The blathering idiot and Lydia, his campaign manager for the Pro-Accordion Party, were driving down the road from one stump speech stop to another in his quest for the highest office in the land. It was hard to keep up with the other candidates. He had crossed paths with one of them recently and happened to catch part of what he was saying. What surprised the blathering idiot even more than the other candidates way of speech delivery was the sign on the front of his lectern. Apparently the silent majority stood with this candidate. From the way the candidate was speaking, attacking everyone and everything that wasn’t American and white, he could understand why the “majority” was silent: It couldn’t get in a word edgewise.But what intrigued the blathering idiot was a sign he saw outside a business. One time when he passed, it read: “Adopt Nov. 21.” Another time, it read “Adopt Saturday.” He wondered how you could adopt a day in November or even a day of the week. If so, there was a day he wanted to adopt. So, on the way driving through town because there was not enough money in the campaign war chest to fly to the different places or even travel too far, he pulled into the parking lot, then stepped inside the store. He walked up to the counter and asked, “How do I adopt a day?”
The older woman behind the counter looked up and said, “Is this a joke?”
“I’ve always wanted to adopt Saturdays. All of them, if I could. Ever since I was a kid, it was my favorite day of the week. Wake up late, eat two bowls of my favorite cereal, watch cartoons until my eyes were about to pop, then eat popcorn for lunch, and ride bikes with my friends, pedaling so hard we wanted to throw up. I want to adopt Saturdays.”
“Who don’t adopt Saturdays here,” the woman said.
“But your sign says—”
“That sign is for dogs.”
“You mean dogs can adopt Saturdays, but I can’t?” If so, it really was a dog’s life.
“No. The sign is about adopting dogs.”
“You mean if I adopt a dog, the dog can adopt Saturdays?”
“Get out. Now!”
The blathering idiot hustled out the door and back to the campaign car and climbed inside.
“Are you okay?” Lydia asked.
The blathering idiot sighed. “I wish I was eleven and it was Saturday. Saturdays when you are eleven are the best Saturdays there are.”
He wondered if the silent majority felt that way, too.