aww-awwaww, waw-weah wahhhhh, gyahh-we__ahh; or, is anything more vain than landing on the moon

Hastily nominated by the GOP this evening, Republican nominee Waid "Topless" Barfield "of dreams" and his army of sass-mongers invited me up for a brief interview shortly after their choice to nominate him to the role of soon-to-be marksman of the best Republican party in the approaching Presidential Election.

I arrived at his place, the place where they, Marc Bulger, his proclaimed campaign manager, Lewis Carroll, his acclaimed bodyguard/bo(d)yfriend/bodymovin, Wayne Coyne, the volunteer-coordinator, Alice Munro, his "Getta-oudda-vohte" (her Trannsylvanian-tact was difficult to transcribe) coordinator, were, and was berated by: commands --commands that just barely ended with politely-attached question marks--, long barracudas, the luck of one thousand winds racing through the Dong and the Huang and the Bo Hais --long-mostly-dead Mongaloid vikings swore morecore for these blusterings if were they not captured by a Sino-enemies' junk. Bellowing from the 'las plebes el vulgo' advisors who thrust their Waid forward, came the shrill interrogation of this very innocent reporter:

"WHO IS THE OTHER NOMINEE"
"WHERE IS HE GOING"
"IS COMPUTER PROGRAMMING REALLY THAT PROFITTABLE"
"ARRRAAAAGHHH"
"WHERE ARE YOU TAKING HIM"
"ARRAGGAHHACH"
"[WHAT IS] SENTIMENT IF TODAY IS CONSTRUCT WHEN TODAY IS DIGITALIA"

Placid and wading and swimming and strafing through the tense thicket of his potential cabinet members, the Waid, and his flip-flops, calmly flip-flopping toward me, spoke with immaculate goodness, benevolence in his heart, a lot of blood in his cheeks and hands, and jovial, adorable Vicksburg drawl in his voicebox:

"Hi there, I'm Waid Barfield, are you the reporter?" his heart sang the greeting via his vocal chords, into my ears. His voice, the same warm, unruffled voice that beckoned deer to prance across his crosshairs in the threatening Mississippi, levee-breakin rain, inclined fellow soldiers to raise their narrowed, focusing eyes to their gunstocks while drenched in Vietnamese blood and fear, swore gorecore to his father that he'd go back to "Business" school when he finished what had to be done for his country in Vietnam, kept its cool, (coooool) but wasn't sharp enough to be heard over his still-heckling fans:

"DO NOT GO OUT THERE WITH HIM WAID"
"WAID, DON'T SAY ANYTHING"
"AM I STILL THREATENED BY THE LIKELIHOOD OF FULFILLING MY FATHER'S FOOTSTEPS"
"ARRRAAGGGAHHHHAH"
"NO COMMENT WAID, JUST NO COMMENT"

And so, Waid, who's patience wasn't yet whet, smiled once or twice more, but three or four times less than he would've had he and I jammed-into the carpetted-quad and really spoken about his family,
his wife, whom at the same moment had been thrust, in her Noce & Ivory tiled kitchenette, into emotion, dropping to her knees to semble a stretched-out prayer against her Frigidaire stovetop that bore a skillet of her vacant-husband's favorite morningtime treat, mashed tomorrows and scrambled tears, repeated himself, politely declined to interview ("Maybe not right now. Is your name Grant?" "It's not" "Oh! Well I'm sorry, but I'll have to politely decline to an interview right now, maybe later though") and invited me to a dinner or some more personal kind of get-together later, though.

I met Waid Barfield this evening, and though his guerilla advisors screamed through him, Waid Barfield, Waid Barfield's ubiquitous sweat-based scent left me with a delicious taste, not unlike the taste of the Ferst blood suckled from an unripe swelbow, in my mouth.