The most recent development in the Grand Old Ovine (sheep) Party presidential candidate circus on the Flatley farm revolves around ex-candidate Donald the Odd Duck. His own campaign was done in by an extreme hairdo that got in his eyes and kept him from reading his notes, and he attempted to re-establish himself as host of farm campaign festivities, but only a couple of curiosities accepted his invitation. Otherwise, the campaign peanut parade blathered on – quacking, mooing, barking, chirping and bleating across the farm, to little real effect.
Never in the history of Flatley farm political campaigns has the barnyard produced such an unlikely sample of animal life. The group is currently led by a bloviating buffoon of broad belly, Newt the Tomcat, followed by the weathervane Milton the Mormon Moose, who points out the latest breeze. Near the bottom of the pack is Sanctimonious Santo Squirrel, who refuses to store nuts for the winter because he is offended by their resemblance to certain male appendages. Then there is a weird ewe, who claims 23 lambs and who has the history of the farm confused with the Spanish conquest of Mexico; one stoat, who thinks the first farmer Flatley rode camels when Maine was a vast desert; and the bilious Brahma Bull Buffoon, who warns that the Windham warthogs are building secret slaughterhouses.
Sadly, Sarah the Quacker Goose – who represents the best of the modern sheep party – isn’t in the contest for farm leadership this season. Further, since her qualifications clearly exceed those of any likely winner, its likely that the eventual winner’s ego would prevent her from being chosen again as vice sheep candidate.
Not only do Ovines act like sheep – fearful of threats, crowding together, hiring dogs for protection, relying on shepherds for guidance – but also its legislators move in flocks, obeying orders of bellwethers, lining up like sheep to sign tax pledges. However, although the Ovine animals as a group are sheep-like, some of their leaders, such as Billy McGoat, the Ovine candidate in 2008, are smelly old goats of aggressive mien, burdened with unused appendages.
Among things of general farm interest having little or nothing to do with the presidential race: Nancy Titmouse is looking for a comeback as leader of the farm Legislature, but she faces a enormous task – for the Avian (bird party) rarely “follow the leader” and they most certainly don’t sign any pledges; consequently, her party members are greatly outnumbered.
Ovine animal senators in the haymow, including Olimpy Owl and Caribou Carol, the downy Down East debutantes, continue to vote no on everything but their own pay and medical care. Although a minority, by virtue of a foolish filibuster format, the Ovines can keep hay from being forked down to milk cows and other working animals. Some call them rat sheep, but, lacking courage to think for themselves, they are too timid to be anything but mice.
A silky Persian show kitty, the latest appendage of Newt the Tomcat, demonstrates that he is not only a Fat Cat, but an aging Cortez who has discovered an ocean of erotic possibilities.
Mitch McMongoose, the Ovine manager in the haymow – often mistaken for a groundhog with glasses -– is made ill by the thought of the dusky duck as farm president and continues his campaign of dissing Alhambra. Deeply tanned Baymer Badger – sleek, well oiled by feed and fertilizer salesmen and who, despite being orange-hued from hours spent on farm greens, is often lachrymose – continues to issue instructions that are ignored by black sheep in his flock.
Lubricious Lieberman the Loon is little heard from this year. He is occupied with his friends and distant relatives, quarreling capons in a Massachusetts farm who are having trouble building hen houses on someone else’s property.
The parrots that perform on Foxy Newsy repeat Ovine Party talking points so often they actually believe them.
The rest of the farm residents are urged to be patient. Somehow, sometime, one persistent plonker will emerge as the chosen sheep.
In the meantime, wear boots.
Definition for the week: Patriotism: Combustible rubbish ready to be torched by anyone anxious to further his own cause; the cloak worn by the draft exempt.
Rodney Quinn, a former Maine secretary of state and university history and government instructor, lives in Westbrook. He can be reached at rquinn@maine.rr.com.
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