When it comes to presidential primary campaigning, we New Hampshire residents get lots of attention.
But I don't keep up with politics. As a proper submissive wife, my husband chooses my candidate on primary day and in the general election. It's never a matter of disagreement among us, as I'm far too busy with my daily regimen of cooking, cleaning, laundering, exercising, being spanked by Hubby for my faults and three hours of bed-shaking sex every night to keep up with public affairs.
In fact, I'd be hard pressed to tell you the name of the president of the United States. But I do remember he's tall and handsome with good posture and well-barbered, just like the several presidents who've come before him.
So when this stubby, stoop-shouldered old-man with buck teeth and a mange of frizzy white hair surrounding his otherwise bald head knocked on the door mid-morning the other day to advise that he's running for president and would like a moment of my time, I naturally assumed he was an Alzheimer's patient who'd wandered away from the nearby old folks home.
I invited the supposed-candidate to sit down in the living room while I brewed a fresh pot of coffee, as I figured I could call the home from the kitchen phone and ask that attendants come over and take him away. But I'd no more than taken a few steps when he announced in a tone a bit too brusque for my liking that if my coffee beans weren't certified organic and grown under fair-trade conditions I needn't bother.
That just further convinced me that I was dealing with a crazy man, as the good housewife knows "organic" and "fair-trade-grown" are merely misleading labels meant to trick her into wasting Hubby's hard-earned money on overpriced groceries that spoil too soon.
I turned and smiled and tried to think of another excuse to get to the kitchen. But before I could speak, he launched into a speech:
"It appears your cupboard is bare of appropriate beans. After I'm elected president, all coffee consumed in our great country will brewed with American-made-certified-organic beans grown by workers making the minimum living wage of at least thirty dollars per hour."
He continued: "How will I accomplish this? With Bernie Sanders' five-point plan to cure the coffee crisis: 1) ban importation of coffee beans from 'sweat-shop countries' such as Columbia and Vietnam; 2) acquire through power of eminent domain under-utilized and vacant auto-manufacturing plants and all national-chain coffee shops; 3) convert the property into coffee-bean fields, coffee-manufacturing plants and government-run shops serving free coffee; 4) put laid-off auto workers back on the job growing and grinding the beans and serving coffee at acceptable salaries; 5) cover the cost by raising taxes on the wealthiest one percent of Americans."
"Not only will this provide desperately needed free coffee for the middle class and return Michigan and other Rust Belt states to prosperity, but my accompanying proposal that coffee and fast-food beverages be served in American-made reusable ceramic cups manufactured by workers paid at least the $30-per-hour 'living wage' will solve the solid waste crisis. Moreover, my plan for free college tuition and living expenses, including 'gap year,' for all 18-to-25-year-olds will ensure that no young person suffers the indignity of working in a coffee shop to help pay for college."
I continued to listen to candidate Sanders with a smile frozen on my face as he spoke of changes he'd make once president. They sounded to me like providing free stuff most people could pay for on their own with a reasonable amount of effort, all of it afforded by raising taxes on the wealthiest one percent. But what do I know? I'm just a housewife.
At last candidate Sanders said he must leave.
"Rather than coffee, I'd ask you for a cup of water," he said as he rose from the chair, "but the shocking failure of the federal government to enforce environmental regulations has rendered all tap water unfit to drink. This will certainly change once I'm president."
"In the meantime, I suggest you and other Americans do as I do and purchase bottled-water mail order from 'Maple Springs Water Company'* This family-owned, union-friendly, Vermont-headquartered company provides 'Sanders-standard' drinking water at the reasonable price of $25 per quart bottle. The remainder of your 64-ounces-per-day fluid intake needs may be had by boiling your urine to cleanse it of impurities."**
Candidate Sanders paused for a second, then added:
"Which reminds me, I'm thirsty and need to go. May I make use of a pot and your stove?"
"Certainly not!" I replied, my face flushing red with anger.
"I'm sorry. I know you're old and addle-brained, but this charade has gone on long enough," I said. "Please sit down while I call the old folks home to send an attendant to get you."
"What are you talking about? I don't live in a old folks home!" he shouted.
"I have an apartment in D.C. for when Congress is in session and a house in Vermont for when it's not. Though they're not easy to pay for on the pittance I'm paid. How am I expected to survive on a measly $174,000 a year? It's hardly a living wage!"
"Sit down!" I shouted as I pushed him back in the chair.
"How dare you," Sanders said as he stood back up.
"No woman talks to me like that! You're as loud and obnoxious as Bernardine Dohrn at an SDS meeting. And I'm telling you what I told her back then. Cross me again and I'll put you across my knee and spank your bottom."
"I'd like to see you try grandpa," I replied.
Apparently I pushed Bernie's button. Before I knew it he had me pinned with his left hand across the blazer of his wrinkled suit while vigorously patting the seat of my skirt with his right.
"This will teach you little missy," Sanders shouted. But after a dozen pats he suddenly stopped and let me free.
"Oh my goodness. What have I done?" he cried. "I'm acting like a member of the patriarchy! It's like the chicks, I mean girls, I mean women at the commune were always telling me: Bernie you've got to learn to contain your male ego."
He pulled a card from his pocket that had nothing but an e-mail address on it.
"Take this," Sanders said as he handed me the card. "It's my private e-mail. Please let me know what mid-tier country you want to be named ambassador to in exchange for keeping silent about this regrettable incident. We must keep this out of the press for the good of The Movement."
Then he left.
I returned to my housework and thought little more of the incident. It certainly didn't seem worth complaining about it to my husband. Compared to his spankings, the dozen hand pats from Bernie Sanders might as well have come from a gnat. I figured Mr. Sanders would find his way back to the old folks home eventually and they'd keep him under closer guard once they realized he escaped.
Imagine my surprise when I learned from Hubby at the breakfast table today that Bernie Sanders really is a candidate for president. Apparently he's running against some gal named Hillary Clinton for the Democratic nomination.
Hubby grimaced as he looked up from paper.
"I can't believe half the Democrats in Iowa voted for this Sanders clown," he said. "The corn crop must have fermented."
Well I know we're not voting for Bernie Sanders come primary day. And I know we're not voting for this guy named Donald Trump in the Republican primary either because Hubby says Trump's a clown too.
But no matter who my husband says we're voting for I'm kind of hoping Bernie Sanders becomes president. Not because I want to be ambassador to a mid-tier country because I could never leave Hubby behind and give up my fulfilling housewife life.
But I would like to make lots of money writing a tell-all book about the time USA President Bernie Sanders spanked my bottom. In the meantime, please don't tell anybody. It's our little secret.
Sorry but I'm afraid I let the cat out of the bag.
But I doubt if you'd ever be able to make much money writing a tell-all book about President Bernie Sanders because the chance of self-described socialist and political zealot Bernie Sanders being elected Chief Executive of this Great Land of Ours are about as much as your story being true: zero.
*A Google search shows no results for "Maple Springs Water Company." The name is used fictitiously.
**Don't try this at home.