Now for the Real Fireworks

JULY IS the month of our long-awaited political conventions, the final stop in a torturous electoral journey that most assuredly made our Founding Fathers roll over in their graves, throw up in revulsion, then roll back over with a raging headache, severe back spasms, and an irritable bowel. It’s been a tough year.

The Democratic Party will be meeting in Philadelphia, “The City of Brotherly Love,” and Republicans will gather in Cleveland, “The City That’s Having Second Thoughts,” because there was once talk about delegates bringing in their own firearms. But local officials convinced them to bring in a covered dish instead. (Fortunately, this still comports with the NRA’s noble philosophy: “The only thing that stops a bad guy with a casserole is a good guy with a casserole.”)

Delegates from across the nation will be gathering to affirm the choice of their party’s primary voters, the common folk whose wisdom is not always appreciated on Capitol Hill, but whose wishes deserved to be carried out. It’s the very essence of democracy, which this year featured the aerobic benefits of pushing and shoving. Hey, nobody said it would be pretty. But sometimes you have to take the road less traveled—the one paved with good intentions and littered with the signs you ripped out of your neighbor’s yard. But eventually you get back to the main highway of truth so the limousines of hope can ... uhm ... nope. Lost the metaphor. Sorry.

IT’S EASY to imagine the pandemonium that will afflict the conventions this year, and not just at the nearest Starbucks when thousands of impatient delegates with raging headaches, severe back spasms, and irritable bowels line up before the morning speeches. (Tip: Leave room for cream and three shots of vitriol directed at the other party.)

The final two candidates have been chosen, but the acrimony has just begun. Frustrations will be flowing through the convention halls, and it may take a higher power to find resolve. Or in this case, a super power in the form of delegates whose very name suggests the ability to bend steel and use their X-ray vision to peer through the smoke of back rooms and choose the most powerful person in the free world. (Which is where, again? It sounds like a nice place to live.)

They are called “superdelegates,” people who can vote for whomever they wish, regardless of popular will or the presence of kryptonite. Many of them are already pledged to a particular candidate, but their pledge is not binding, unlike their colorful but skintight costumes that sometimes gather uncomfortably under the regular clothing they wear on the convention floor. (They think they’re in disguise, but you can always tell a superdelegate. They walk funny and scratch a lot.)

The conventions will end under an avalanche of balloons with the usual shouting and applause, or as much as people can applaud while at the same time keeping their fingers crossed.

And don’t be fooled by the silly hats. The delegates this year are bearing an unusually heavy burden of responsibility. The future of the nation hangs in the balance, and they’ll take it very seriously, just as soon as they clear their wedgies.

THEN THE CHOSEN Republican and Democratic presidential candidates will travel to the hinterlands and listen to the hopes and dreams of average Americans. But only for a couple minutes, until they remember how few electoral votes are in the hinterlands. Then they’ll shake their heads, laugh at their silly mistake, and concentrate on Ohio and Florida. (Sorry Idaho and Dakotas 1 and 2.)

Predictably, candidates will be using the familiar vernacular of a national campaign, often referring to “the American people,” even though few politicians have actually met any. But this year’s campaign will also feature language new to the arena of public discourse. Rest assured, phrases such as “#*%!!#%&” and “#*%@+$#!” are heartfelt and ably spoken, and roughly translate as “building unity between all Americans, regardless of race or gender. Unless they need to use a public restroom.”

There’s that rolling-over sound again. Is it too late to give the Founding Fathers some Tylenol?