If y’all have been following the air waves, you know that Robert Francis O’Rourke of El Paso by God Texas has decided to throw his gimme cap into the ring and seek the presidency of the United States of America.
This is Beto’s “thoughtful” gaze. It projects that quality we want in our presidents — a vacuous stare with a finger over their lips telling them not to say anything stupid. Haha, just kidding. Love the guy. He’s from Texas. Yes, El Paso is part of Texas.
Here he is rehearsing his lines: “Man, I’m just born to be in it.” Pretty sure there were no copywriters involved with that bit of genius.
But the real star, the real driver of the Tribe Beto is Artemis, a Labrador. We were able to grab Artie, a real bitch, for a quick interview. She did not hold anything back.
Artemis, for those of you who studied your Greek mythology, is the goddess of the hunt, wild animals, the moon, and chastity. Very well-rounded god.
Those who are more into their Roman gods, will recognize Artemis as being Diana under the Roman system. If you are interested, you can spend hours researching the goddess, but we have our own little goddess to interview.
“Welcome, black Labrador, Artemis, property of Beto and his heiress wife. How goes it?”
“It goes fine, Big Red Car. Can we get on with this? If Robbie comes back — I call him Robbie — he will be pissed. He likes to control the message.”
“So, Artemis, big doings. Your master is running for the nomination of the Democrat party for President.”
“Surprise, surprise, surprise.”
“Beto said he would never, ever, ever, ever run for President. Just wanted to be Senator. What made him change his mind?”
“Amy, that’s the boss and the brains in the family, told him he’d have to get a job.”
“Is running for President a job?”
“For some people. Not so sure about Robbie.”
“Why do you call him Robbie? It sounds disrespectful.”
“Like cultural appropriation sounds disrespectful? That what you mean? Look, my master is a good enough guy, but he’s an Irish kid from El Paso. He isn’t, whatever ….. Can we move this along? I’m late for a photo shoot for Vanity Fair.”
“Now, that’s interesting. Are you going to take an active role in the campaign?”
“Somebody has to. Look the guy was a Congressman for three terms. How many bills did he sponsor? One. So, he isn’t exactly burning it up, if you know what I mean?”
“OK, let’s get to some positions, shall we? Where is his head?”
“Don’t tempt me to say it — up his ass? No. Robbie is in favor of legalizing weed. He’s sort of an expert on weed. He wants not only no new walls, he wants to knock down the existing ones. He wants abortion until graduation from grammar school. He’s all over that Green New Deal.”
“OK, fair enough. On the Green New Deal — what do you say to people who say it’s just a pipe dream?”
“I say to look at Congresswoman AOC — the camera loves her, the liberals love her, and Robbie loves her. Great teeth, big eyes, sleek coat — oops, I guess humans call it hair. Easy on the eyes. Does any of her stuff work? Hell no, but we’re dealing with getting elected President, not reality.”
“How about Beto’s skeletons?”
“Sure the guy’s been arrested a few times. Who hasn’t? Running from the scene of a drunken car accident. He denies it. Teddy Kennedy drowned a woman, waited ten hours to report it, and was re-elected to the Senate for forty years thereafter. Then the burglary, OK. Then, the cross dressing band thing. That was way before my time. About a million people have smoked weed with Robbie. Glad that’s legal now.”
“Weed is not legal in Texas, Artemis. It’s legal in places like Colorado and California, not Texas.”
“Ooops. Move on, shall we?”
“Would Artemis be comfortable with her owner having the nuclear codes?”
“Fuck no. Look, he owns me. Amy feeds me, but as an American Labrador, the idea of this nitwit having the codes is mind boggling. The guy can’t remember his own Facebook password. I had to write it on his foot.”
“There have been rumors that he is going to be the “dog” President. That you’re going to be prominent in the campaign?”
“Yeah. I heard that. I bit the stupid son-of-a-bitch who said it. I agreed to one picture with Vanity Fair. They fucked the picture up and asked me to do another one. No. Way. Jose. He did the Ronald Reagan ranch pose. Jeans, hands in his pockets — enjoy that. Next time you see him, he’ll have his hands in your pockets. Yeah, a first class poseur.”
“Did you like the picture?”
“Sure. Open land, mountains in the background, arid landscape, a pickup truck door, Reaganesque Robbie, me walking into position. I was supposed to be sitting next to him looking up at him adoringly, but the dipshit photographer couldn’t wait. So, yeah, I love the pic. Still, they want a re-shoot.”
“Do you expect a hard campaign?”
“I expect a barbed wire enema like that Ted Cruz gave him. I expect his charm to wear through in about a month and I expect guys like Joe Biden to teach him how the cow eats the cabbage. Joe has been doing this stuff since Christ was a corporal. No flies on that dinosaur, eh? We won’t get within a sniff of the nomination. Still, if that prick Donald Trump says anything bad about my master, I will bite him. Bet the guy tastes real good, all that fast food he eats.”
“Some in the media say you always look sad. Are you a sad dog?”
“Not really. Robbie is a little flaky, but he’s got money. Amy is an heiress. Her Daddy is loaded. So, I have a good gig. Plus, if I were to cross them, they’d put me down in a New York minute. Kill a baby? Kill a Labrador. So, I like to keep to myself, keep a low profile, don’t run around gooning with a drooling smile. I leave the goofy stuff to Robbie. Way better at it.”
“Did you ride with him on his post-Senate “get back in touch with my roots” tour?”
“No, and I had nothing to do with his live streamed dental work. I love the guy, but that was just weird. Amy told him no more crazy shit like that. She was really pissed. Look, Big Red Car, I have to go. Wrap it up.”
“Bottom line it, Artemis. Does Artemis O’Rourke vote for Robert Francis O’Rourke for the nomination and then in the general election?”
“Dogs can’t vote, can they?”
“Not today, but by the election date, illegals and dogs will both be able to vote, right?”
“Good one, Big Red Car. I wouldn’t vote for this boob to be dog catcher. Get it? Dog catcher.”
“Well, Artemis, thank you for speaking with us today. You have provided us with some extraordinary insights. I look forward to speaking again.”
“Hey, Big Red Car, would you mind giving me a ride to the McDonald’s? Robbie and Amy have me on a strict green diet. I want a Big Mac and a Filet-o-Fish. Don’t tell them. If you do, I’ll tell you a secret.”
“Tell me the secret first.”
“No. OK. I’m the speech writer. I wrote — ‘Man, I’m just born to be in it.'” Artemis laughed as he ran away at breakneck speed.
So, dear reader, there you have it. An exclusive interview with Artemis O’Rourke, the potential First Dog. Call, email, write with questions.
But, hey, what the Hell do I really know anyway? I’m just a Big Red Car.
