Columnist – John Sammon
A right wing extremist media commentator who has made a career appealing to the worst in intolerant people by denigrating imagined political enemies by innuendo, and false smear tactics, and who questions everybody’s patriotism when he himself never served in the military because he was too busy counting broadcast ratings and money—readies for bed.

He’s pretty fat, so he wears a nightshirt.

He’s about to nod off, when the door rattles. In walks a tall ghost with a beard.

“Who are you?” the commentator asks.

“I am the ghost of Republicans past.”

“Lincoln? Abe Lincoln?”

“That’s right. I don’t like what you’re doing to my party.”

“What don’t you like about it, you bearded bean pole?” the right wing commentator mocks.

“What don’t I like about it?” Lincoln blurts, precisely imitating the commentator’s voice, mocking him in return. “You remind me of a crooked snake oil salesman I once knocked off a rail. I don’t like the way you lie. The way you puff yourself up and act the big guy, when you’re nothing but a mouth on a microphone.”

“Oh yeah, fu.’k face! What about you? Suspend habeas corpus, do the Emancipation Proclamation bit when you don’t like niggers any better than I do. Because of you we have a nigger president.”

“I admit I didn’t think they’re equal,” Lincoln says. “I had the prejudice of my time. But I changed a little by the end of my life. I was capable of learning. You on the other hand?”

“Fu.’k you! Ever hear of a three-roller? That’s a buck nigger. You count the rolls of kinky hair on the back of his neck. You get a one-roller; they’re only good for hanging around the (plantation) kitchen. A two-roller can pick cotton, but a three-roller, you got yourself a boy. A three-roller can pull a plow.”

Lincoln shakes his head. “You don’t represent the better angels of our nature. You’ll be visited by two other spirits.” Lincoln departs, walking through a wall.

“Fu.’k off!” The commentator starts to climb into bed.

A ghost walks through the door covered in strands of tape recorder tape.

“Richard Nixon?” the commentator asks.

“You don’t believe in me, do you?” Nixon asks.

“No, nobody else did either.”

“You’re dividing the country worse than I did with Vietnam,” Nixon says.

“Fu.’k you man! Sucking up to a bunch of chinks in China. Getting caught in a two-bit burglary. I was hot for your daughter though.”

“I thought you were gay,” Nixon says.

“No, that’s just because I like to suck on a cigar. Okay Dick, what is it you want?”

“I want you to be more reasonable and learn from my mistakes.”

“Oh yeah, sure, you think I want to kill the fu.’kin’ golden goose. If I’m reasonable, nobody will listen to my show. You know, all the patriots and red-necks. They’re gold to me. You got a problem with that?”

Nixon thinks and shakes his head. “No, that’s good enough for me.”

“Good, then beat it. I’m sleepy and you’re dead.”

Nixon starts to fade away. “You’ll be visited by one more spirit,” he says.

The commentator starts to climb into bed, but two ghosts walk through the door. One is a Hispanic woman; the other an Asian man.

“Okay, who the fuc.’k are you? I have to get some sleep. I have a show to do tomorrow.”

“We are the ghosts of Republicans future,” the Hispanic woman says.

“You’re kiddin’ me. You a Republican? You’re a wetback. And who’s your slant-eyed friend?”

“You don’t understand,” the woman says. “For the Republican Party to gain any credibility, it has to abandon the principles you represent.”

“Fu.’k you you bitch! Why aren’t you home in your homeless shelter flippin’ frijoles?”

The two spirits whisk the commentator to a cloud. He can see himself below back on earth broadcasting. Nobody’s listening. His ratings are shrinking. A cold sweat breaks out on commentator’s face. He trembles. He sees himself entering the office of his station manager.

The manager tells him, “We have to let you go, your ratings have dropped?”

“They have? Why?”

“I don’t know. I guess there aren’t enough rednecks anymore.”

“This is what will happen if you remain unchanged,” the woman spirit says.

The commentator pleads, he sobs. “You’re right. I’ll change. I promise. I’ll do anything to keep my show, and my big car and my penthouse.”

“Good.”

“Yeah, I’ll redouble my efforts. I’ll call more people traitors and communists. I’ll hope that nigger president fails and the American people suffer so they’ll say I was right. I’ll do what I have to, to prevent you (points to the Asian man) and your gook friend from ever running for office. I’ll…

The spirits fade. “I think it’s hopeless,” the woman tells the Asian. He nods.

It’s morning. The commentator runs to an open window and sees a kid below.

“You want a turkey?” the kid yells up at him.

“Fu.’k you kid!” the commentator yells.

copyright 2009 Sammonsays.

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