DATELINE: Wamsutter
BACKGROUND: Populist zeal has finally provoked the populace to approve a Convention of States in order to rectify all the mistakes and shortcomings in the U.S. Constitution, once and for all
Because of the muscle-flexing of GOP chair Oral Eathorne and the Wyoming Freedom Caucus, coupled with the MAGA street cred of the State of Wyoming in its unwavering support of ex-president Trump, the Wamsutter Convention Center and Monster Truck Arena has been designated as the venue for this historic occasion.
The tarmac at the Wamsutter International Airport is crowded with Gulfstreams, Citations and other ostentatious private jets resting nose to tail. Every available parking space outside the WCCMTA has a Bentley or Beamer squatting there. Network satellite news vans joust for position in the sagebrush.
A tingly sense of anticipation fills the gentle breeze of the Red Desert as We the People gather to chart our course into the future.
THE FIRST DAY: Chairperson Lauren Boebert, attired in a slinky little black dress accented by a popcorn choker, gavels the floor to order for the plenary session.
After the Pledge, a stirring invocation by Kenneth Copeland and a few stoutness exercises, the first ever Convention of States is underway!
Floor Manager Roger Stone exhorts the delegates, “We are gathered here to do one thing and one thing only. The odious Designated Hitter Rule must be swept from our republic, and the only way to do that is to amend our Constitution to require that pitchers step up to the plate, just like everyone else.
The swamp monsters and bottom feeders who make money from this travesty simply will not respect a law or regulation.
Those commies scoff at our laws while drinking white wine with their pinkies extended. We must change our Constitution if we are to fulfill the Founding Fathers’ dream.”
Wild cheers and chants of “Off with their heads” fill the cavernous arena. Stone calms the crowd, and says, “Now, please get together with your breakout sessions to come up with proposals. Remember, one thing only! Nobody wants a runaway convention.”
THE FIRST NIGHT: Kid Rock sings a medley of old Perry Como tunes in the corner of the Desert Bar as the sweat-soaked delegates unwind after an afternoon of grueling policy wonking. They drink crème de menthe frappe’s and Bud Light
But the morning’s kumbaya vibe is nowhere to be felt. Instead, the delegates gather in huddled little groups at separate tables, nodding their heads and grumbling to themselves. A few groups give other groups the stink-eye, answered with middle fingers.
The subtle air of latent hostility is broken only when the busload of pole dancers from Denver shows up, and the delegates reach for their wallets as one.
THE SECOND DAY: Bleary-eyed and hungover delegates wander aimlessly around the arena, refusing to take their seats.
“Point of order”, a delegate from Alabama slurs, “my group wants to add another topic. We want the pejorative term ‘toxic masculinity’ banned from the dictionary and replaced with ‘Benevolent Machismo’ or ‘God Bless John Wayne’.”
“No! Wait, yes!” rejoins a delegate from Idaho. “We also need to tackle the threats posed by purple hair, tattoos and race music! Lets make ‘em unconstitutional.”
“That’s not enough!” This from a delegate who had lost his name tag but sounds like he’s from Texas. “It needs to be written into the Constitution that every birth certificate issued to a newborn is also a concealed carry permit.”
A voice from one corner shouts, “No mask, no vax!”. Another voice screeched “Blood and Soil”. From somewhere else comes, “Hide all nipples!”
Chaos reigns on the convention floor as factions shout and shake their fists at each other. Playing the Star Spangled Banner at full volume in an attempt to calm the throng only increases the pandemonium.
Soon, the arena is a swirling mass of fear, loathing and populist slobber. Security guards are overwhelmed as the crowd jostles and soon breaks down the doors of the arena like Frenchmen storming the Bastille.
Hundreds of frantic delegates spill out into the dust and wind of Wyoming as the first Convention of States comes to an abrupt close. We the People scurry off in every direction like tumbleweeds in a typhoon. Like speedgoats on opening day.
Rod Miller can be reached at: rodsmillerwyo@yahoo.com
