would know about Ron Paul.”
I spent the last few days kicking around North Carolina and waiting for the blimp launch to go ahead. It had been scheduled for almost a week earlier and had been subsequently delayed every time until today. With each cancellation, I would return to my hotel and work my contacts trying to get closer to the Ron Paul Luftwaffe.
I can only guess my associations with Something Awful and a few mocking articles about Ron Paul slammed some doors in my face. No one in the upper echelons of the blimp project wanted to talk to me.
So I turned to the lower echelons and Tucker Mayhew, a second-year law student with a bad part in his hair and a pair of Transitions lenses in golden frames. He favored long coats and bow ties, the perfect image of a somber conservative law student. The exact sort of attorney you would want in your corner if you were suing a school district so your kid could learn creationism instead of geometry.
That image was ruined whenever he opened his mouth and spoke in a whiny drawl. It wasn’t even a North Carolinian accent. It was as if Professor Frink from The Simpsons had been raised in the backwoods of Appalachia.
In contrast to his douchebag name and his douchebag way of dressing, Tucker was a pretty nice guy. He was nice enough to invite me over to his parents’ house for macaroni and cheese with hotdog buttons, nice enough to offer to introduce me to some of the big brains behind the Ron Paul blimp, and nice enough to invite me to drive him to Elizabeth City. His mom was the one nice enough to invite me to bring his nine-year-old sister along.
“I don’t have a lot of friends at college,” Tucker confessed to me during our two-hour drive to the blimp launch. “It’s hard to meet people. The Internet makes it easier. There has been a bunch of Ron Paul meets on campus. I even met my girlfriend at one.”
Tucker showed me a wallet photo of a girl who looked like she should be rolled in bread crumbs and deep fried. But she had a pretty face.
“She’s got a pretty face,” I said, my eyes darting back to the road.
“Not a bad bottom either,” Tucker said.
Forgotten wells and corpse piles had better bottoms, but no sense debating the finer points (or blunt ends) of Tucker’s girlfriend. I reached over to fiddle with the radio. I had to do something to prevent the awkward silence that followed from killing us all.
“So why Ron Paul?” I asked as I fiddled with the radio. “What makes him so special?”
Tucker took a moment to respond. He was licking pudding from the foil top of a pudding cup.
“Waddya mean?” he asked, his words murky with pudding.
“I mean, what is it about Ron Paul that makes you guys so crazy about him? Why is he different than Mitt Romney?”
Tucker snorted with derision.
“Romney? Mister Double Guantanamo? No. The Iraq war was a lie. The whole War on Terror is a lie.”
“So vote for a Democrat,” I suggested. “Obama or Clinton or one of the others.”
“Oh, that’s even better,” Tucker said. “The Clintons back in the White House or the most liberal senator who will raise taxes like crazy? Yeah, no thanks. And Democrats are only barely better than Republicans on foreign policy. They started Vietnam after all.”
“Okay, those are a bunch of reasons why not to like the other guys,” I said. “Why Ron Paul?”
Tucker had a dreamy faraway look in his eyes and a tiny dollop of chocolate pudding in the corner of his mouth.
“You gotta believe in something,” he said, his voice thick with emotion or possibly more pudding. “I believe government is the problem not the solution and I believe we gotta stay out of foreign countries. I believe…in minding our own business and let…let the free market take care of things.”
Dawn was breaking over North Carolina. It was about to be a misty, cold, miserable morning. My map printed from the Internet took us through the middle of the sleepy college town of Elizabeth City and
I spent the last few days kicking around North Carolina and waiting for the blimp launch to go ahead. It had been scheduled for almost a week earlier and had been subsequently delayed every time until today. With each cancellation, I would return to my hotel and work my contacts trying to get closer to the Ron Paul Luftwaffe.
I can only guess my associations with Something Awful and a few mocking articles about Ron Paul slammed some doors in my face. No one in the upper echelons of the blimp project wanted to talk to me.
So I turned to the lower echelons and Tucker Mayhew, a second-year law student with a bad part in his hair and a pair of Transitions lenses in golden frames. He favored long coats and bow ties, the perfect image of a somber conservative law student. The exact sort of attorney you would want in your corner if you were suing a school district so your kid could learn creationism instead of geometry.
That image was ruined whenever he opened his mouth and spoke in a whiny drawl. It wasn’t even a North Carolinian accent. It was as if Professor Frink from The Simpsons had been raised in the backwoods of Appalachia.
In contrast to his douchebag name and his douchebag way of dressing, Tucker was a pretty nice guy. He was nice enough to invite me over to his parents’ house for macaroni and cheese with hotdog buttons, nice enough to offer to introduce me to some of the big brains behind the Ron Paul blimp, and nice enough to invite me to drive him to Elizabeth City. His mom was the one nice enough to invite me to bring his nine-year-old sister along.
“I don’t have a lot of friends at college,” Tucker confessed to me during our two-hour drive to the blimp launch. “It’s hard to meet people. The Internet makes it easier. There has been a bunch of Ron Paul meets on campus. I even met my girlfriend at one.”
Tucker showed me a wallet photo of a girl who looked like she should be rolled in bread crumbs and deep fried. But she had a pretty face.
“She’s got a pretty face,” I said, my eyes darting back to the road.
“Not a bad bottom either,” Tucker said.
Forgotten wells and corpse piles had better bottoms, but no sense debating the finer points (or blunt ends) of Tucker’s girlfriend. I reached over to fiddle with the radio. I had to do something to prevent the awkward silence that followed from killing us all.
“So why Ron Paul?” I asked as I fiddled with the radio. “What makes him so special?”
Tucker took a moment to respond. He was licking pudding from the foil top of a pudding cup.
“Waddya mean?” he asked, his words murky with pudding.
“I mean, what is it about Ron Paul that makes you guys so crazy about him? Why is he different than Mitt Romney?”
Tucker snorted with derision.
“Romney? Mister Double Guantanamo? No. The Iraq war was a lie. The whole War on Terror is a lie.”
“So vote for a Democrat,” I suggested. “Obama or Clinton or one of the others.”
“Oh, that’s even better,” Tucker said. “The Clintons back in the White House or the most liberal senator who will raise taxes like crazy? Yeah, no thanks. And Democrats are only barely better than Republicans on foreign policy. They started Vietnam after all.”
“Okay, those are a bunch of reasons why not to like the other guys,” I said. “Why Ron Paul?”
Tucker had a dreamy faraway look in his eyes and a tiny dollop of chocolate pudding in the corner of his mouth.
“You gotta believe in something,” he said, his voice thick with emotion or possibly more pudding. “I believe government is the problem not the solution and I believe we gotta stay out of foreign countries. I believe…in minding our own business and let…let the free market take care of things.”
Dawn was breaking over North Carolina. It was about to be a misty, cold, miserable morning. My map printed from the Internet took us through the middle of the sleepy college town of Elizabeth City and
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