emerges victorious of the American Presidential race is as perfectly formatted as the reality shows our society never fails to ridicule across social media, and possesses the same duplicity as curling up in a Snuggie while eating heaps of Ben & Jerry’s in between long, exasperated–ohh my God’s.

I’m no sentimentalist, and as much as much as I try not to be a cynic I know that much of this hope is a result of the US media setting the public up for a terrific letdown. But, for once I’m not privy to this premeditated spectacle. This is my first Election Day away from home, providing me a long distance view of the American political machine steamrolling across the nation. For the first time in my life I am afforded the luxury of sitting removed from all of the detritus being passed from candidate to candidate. I can hear better than I have before; I can see the words spinning from each candidates mouth as they make promises the public will forget because being removed allows me to see through the glitter, above the low cut shirts and to keep my eyes off the short skirts; I can finally see that pleasure is sold at a premium and vanishes before you leave the polling booth.

Now, I’m a cynic but that doesn’t mean I’d take away any of Election Day’s value. Few days rival the amount of hope and promise existing in the hours leading up to decision time. Sure, we may only be looking for a proprietor that can reason with our number one girl but no one can argue that we don’t walk into those final hours with the overflowing hope that when we wake up tomorrow our world, our little corner of the planet will be a better, happier place.

All while the rest of the world waits to find out how the rest of the whorehouse’s politics will unfold.

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keelancrampsey

In flux

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