Papa drank a daiquiri in Key West and it was good. It reminded him of the Plaza de Toros in Pamplona and how the matador waved the maleta at the bull of Miura. The bull was noble, but he charged too often. He snorted when he should have been quiet and he waved his horns around when he should have aimed them straight at the torero’s stomach.
The name of the bull was Gingrich.
The name of the matador was Romney.
There was a banderillero named Santorum and a skinny picador named Ron Paul.
They didn’t sound like Spanish names, but Papa didn’t care. He poured more rum in his daiquiri. You could never have enough, he thought. Sometimes he preferred Myers’s and sometimes he preferred Havana Club. And sometimes he even preferred Maker’s Mark, though he knew that was not rum.
Still, it was good.
He wondered who would win the Florida primary. Papa didn’t like politicians. They didn’t look like Ava Gardener and they couldn’t shoot an elephant. And they told more lies than a movie producer. But sometimes they liked to go deep sea fishing like the one named Hart. So they were not all bad. Just mostly bad.
One of them was the president, but Papa couldn’t remember his name. He was more boring than Francis Macomber. Still, they could help him make some money. Or win one of these iPads. He had never seen one of those, but he heard you could read A Farewell to Arms on it. Or maybe something by John O’Hara, if you could stand that.
Anyway, he was going to enter the contest. He had heard of Nostradamus too, a French geezer who wrote predictions in quatrains. You could say anything you wanted in quatrains. No one could understand you.
But to win the contest you would have to do it in real numbers. This was not good. Well, not necessarily.
But Papa had a plan. He would go to Real Clear Politics and read the latest polls. Papa often went to Real Clear Politics after he had six or seven daiquiris. This time it was clear the matador Romney was ahead of the bull Gingrich. But wasn’t that always so? Well, except for when Manolete got that cornada from the bull of Miura. But that was 1947.
So Papa studied the poll trends and entered the Nostradamus Contest. He thought he could write again if he had that iPad. He wants to tell another story about Mount Kilimanjaro. There is a leopard there. It is frozen. But you know that.
Join Papa and compete in the PJ Nostramadus Contest. Win an iPad and write your version of The Snows of Kilimanjaro — or better. But hurry. Contest closes primary day Tuesday at noon Florida time.