Trailer Park Vignettes: “Election Day Hangover” (Part Two)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-26)

 

 

The Sunday morning service at their township church after Election Day was a rowdy affair, instead of an observant festival of worship. As Pastor Cabriel Forester attempted to project a somber mood of humility to his flock, noises of protest could be heard throughout the sanctuary. He had dressed in his most formal attire, a charcoal business suit and gold necktie, with a cross emblem as an accent. But despite his reverent attitude, a note of discontent persisted. He stood with his Bible open to Matthew Chapter 5, and read aloud while gazing with affection from the pulpit, at those in attendance.

 

“Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God...”

 

An uproar commenced as parishioners began to howl in opposition.

 

“PEACEMAKERS? HOW DO YOU MAKE PEACE WITH LIBERAL FREAKS AND LIARS, REVEREND? THIS IS A WAR FOR CHRIST, DON’T YOU SEE IT? A WAR THAT HIS FAITHFUL SERVANTS HAVE TO FIGHT! A WAR WITH EVIL NATIONS ALL AROUND THE WORLD, AND THEIR AGENTS, HERE AT HOME!”

 

The clergyman stammered in response, after clearing his throat.

 

“Friends, the Holy Scriptures speak clearly. Read and learn from God's word...”

 

More grunts and groans followed this admonition. Then, a boisterous chant echoed from the pews. One of dissent to the lesson being offered.

 

“PRESIDENT TRUMP SAID IT HIMSELF, IN BUTLER, PENNSYLVANIA. FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!”

 

Forester leaned forward with a facial expression of woe. Then, he continued to read from his King James manuscript.

 

“Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake. Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you...”

 

Again, traditional decorum broke down, as members of the congregation shouted their disagreement with vocal ire.

 

“BLESSED ARE THEY WHICH ARE PERSECUTED? DOESN’T THAT DESCRIBE DONALD TRUMP? WE’VE NEVER HAD A CHAMPION THAT WAS SO PERSECUTED! FACE IT PASTOR, WE ARE AT WAR WITH THE UNBELIEVERS, TERRORISTS, AND ILLEGALS! THEY WANT TO TEAR DOWN AMERICA, AND TAKE AWAY OUR GUNS, AND OUR FREEDOM! THE BATTLE LINES HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE CLEARLY DRAWN THAN RIGHT NOW! WE WANT TO FIGHT, AND WIN!”

 

The Christian cleric had to steady himself by grabbing at both sides of his lectern. His hands were trembling, visibly.

 

“Friends, I am trying to offer you a message of peace on this day, after our nation has chosen a new course. I won’t endorse political candidates, as my service is to the Holy Father, not any man. But the scriptures teach us that the mechanism of government is authorized by God. We must strive to be thoughtful as citizens of the realm, even as we stand firm on the gospel truths...”

 

Songbooks and study guides flew around the room. A cadence of stomping feet shook the carpeted flooring.

 

“TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! GOD AND TRUMP! GOD AND TRUMP!”

 

Forester adjusted his necktie in a gesture reminiscent of Rodney Dangerfield during a standup performance.

 

“I ask you to consider that we are called to rise above the petty disputes of mankind, and fix our attention on the work of believers in Christ. If you accept that Great Commission, as declared in Matthew 28, then you must better yourself through humility and obedience to the word...”

 

Raw emotions took hold as the throng of worshipers stood in unison, and shook their fists, angrily.

 

“OBEDIENCE, REVEREND? OBEDIENCE TO WHAT? THE DOGMA OF SOCIALISTS WHO WANT TO ELIMINATE OUR CHURCH ALTOGETHER? OBEDIENCE TO ATHEISTS, ANARCHISTS, TRANS-ADVOCATES, AND ENEMIES OF AMERICA? WE’VE GOT AN ANSWER FOR THAT, AN ANSWER FOR ALL THOSE PEOPLE. IT’S WHAT WE SAID BEFORE, FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!”

 

The evangelist closed his Bible, and then bowed in silence. Finally, he started to say a prayer as the sanctuary hushed at this gesture of comity.

 

“Dear Lord, I ask you to touch the hearts of your children today. Calm their fears and worries. Let them feel the grace which you project, for all humanity. Let them take the message of peace into their hearts. Let them be soldiers for you, not warriors for any cause set in motion by ambitious and powerful men...”

 

With an impulsive rush of bodies, the group moved to topple their ecumenical leader from his place at the pulpit. This violent outburst brought the service to an abrupt conclusion, and transformed their worship into a chaotic melee.

 

The clergyman was quickly stripped of his necktie, and had his wrists bound, behind. A length of rope added to his discomfort.

 

“Brothers and sisters! This is the temple of our Almighty Father! This is a sacred space! Do not defile yourselves by lashing out with acrimony! Be peacemakers, I beg of you! Be peacemakers so that you may be called children of God...”

 

The wooden rostrum splintered and collapsed under a barrage of clenched fists. The din of rebellion drowned out music that was being played by a senior organist, at her keys. Once the sanctuary had been cleared, parishioners moved to the parking lot, where their raucous demonstration continued. Gunfire ripped the morning stillness. Then, a procession of diesel trucks proceeded to drive around the township square, defiantly.

 

Cabriel Forester wrestled with his bonds, still on the raised platform in their church. He was sore and sobbing. Yet grateful to have been abandoned without any further punishment from the mob.

 

His voice cracked slightly, as another invocation of prayer ebbed from his lips. One that repeated the plea of Jesus on his day of crucifixion.

 

“Father forgive them, I ask. For they know not what they do. Forgive them and soften their hearts with mercy. Amen!”

“Money Matters”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-26)

 

 

Money matters when starting the race

Young and restless, keeping the pace

Only years later will the truth be revealed

When a need to stay current, loses its appeal

Money matters when the rest is a cinch

Gaining ground easily, by miles in a pinch

But through the slow crawl, that comes on with age

It becomes more self-evident, to turn the page

Turn the page

 

Money matters when bills take the lead

And concerns over keepsakes continue to breed

But when physical decline, comes boldly to call

Suddenly, those worries sputter and stall

Money matters when counting coins is quick

With assets towering to the height of a yardstick

But getting out of bed is a better goal to seek

A primary point when growing old, and weak

Old, and weak

 

Money matters when pockets are filled

And one may delight in prosperous skills

But the treasure most golden is one with no cost

A fleeting vibration, that soon will be lost

Money matters to the misers of wealth

A convenient target, when disposed to good health

But late in the circle, life pales from its glow

And the weariness comes like a seasonal snow

A seasonal snow

 

Money matters to the ones who forsake

The arrangement of candles, on a birthday cake

They dream of investments in sliver and such

With a reward that is stale, and cold to the touch

Money matters when the cadence is swift

When the stride to tomorrow is unlikely to shift

Yet when the sundowners take a place on the throne

Then they will greet that ascension, alone

That ascension alone

 

Money matters when the head rules the heart

When friends and affection have drifted apart

But with common causes bringing up new concerns

There will be a stoic lesson, to study and learn

Money matters when the fingers are strong

Tapping at keys that click a rhythm of song

That pleasure will last, until it does not

And then will come a reckoning, right on the spot

Right on the spot

 

Money matters when the wind favors flight

Until there arrives, the darkness of night

An hour, long predicted, by prophets of old

A reality that rocks the sturdiest soul

Money matters, when there is nothing to fear

Adding up accounts, accrued over the years

But the bank vault goes empty, when eyes grow dim

And the bottom-line yields are simply wages of sin

Wages of sin

 

Money matters when the baby is birthed

And baptized as an infant, by a prefect at church

That act will resound till the body is bent

And the cost of endurance is an inheritance, spent

Inheritance, spent

 

Money matters, before the hands turn to stone

Arthritic and numb, brittle tendons and bones

That change is a message to take care and protect

What little remains, what little is left

Money matters, to those who take as a game

A bean-counter’s duty to give riches a name

Numbering naught, as if it were a success

Despite the suspicion that it fails to impress

Fails to impress

 

Money matters when above board, and ground

Waiting for royalties that are coming around

But upon the eve, of a slap to the face

A curse of confusion will arise, in its place

Money matters when the feet nearly fly

Like Mercury, running from mountain to sky

Yet with the grand gait of a bloodline, no more

There will be a portent, of what lies in store

What lies in store

 

Money matters when finishing the contest

No further debate over which path is best

The end of a jog from the start to its end

The passing of an era that won’t visit, again

Money matters when the spirit is smart

When cautious naysayers are urged to depart

But waiting in the wings, is a reaper in his pose

With a mission in mind, to bring life to a close

Bring life to a close

"This Land, Our Land”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-26)

 

We live in a land, fighting itself

With questions raised about mental health

Of a chief executive, 80 years and more

Out for revenge, and settling scores

We live in a land, dedicated to God

Yet put asunder by a carnival fraud

The huckster tricks are slick and sly

They leave us all with debts to decry

This land, our land

 

We live in a land, once great and grand

Now taken over by a cult of man

Words of worship flow free and loud

An endorsement of the rabble crowd

We live in a land turned into waste

With truths and tempests, yet to be faced

A continent sprawling, coast to coast

Red meat prepared, for a meal to boast

This land, our land

 

We live in a land that lost its way

On track for a date with Judgment Day

A callous, craven crib of bones

A place where thieves man the telephones

We live in a land gone hard like clay

Sat out in the sun for too many days

A refuge for the teeming masses

Still seen through a lens of rose-colored glasses

This land, our land

 

We live in a land that from afar

Seems inviting to those who wish upon a star

But on arrival, shots ring out

Government agents surveil and scout

We live in a land that stubbed its toe

And chose to tell a tale of woe

With a conclusion kept close to the vest

A mass of rodents in the nest

This land, our land

 

We live in a land where sin is bold

The stuff of legends, adorned with gold

Arches high and ballrooms bust

Symbols of the national trust

We live in a land where mistakes are made

But correction comes like sour lemonade

A taste the people cannot endure

A medicine mocked as madly impure

This land, our land

 

We live in a land where history halts

At the precipice of a sea of salt

A curl of crass inflections, surrendered

To what the masses cannot remember

We live in a land where pundits preen

While on the cover of a magazine

And poets speak about the change

The code of colors, rearranged

This land, our land

 

We live in a land both praised and sure

But now without that fine allure

The shine is dull, the appeal has faded

For a political class, duped and jaded

We live in a land where the sky is grim

With a cloudy cast upon its brim

And gray for blue, as the tint in effect

Splinters left from an old shipwreck

This land, our land

 

We live in a land where coins are stacked

As a tribute to the grace we lack

While still recounting psalms in church

Leaving their prophets in the lurch

We live in a land where the chill of death

Is thought to be a victor’s breath

A keepsake for the holy few

Who sup on the broth of a Mulligan stew

This land, our land

 

This land is a lair for believers to rule

Over those who gladly suffer fools

Their pace is set from behind a veil

With communion wine, in a galvanized pail

This land needs more than a promise kept

By those who tabulate the steps

From one wall of a cell, to the other

A call to queue sisters and brothers

This land, our land

 

This land is more than a patriot earned

By sacrifices to lead and learn

Our duty as inheritors of the realm

Is to place a champion, at the helm

This land is not a prize to collect

A bauble dangling in a fisherman’s net

It is instead, a cause to be free

A shelter in place for liberty

This land, our land

 

This land birthed heroes, from yesterday

But now those seekers have gone away

And in their place are a shady lot

Given to ruin, rust, and rot

This land needs revival, raw and right

A tide of citizens, courting the daylight

With the hope of hearts, intertwined

A fulfillment of the original design

This land, our land

 

Note: Inspired by Woody Guthrie 

“Broken”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-26)

 

Bob Dylan once sang, “Everything is broken”

And I can relate

Being a slow-moving target

Up too early, and in bed too late

Chilled like a water jug

Crouching low, with the stance of a stink bug

Creeping along the porch rail

I remember well coming to this clapboard singlewide

With a determination to shuck my hide

And remake myself

I stacked up the boxes from my storage space

Put trinkets and tchotchkes in their place

Around the living room

Swept away memories of madness and error

Humbled and quiet

With my emotional broom

Those towers of cardboard squares taunt me now

Because I can no longer boast

Of being able to wrestle them from one spot to another

Without the help of a neighbor or brother

So they stay where they sit

This mass of wreckage is a depiction

Of my compromised position

On the eastern edge of a county full of prosperous folk

And here I am, with a slice of toast and an egg yolk

Grateful for the flavor of jam

When it dribbles from my spoon

I arrived at the party, chronologically too soon

Spent before my turn was called

Shaggy and sorry to no longer be strong

Though I shun the mood, when it comes along

I wipe away the tears, as they flow

Before being seen in the daylight aura

Broken is the word

A term twisted by the tuneful poet into magic

It tingles my ear with an inflection, sharp and quick

And I nod in response

Knowing that the mainspring will eventually lose its coil

And I will find a place of rest, low in the soil

A return to the origin point

Cold and stiff with debilitated joints

In pieces arranged with ceremonial flair

To indicate a being that was once fully aware

Jagged shards

Scattered across the courtyard

A sign that this place was not always as it is today

A tribute to capabilities, gone astray

Mighty, but fleeting

Grasping for longevity

But attenuated by brevity

A cough in the wind, unheard and unseen

It clears away what nature brought

An obstruction in the throat

A prickly burr that sticks to my overcoat

And pierces the skin

When I have grown older, pale and thin

Watching both feet as I step

To be sure of my path

Too clever perhaps, by half

Yet failing in the fullness of time

Destined to stumble

As so many did even before I was birthed

Long before the world judged my prevalent lack of worth

Imperfect and yet glorious in that moment

Naked in the glare of a winter sun

Chastened but smiling

Ruddy cheeks glowing with the gift

Of a tract run from a mimeograph stencil

Still wet with ink

Carrying a verse, lightly spoken

“Everything, yes everything, is broken”

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Election Day Hangover”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-26)

 

 

Linn Speck had been a notable figure at Evergreen Estates, since moving to the park after his house was repossessed by Key Bank. And despite this financial calamity, along with a bankruptcy and marital strife that followed, he had been immediately boosted to a position of community leadership at the rural oasis. Only the failure of his residential association, an idea rooted in logic but damned by the independent nature of their blue-collar environment, had been a setback on his path to glory. So, he felt confident in living at the junkyard village. His background was more sophisticated than most of the other inhabitants, and this disparity meant that he could dominate arguments and conflicts with a keen sense of scriptural authority and political knowledge. He had met every challenge bravely, as a warrior for goodness. With a clean-cut approach to living that made him stand above most other people on their streets, as someone who knew right from wrong, and followed those guidelines every day. Nothing during his stay at the isolated development had knocked him off course, for long. He was skilled at maintaining his balance, and moving forward with gusto. But events in his state and around the country on Election Day knocked down the metaphorical temple he had erected, like a house of cards.

 

He howled with disbelief as results came in, hour by hour, via major television networks, radio outlets, and through online media sites.

 

“From the Associated Press – In the run-up to Election Day, President Donald Trump used many of the levers of presidential power to interfere in how states run elections, only to be stopped repeatedly by the courts. On Tuesday, the voters made sure there was no ambiguity in their verdict. Trump’s party lost control of both houses of Congress and got clobbered in races up and down the ballot, even in places like Texas and Iowa. As the rout became clear, the president told The New York Times he was ‘absolutely willing to accept those results.’ In a series of phone interviews with media organizations and in a social media post, he acknowledged the loss for his party and said he was willing to work with Democrats...”

 

Linn took this note of surrender as a complete betrayal. It caused him to trash the kitchen where he sat, with a laptop PC signed into the One America News Network website. Small appliances bounced off the walls, as he flailed both arms and kicked at the dinner table. Saliva dripped from his mouth. His flabby jowls turned bright red.

 

“NO, NO, NO! THIS IS UNBELIEVABLE! WORK WITH THE COMMUNIST DUMOCRATS? NO MR. PRESIDENT, HELL NOOOOOO! THIS IS THE TIME TO FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!”

 

He had portraits of the commander-in-chief in nearly every room of his trailer. With a full-size, campaign banner hanging in his bay window, at the front. And a gold statue on his coffee table, along with a copy of the Trump Bible. But now, all of those artifacts only deepened his anger over the calamitous election returns. He felt victimized and used. As if everything he had done on behalf of the man from Mar-a-Lago had been wasted in one, single day of citizen unrest.

 

“I KNOW YOU DON’T MEAN IT, TALKING ABOUT WORKING WITH THOSE TRAITORS ACROSS THE AISLE! YOU CAN’T POSSIBLY MEAN IT! THIS IS A TRICK TO FOOL THE PRESS! I GET IT, JUST A TRICK AND NOTHING MORE! YOU’LL BE SAYING SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT, TOMORROW!”

 

The park was oddly quiet as he stood outside, on his redwood deck. All of the usual sounds seemed to be absent. There were no barking dogs, echoes of Country melodies, arguing husbands and wives, or the typical clatter of rusted exhaust systems dragging on the tarmac. It was as if the entire neighborhood had gone into hibernation. Perhaps as a defensive strategy to avoid being seen out in public, when their collective mood had turned so dark and depressing.

 

Finally, Aimes Hefti, the self-appointed successor to deceased militia queen Esmeralda Jonovic, appeared in his driveway. The extremist advocate had dressed in tactical garb, as if girding himself for battle. A pistol was holstered at his side, and a KA-BAR combat knife. He scowled with a facial expression of defeat and disgust.

 

“Y’all are just standin’ there like a gawdamned statue, man! I figure ya would be out here raisin’ a ruckus about the bullshit that just went down. Where’s yer balls, dude? Screw lettin’ this thing pass like it don’t mean nothin’ to nobody! Let’s make some noise! Make some effin’ noise about it! Show the world we’re pissed off and fired up!”

 

He took out his sidearm and began to send rounds into the air. This caused Linn to flinch, reactively. He hopped from one foot to the other, as bullets flew wildly toward the heavens.

 

“I like your style, commander! I like it a lot!”

 

The militant trooper emptied his handgun, then took out the knife and swung it from side to side, in a show of mock defiance.

 

“Let me hear one of them idiots braggin’ about their ‘Blue Wave’ around this place, and I’ll slash their throat! It’s high time we ran all of ‘em outta here, anyway! This ain’t no time to play nice, understand? We need to break some bones and bust some asses! Let’s do it up! Let’s do it right now!”

 

Their noisy demonstration soon attracted attention from other trailers along the narrow avenue. Rifles and shotguns were brandished without hesitation. Gunfire ripped the quiet evening with violent intensity. Then, cold beverages appeared as coolers were brought to the corner lot. Drinks were lifted as a toast to their contrarian rebellion, and its originator in Washington.

 

Finally, Linn took a seat on his front steps. Now that the impromptu gathering had blossomed in his yard, he felt comfortable relaxing with a tall, chilled can of Milwaukee’s Best Premium. The lonely sting of alienation that had taunted him before was gone. He was surrounded by like-minded neighbors who shared his love of God, and country. That embrace made him feel safe again, and warm, inside.

 

He whispered to himself, while sipping the macro brew.

 

“I know you’ll be on your Truth Social account tomorrow, Mr. President. Yes, I do! I trust in your judgment. You’ll be slamming the doubters, and scattering your enemies, like a flock of frightened hens. You’ll be back in the White House, bigger and better than ever! And you’ll be reminding all of the naysayers that you’ve still got two years left in office! Two more years of ruling this great country like no one has ever ruled it before! Two more years, sir! Two more grand and glorious years of the Trump Train chugging down its tracks!!”

Nothing To See Here: “Pennywise Politics”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-26)

 

 

When facing my deadline with our county’s newspaper of record, I found myself struggling to be relevant in the moment. Because while perusing other articles, features, and opinion pieces in various publications around the region of Lake Erie and our state, I saw that literally everything had already been said. Pundits were prolific in examining the ‘blue tsunami’ we had just experienced. Either as an event rarely seen before, or as a simple repetition of usual happenings in the realm of election cycles. Those on the left trumpeted gains that put their crowd in a better position to face the future. Those on the right pointed in every direction, except Washington and Mar-a-Lago, to explain what had just occurred. Both could boast that they had kernels of truth on their respective sides.

 

So for myself, a more unique perspective was needed.

 

I once again took down a vintage, Western Electric 500 rotary phone, from the top shelf over my desk. It had always served me dependably as a hotline to the Grande Dame of Geauga herself, Carrie Hamglaze. I guessed that my longtime associate and mentor might have a useful take to offer on this vigorous contest, along with a hopeful outlook for what could follow in the new year.

 

When I dialed her number, she was busy sipping Irish tea and working at her own apartment, in the boisterous community of Chardon. I noted a hint of stress in her voice, when answering the telephone. She must have stayed up all night, watching vote totals being calculated around the country.

 

“Rodney? I’ve been expecting you to ring my number! This has been an episode of history in the making! Not the kind I would have chosen myself, but still memorable, nevertheless!”

 

I took a deep breath before making my plea for ideas, because I knew that as a Republican loyalist of long standing, her nerves must have been rattled despite this expression of calm.

 

“I’m here at the keyboard trying to write something for the afternoon edition of my paper. The Geauga Independent has to stay active, you know? But I don’t want to say what has already been said. I need a different angle on things. Most of all, I need some inspiration...”

 

My cohort from the world of local government, tennis, education, and journalism sighed a bit while finishing her beverage.

 

“What are you thinking, Rodney? Of a column about the races at home, or how things panned out in Columbus?”

 

I cleared my throat and sorted through scribbled pages that were by the computer.

 

“I figured on doing an installment titled ‘Pennywise Politics.’ One that looks at the gubernatorial competition we just endured...”

 

Carrie was puzzled by this confession.

 

“PENNYWISE? WHAT IS THAT, PENNY WISE AND POUND FOOLISH?”

 

I chortled a bit at her remark. But then, offered an explanation.

 

“No, no, Pennywise as in the Dancing Clown, from Steven King’s horror novel, called ‘It.’ If you remember, he appears in a sewer drain to lure in unsuspecting children. Memes about the character have been numerous, all over the internet...”

 

She mumbled to herself, as if I had spoken a nonsensical phrase in jest.

 

“I don’t get it, sir! How is that connected to Democrats taking control of the House and Senate, along with governorships all across America? Which leaves me greatly disappointed, I must say!”

 

I trembled while thinking that my imagination had gone off the rails.

 

“See, my proposition was that in the battle between Dr. Amy Acton, and Vivek Ramaswamy, things got really out of hand. Specifically, when the latter of those two decided to run a commercial which used an estranged mother with a sordid past, to demean her biological offspring. Namely, his opponent...”

 

Carrie must have been stiff in her chair. I could hear creaking as she adjusted her seating for better comfort.

 

“Yes, yes, I heard all of that over and over. Donna Arthur married a man accused of harming his stepdaughter, and they both fled Ohio to avoid the prosecution that resulted. It turned my stomach, of course. But how does that relate to an evil clown?”

 

I rubbed my eyes while attempting to sound clear in a description of the project waiting to be finished.

 

“Some observed that it was an example of gutter politics. But I thought to myself that it dug deeper than that, right into the sewer actually. I can’t think of anything in recent memory that is so disgusting. It reflected what I saw of Ramaswamy in the 2024 GOP primary season. His attacks were unhinged, and reckless. The fellow not only went after other candidates on their dais, but even those who had organized the debates, and his own party chair. At one point, even using the daughter of South Carolina Governor and former United Nations Ambassador Nikki Haley, to prove a point. His bad temperament and lack of self-awareness was shocking. So, I felt no surprise when seeing him use such dreadful tactics in hope of winning an election...”

 

My contact with the Emerald pedigree huffed lightly, yet voiced her agreement.

 

“Hmm, that is an interesting reference, Rodney. But where do you go after making your point?”

 

I reclined in my roller chair, and thought carefully before responding.

 

“The story of Acton’s distant mater is complicated, and I think, tragic. She is obviously unwell in mental and physical terms. I have read about her living in a car, with many cats. She is now a homeless widow and in her 80s. I have to wonder about what kind of financial arrangement Vivek made to get her in front of a camera. Does that represent a different kind of abuse? I sounds as if she participated in a scam arrangement, which ultimately helped to scuttle the candidacy of her ruthless benefactor. Will there be any post-election consequences for that nefarious deed? By that I mean to ask, will the former businessman face any sort of judgment for stooping so low? Or will that dive into the sewer, like Pennywise, pay dividends with his allies? Am I an outlier here, to feel so offended that some actually supported his ad?”

 

I could hear Carrie drumming her fingers on the desktop. My concept seemed to have connected, at last.

 

“Pennywise Politics. Okay, I get it now! You’ve got an angle on this that isn’t just left or right. I’ll say that it’s something worth pursuing. Maybe a teachable moment for others who seek public office? You’re the wordsmith, Rodney. Now, get busy and finish your work!”

Nothing To See Here: “Fox News Eruption”

  

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-26)

 

Note: I offer what follows here in the spirit of my 'Thoughts At Large' columns from yesteryear.

 

The Setting: Studios occupied by the Fox News Channel, in New York City.

 

The Participants: Sean Hannity, program host; House of Representatives Speaker Mike Johnson; Vice President JD Vance; Grande Dame of the Republican Party in Geauga County, Ohio, Carrie Hamglaze.

 

SEAN HANNITY: “Welcome to a full hour of my show, which the Democrats will probably try to cancel next year, when their ‘blue wave’ winners take charge in Washington! But believe me, I’ve gotten through worse situations here, like the lawsuit filed by Dominion Voting Systems! So, bring it on!”

 

MIKE JOHNSON: “I am out on my a** so it doesn’t really matter to me at this point...”

 

JD VANCE: “What about the next election cycle? I want a chance to live in the White House!”

 

CARRIE HAMGLAZE: “Do none of you think about anything besides you career goals?”

 

S. HANNITY: (Grimacing) “This is going to be a tough go for America over the next two years. Trans kids playing in girls sports, our borders wide open, fentanyl flooding our neighborhoods, Sharia Law enforced everywhere, taxes skyrocketing, electric vehicles being mandated, Christmas and Easter gone, and pineapple being put on pizza from coast to coast!”

 

M. JOHNSON: (Looking dejected) “I knew the tariffs and war with Iran were a hard sell. But our president didn’t want to hear my arguments. What else could I do but fall in line? This is embarrassing...”

 

JD VANCE: (With frustration) “I even defended Vivek Ramaswamy in Ohio! I mean, that was really going out on a limb. The guy has a potty mouth and a bad attitude. I can only imagine how he ran his pharmaceutical company! He made Dr. Amy Action look like a heroine! Anyway, that basically scuttled my chances of being the top dog in 2028. I am screwed!”

 

C. HAMGLAZE: “Listen to yourselves! This moaning and groaning is shameful! Do you think it is the first time a party got drubbed in an election? Where is your courage of conviction?”

 

S. HANNITY: “Rachel Madcow will be doing live broadcasts with every illegal immigrant, Palestinian refugee, disaffected college student, and homeless bum. That’s a lot of material on the cheap. My ratings are bound to plummet!”

 

M. JOHNSON: (Turning pale) “Trump hasn’t looked healthy since he got elected to a second term. The guy rambles incoherently, walks funny, and has swollen ankles. He’s like a grandpa who got lost in the woods after taking too much medication...”

 

JD VANCE: (Shaking his head) “I won’t be able to give away copies of ‘Hillbilly Elegy’ for free! That used to be a great sideline, it helped me afford campaign expenses when our money was going to prop up candidates in trouble. Now, I might as well find a big dumpster and load them up with the trash!”

 

C. HAMGLAZE: (Growing irritated) “Do you remember when Richard Nixon lost in 1960? People had him relegated to the ash heap of history. But by 1968, he was back and better than ever. Even with Vietnam and the Watergate scandal, one of our greatest leaders of all time! That didn’t happen by accident, gentlemen. It came from having grit and determination. From having a backbone made of steel. From having what they call in the political world, gravitas!”

 

S. HANNITY: (Flushing red) “Do people use that word anymore, Mrs. Hamglaze? I haven’t heard it in years!”

 

M. JOHNSON: “The word I would use to describe this mess is apocalyptic. This was like Armageddon in the Bible. We didn’t stand a chance at the ballot box! All we had to offer was foreign beef, Russian diesel fuel, a cold shoulder to Canada and Ukraine, and data centers everywhere! Who would vote for a platform like that?”

 

JD VANCE: “Kamala Harris must be giggling to herself. This defeat will make people forget how she flamed out in the primaries, and in a general election...”

 

C. HAMGLAZE: (Stiffening in her seat) “You fellows are weak as water! Listen to your complaining! When the voters speak so loudly as they did in this election, there is only one way to overcome such a loss. Roll up your sleeves, get organized, and work harder! Think smart and look toward the future! Crying about circumstances won’t do anything to get you over the finish line, when the next cycle comes around!”

 

S. HANNITY: (Hanging his head) “She’s right you know. I hate to admit it, but this old woman from Ohio is absolutely right.”

 

M. JOHNSON: “What’s right for me is retirement. I need to get out of this line of work...”

 

JD VANCE: (Growing angry) “I have kissed our president’s backside for two years now! He even joked about it in the past! And what has it gotten me? Plenty of ridicule in the national media, and probably a back seat when Marco Rubio gets nominated in 2028. Nobody takes me seriously. This isn’t why I joined the ticket!”

 

C. HAMGLAZE: “Do you remember when John F. Kennedy said, ‘Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and the success of liberty?’ That didn’t come from a speechwriter with a diploma on the wall. It came from the heart! It came from a man that was proud to serve his country, in the name of God!”

 

JD VANCE: “He was a Democrat!”

 

M. JOHNSON: “The last thing I need to hear right now is anything from a Democrat...”

 

S. HANNITY: “I have to agree, Carrie! What’s the point of quoting a dead president at a sad time like this?”

 

C. HAMGLAZE: (With righteous indignation) “That was a different era, gentlemen. His party was not the party of today. And I must say, he was a son of Irish blood. God bless him for that! And God bless his love of America. That’s the kind of loyalty we ought to have today, not for any one person, or even one political stripe, but for the nation where we live! For the citizens who honor our leaders with their votes. For the volunteers and faithful believers that keep us moving forward, no matter what obstacles might stand in our path!”

M. JOHNSON: “I needed someone like you at my side, in the House of Representatives...”

 

JD VANCE: (Looking stunned) “I don’t know what to say, Mrs. Hamglaze. If you had been on the ballot, we wouldn’t be in this kind of trouble after an election disaster!”

 

S. HANNITY: (Looking at his wristwatch) “And... that’s all the time we have for tonight. Thanks for staying tuned to the Fox News Channel, and let not your heart be troubled! Greg Gutfeld is up next! Have a great evening, and God bless America!”