a likely political candidate, he’s certainly tall. This distinguishing feature is perhaps the virtue that draws one’s
attention first and foremost, as very few leaders of state in history past have been able to peer over the lectern and podium
as though they were an ungainly specimen of ostrich. Secondarily, but perhaps equally importantly, is the fact, blatant as
it is, that he is quite beamingly English. He’s tall, he’s an arrogant, erudite, yawping bastard, and this does make him seem slightly left of centre from other various recent political aspirants.
What makes him different though is the fact that he’s bedecked in the costume of a giant penguin, clenching the polystyrene
head of the aquatic fowl under his perspiring right armpit, and he’s dictating prospective political objectives in a
keening mock-French accent, as though his mouth has shut up shop and his larynx has begun communicating through his nostrils
entirely. His name is John Marwood Cleese, and he’s California’s next dynamic mayor.
When Arnold Alois Schwarzenegger
(a.k.a. The Governator) ran for California’s public
office, against the likes of savvy, world-aware rivals Larry Flynt (a.k.a. Jesus Hustler
Christ), and wizened Gary Coleman (think the lovechild of Doc from Snow White and the
Seven Dwarfs and Bill Cosby, only with a surprised coconut for a face and the voice of a ghetto pornsta being filmed in
a helium factory), the majority of the world’s political populace had difficulty swallowing their respective glasses
of milk without spitting it out of their noses. Here was Conan the Republican attempting to persuade mass voters that not
only was he capable of dislocating one’s neck in fifteen different and intriguing places, but that he could read palm
cards as well.
The mythic Hollywood
hero most revered for eradicating Liquid Metal Man and severing a guy’s arms off with his bare hands won the election.
It was, quite blindingly, a landslide (rather bemusing for poor, wistful Arnie whom had expected at least a volatile volcano,
some ruthless international diamond thieves, or the bi-annual End of the World to compete with during the campaign after-party).
Therefore, and quite reasonably for an Englishman, one must stipulate, it wasn’t particularly long at all before John
Cleese openly declared his ambitions towards a forthcoming Californian governorship. After all, if Danny de Vito’s better
half could proverbially pull it off, surely a man whom had the entire mental catalogue of the world’s cheeses locked
away within his pitted skull would be a sure-fire winner.
Hence, we have developed
a timely itemized list of why one should lay down all pre-conceived political aspirations, and vote 1 for Basil-fucking-Fawlty:
…And Now For Something Completely Different: A Mad Bastard for Mayor—
The United States have
had some resoundingly oblique and curious figures run for public office throughout its long (based on the stalwart backs of
slaves and blues musicians) and illustrious (here, in the White House, saw the popularization of the stovepipe hat) history.
President R. Reagan, onetime governor of California, is
(arguably, among B-movie connoisseurs) less well known for his heartening, poignant portrayal of a chimpanzee’s best
friend in the underground satirical watershed Bedtime for Bonzo (1951) –
a “hilarious classic full of mischievous monkeyshines!!”.
Candidate Hunter S. Thompson,
renowned subversive literary great, lost narrowly by 2% in his 1969 bid for Sheriff of Aspen, Colorado, even with such certified,
visceral campaigning as renaming Aspen with the moniker “Fat
City”, and accidentally bringing into extinction an elusive species of giant Northern American porcupine, whilst inordinately
stoned. America has had her
fair share of wondrous, sunshine-caped nutjobs of US
diplomacy, so it seems perfectly reasonable to take retrograde comedian John Cleese into fierce consideration. If only because
it would be undeniably splendid to see him perform his Ministry of Silly Walks whilst accepting a handshake from George Dubya,
American presidency’s Lionel Hutz.
It’s ineffably justified
for anyone with a suggestive hand in American votership to defend Mssr. Cleese’s electoral honour. He’d bring
revolution to the complete cloistered, now quite archaic process. Being an anti-conservative and a Democrat, Gov. J.M. Cleese
would certainly be inclined to throw open his thunderous, cantankerous mouth, and with an ostentatious flourish, begin his
speech with a “You are all twats, tosspots and cock-ups”. It would be a time of change.
Furthermore, one cannot
make the declaration as to otherwise that Cleese is funny. Nostalgia will make
one acknowledge that he made British hostelry seem abominably hilarious, and that in his heyday he capably spouted twenty
synonyms for the phrase “dead parrot”. He is the perennial reminder of your grandfather’s eccentric, drunken
best friend; his face is as expressive as Lady Chatterley’s Lover in Braille;
and he walks as though the last emissary for meerkat preservation. He is as off-the-wall as a fallen picture frame, as daft
as a waterproof teabag, and as entertaining as a houseguest named Angina Peppers. John Cleese represents the everyman (just
as G. Coleman acts as ambassador for the little man).
Ostensibly, it is true
that Californian politics would be erroneously awkward, if he were to be elected. Laws involving state obligation to see the
premiere of the latest James Bond film, or notional contributions asked to establish the “Why Eric Idle Ruined Me”
fund would abound, indefinitely, but from a subjective perspective, it seems somewhat worth the final reward. To have John
Cleese—a man best known for his ignorance as to what a Wardolf salad comprised of—as governor. A man who’s
political statements will never be quite as enduring as his “No, you started it. You invaded Poland.” There are recognizable precedents in American politick, there’s
the fact that he’d pull it off with erratic aplomb, there’s the revelation that we’d see both the new and refreshing being campaigned for once, but most of all, it’s just because
the guy’s sixty-five and still as funny as a pants full of ferrets.
get my vote. The man’s been to Camelot, and the crucifixion of Christ. I’m sure the Golden State would be a prance in the park.