Enter the well-trodden concept of politics, where trivial arguments and grandiose noises are given a formal light, no matter how small the arena.

I interviewed a few people about the political world they directly engage everyday.

Jane Summerall, 2nd Grade Teacher – Woodrow, IA

“We used to have soda machines in the faculty lounge, and they were netting the school a healthy profit, but Principal Mason had a crush on Amie Rice, the all-organic Music teacher. He then swapped the soda machine out for a manual juicer and a basket of fruit he’s only refilled once. A fucking juicer! He’s probably banging that snooty bitch rotten by now. This school is all politics.

Chelsea Lee, Waitress – Boise, ID

“There’s this old creep I work with named Michael. He says he’s only 30, but he smells like my grandma’s arthritis cream. Anyway, he’s tried to convince me numerous times to flirt with the guy who delivers the beer kegs every week. Michael swears that the delivery guy loves hand jobs, and he’d gladly give the both of us free beer if I “took one for the team.” Well, now that I think about it, I haven’t gotten smashed in a long time, and I’ve never gotten fifteen gallons of PBR for tugging a dude off. He’s slimy, but Michael would be a good politician.”

Janet Hinson – Amarillo, TX

“I worked at Burger King for three years, and everything was going fine until Marcus Busch walked into the kitchen with his shiny Assistant Manager nameplate. Now he’s got me scrubbing the grill and cleaning out the tea dispenser like a damn fool, while he sits back and asks Alicia the cashier if she’d consider wearing a paper crown in the nude. Next time he yells at me for putting too many fries in the Medium carton, I’m going to throw boiling grease on him and stomp on his liquefied dick. I’m tired of the politics at Burger King.”

Indeed.

Because I have no shame, I will share the things that deactivate my intellectual mind and cause me to weep uncontrollably in regret twenty minutes later.

1. Librarians

Defenders of the Dewey Decimal System, these educated vixens know where I can get an unabridged volume on near-sighted mating. The combination of glasses and hot khaki slacks could make anyone forget about the homeless people in the computer lab playing MineSweeper. Ooh, those hushed environs that force me to be quiet as I try to cop an electric feel without a tour group catching me. Yum.

2. Rainbow Socks

Socks are great, sure, since they keep your feet warm and repel dust bunnies. However, when a woman dons a pair of multi-colored moccasins, I lose it and demand physical satisfaction. Essentially, a lady that wears rainbow socks is saying to me that:

- She is cute and fun.

- She enjoys wearing over-sized T-Shirts.

- She’ll laugh in my face as she stabs me with a red-hot knife in my sleep.

Rainbow socks are the best.

3. Skilled Nurses

Nurses are attractive, sure, but I don’t really feel a primal surge whenever I see one merely standing before me with a fresh syringe and Red Cross cap. She has to be doing something, a trained art, an ability that takes years to master.

She has to be performing surgery.

Not just wimpy collarbone stuff, either. I want her with a surgical mask, in bloody scrubs, shouting at her co-workers over a calloused liver. God, just thinking about it almost prevents me from typing. Oh, and when she accidentally gets a scalpel stuck in someone’s larnyx…she had better stay away from me if she wants to be able to walk tomorrow.

You leaked an aura like a nuclear silo. Despite your best efforts, you still glowed through your neutral color blouse, your neutral color shoes, and your neutral color skirt. If there was a customizable feature on your person, you dulled it down to an earnest precision. I know why you dress like that. I can see it in the way you try to cloak your stride. You don’t want anyone to know how wicked you can be. How utterly delicious you are after-hours. On the clock, however, you’re a moneychanger. Working in the temple, merely trying to make a living. You prefer it that way.

The ring on your finger. A diamond band with numerous encrusted jewels. A man somewhere on this planet loves you very much, or at least has the finances to fake it. No one is allowed to see the green bra, or the cherry-scented candlesticks except him. You keep your legs shaved. But you still want others to admire all of your calf exercises. You work them out three times a week. You could crack walnuts between your knees. As you drag that lint roller across the skirt that’s a few inches above company policy, you hope someone is watching you.

I asked you simple questions so you would shuffle over and repair my computer. If you had never fallen in love with your man, would you have shown me around the branch, explained the rudimentary functions of the coffee grinder, and locked me in the vault with your caged appetite? Of course you would have. You’re almost twice my age. You would have ripped me to shreds with a sinister smile. Whisper in my ear again… IRA closeouts, miscellaneous debts. Paralyzed by your legs alone. Gore and fluid splattered over the new state quarters and Visa gift cards. I’d be caught in your lights and merely along for the ride.

But your head never wavered as you fixed my workstation. You scooted back to your desk, and we ignored each other for the remainder of the day. Then I saw your eyes. You were staring, if only for a moment. Waiting for me to screw up. For me to ask a question. To lean over me again. To whisper ever-soft with a twist…lines of credit, final balance totals.

I know you would’ve done it too if it weren’t for your husband getting into a serious car accident and your childish need to go to the hospital. Go on, darling, play your half-hearted role. There’s no lint roller shortage. I’ll savor the tension, and wait my precious little turn.

I spend at least two hours of every day searching for writing jobs, office jobs, and outdoor jobs. In this economic climate even hand jobs are in short supply.

But despite all my exploration, resume edits and cover letters, I can’t find an occupation that would lead a female to find me attractive. I am financially stable but neutral to the point of crying tears of boredom. Being a server at a German novelty restaurant can only earn me so much.

I thought about selling oregano to ignorant middle school kids, but I’d exhaust my customer base faster than a door-to-door art salesman. Therefore, I’d need 10-20 kilos of some dank ass fire. In a month, I’d easily score ten thousand tax-free dollars with my business savvy and ‘hood pedigree.

And I wouldn’t go buy any dumb shit either. I’d keep my spending on the low and set up various laundering efforts, most likely hot dog carts positioned outside of closing nightclubs.

Everything will fall to my plans, unlike my competition, whose careless purchase of a three-titted hooker will lead the cops straight to his door. But it wouldn’t matter if my enemy kept his drug money in a Salvation Army bucket, because I’d snitch him out before he could do the same to me. Call me a snake all you want. I’m not eating prison food.

All the cash I’d score would be a constant middle finger to all the bankers and fraud claim adjusters that denied me financial sustenance. Though I wish I could’ve had sex on my insurance supervisor’s desk, I guess I’ll have to settle for slapping a Japanese cosplayer’s rump in a tub full of green jelly.

But would I use the drugs? Hell no. Winners don’t use drugs. But if you believe winning isn’t everything, then I got some shit for you right here.

Hopefully, somewhere, there lies a tome with my life story written upon its pages. I want the comfort of knowing my life is meant for bigger things.

I like to believe that tiny coincidences are proof of my pre-determined path. The same day I finish a fable about hard-working gophers, I nearly hit a strolling land-beaver with my car. I watch a goose attack a fisherman as I wait to hear back from agents about my own Christmas Goose. I want to take these as signs.

But I hear about awful, awful things happening to innocent people. A woman is trapped in a man’s dungeon for decades, only to die alone after years of continuous rape. Reporters are slowly murdered by religious extremists, with their brutal deaths broadcast on the Internet. Why should it be the victim’s fate to be a victim at all? No good can come of a pedophile’s crimes, no matter the outcome of the butterfly effect. Why would some be spared and some witness to the terrors of existence?

I want to believe someone watches over the human race. I really do.