The U.S. Presidential Election Has Triggered My Personal Painful Campaign Failures
Help me resolve a little childhood trauma, will ya?
If given a chance to talk about politics online or stare catatonically at a wall for several hours… I’m choosing the wall.
I get it. Politics are important.
I vote in online polls like ‘15 Vegemite Combinations That Should Burn In Hell or Be Eaten Forever… You Decide’, so I’m an engaged citizen. It’s just that talking about politics online is 1% discussion and 99% people yelling at other people for not seeing the world like them (1-point margin of error).
If I seem politically stand-offish, it’s only because a giant, glistening hog haunts my nightmares.
Sorry, let me jump back a little…
I ran for School Captain in the 6th grade
If you didn’t have School Captains (were you educated on the island from Lord of The Flies or something?), you should know that the position is largely meaningless.
There was no pay, responsibilities, or real point. Outside of a small lapel pin, becoming School Captain (or Vice Captain, for the runner-up) meant you had won the popular vote, which meant you were a popular kid, and this seemed a worthy prize.
My mum was my campaign manager (pro bono), and we (*she) collectively decided it would be a good idea to create a poster that got to the heart of my candidacy.
While one of my fellow nominees had posters displaying Pikachu, implying (but not outright stating) that he had been endorsed by Pokemon, mine was more direct. It said:
“Vote Smart. Vote Alex. The Logical Choice”
Looking back, this was a fatal misstep.
Children aren’t known for their logic. You might even say children are exceedingly illogical. Have you attempted to reason with a child? Have you tried diffusing a tantrum in its formative moments? These are not argumentative dialogues built on a Socratic Method foundation.
Despite this, I entered the race with a commitment to stand by my morals and, if elected, to represent the student body with honour, pride and dedication.
Election day ended with final speeches
Waiting in the wings of my primary school’s small, poorly ventilated hall, I listened to my opponents offer their election promises to the cross-legged, captive audience.
“If I win, I will put french fries in the cafeteria.”
Excuse me? Sorry? WHAT THE F*CK DID YOU SAY?
I was young — politically and biologically — but pretty sure we couldn’t change the school menu.
Had we organised a local potato supplier? What were their margins on vegetable oil? Would the rotating roster of parent volunteers work an extra 30+ hours to maintain our new kitchen facilities?
Glancing at my speech, written by Mum— a woman who owned an entire bookshelf of 20th-century political biographies — I wondered if she’d slipped in anything fun about french fries. Nothing potato-related jumped out, so I assumed she’d put them at the end for a big finish.
Back on stage, lies continued spilling like someone had sat on an open tube of toothpaste.
“If I win, I will put soft drinks in the water fountains.”
I was no engineer back then (I’m still not), but I was pretty sure we couldn’t replace water fountains with carbonated beverages.
What are the long-term effects of restricted water intake in children? What does the science say about replacing the expert-recommended daily eight glasses of water with the equivalent of a 2L bottle of Mountain Dew?
I didn’t have all the answers. I was just a kid standing in front of other kids, asking them to vote for me.
I refused to join the chorus of mistruths
Eventually, it was my turn to speak.
Walking on stage in mismatched socks and my favourite Ninja Turtle underwear (like all great statesmen before me), I told the crowd I didn’t have the power to put french fries in the canteen. I admitted that I couldn’t put soft drinks in the water fountains. Instead, I reaffirmed my commitment to be the voice for the voiceless.
Polite applause ushered me off the stage when I was finished, and it didn’t feel like a home run speech if I’m honest. There was a small moment of laughter, but I wasn’t saying anything funny, and my gut says someone probably farted.
Oh, and Mum didn’t add anything about potatoes.
When the results were announced…
I had lost by a landslide which was not ideal.
Some kids only *think* they are unpopular. I had credible data to back it up.
After hearing the results, they (deep state puppet masters) invited me back on stage to receive a basketball—a loser’s gift, I guess. It wasn’t clear then (or now) why this was selected for the unelected.
On one side of the ball was a pig, and on the other was oversized, bright, impossible-to-ignore lettering that said ‘SWEAT HOG’.
Pigs hardly have any sweat glands. That’s why they wallow in mud to cool down. (Knowing nerd facts like that may help explain my crushing loss vs. the cool kids). Since hogs don’t sweat, was I the sweat hog?!
The message was confusing. Again, I don’t have all the answers.
I’m just a man standing in front of a Sweat Hog, asking what the hell it is.
I would have liked to unpack the mystery more, but sadly, I accidentally threw the basketball over a fence and into the neighbour’s canal (who has a canal?), which limited my ability to study it.
Thankfully* (*sadly, again), the memories remain.
I remember feeling super confident before my final speech. Now I’d rather be trampled by a horde of rampaging (sweat)hogs than speak in public.
I don’t know if there’s a link between those, but I don’t have the time, money, or desire to see a therapist and find out.
Looking back, I’m glad I was in the race, even if I was the horse who pulled up lame and had to be shot behind a blue sheet while the TV coverage went to an aerial shot of the racetrack and showed pretty girls in nice dresses.
Somedays, you’re the School Captain. Some days, you’re holding the SWEAT HOG (or are the Sweat Hog, still unsure).
I find meaning in both, and maybe if you can still love and appreciate yourself no matter what your results look like, life becomes easier and more enjoyable.
Food for thought.
As long as that food isn’t a plate of french fries from the school cafeteria.
With love,
New World Porter
P.S. If you enjoyed this post, please leave a Like or Comment with the button below (takes 0.46 seconds) so I can think terribly filthy thoughts about you. 👇
Somewhere out there, there is a Sweat Hog writing about how he once knew a boy. He may publish his story of this boy, and that would be a logical choice.
That pic! Hilarious. And I can’t stop thinking about fanta bubblers lol. Who needs water growing up? :))