As a gathering of reporters looked on this morning, Ohio Governor John Kasich was in an abandoned barn, addressing Wisconsin voters.
“Gosh, thanks so much for being here today, guys,” he began, as his arms slowly started to whirl, “instead of covering the fistfight up the street at the Trump event. I understand Katrina Pierson just lost a tooth.”
The entire Fox News team gathered its equipment and left the building. Kasich looked sad.
“Well, anyway, as the son of a mailman, I can’t tell you how great it is to see so many people here who probably still get mail, ha ha.”
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Kasich looked around the barn. The silent crowd looked back.
“Now one of the things I noticed during the first part of the campaign was that there were a lot of people involved. A lot more than I expected–all kinds of people, whites and blacks and Cubans and that one woman and all–not that I noticed, because I don’t mean to say I noticed that woman, because I only notice women voters, because I know how hard it is in America to be a woman, because my dad was a mailman, and I grew up to be one of the most important people in the Reagan administration. We balanced the budget and strengthened defense, and defeated the Soviet Union–just like I did as Governor of Ohio.”
As his arms began to slow, he approached the podium and grew somber. “Just like Jesus would have. Let’s pause for a moment of silence.” Several print reporters grabbed donuts and left while Kasich’s eyes were closed. “I will now take your questions.”
A brunette woman in hiking boots approached the microphone. “Yeah, thanks for being here, Governor Kaskick–”
“Okay, ya. Kaystick.”
“Okay, well, ya. Well, whatever. Anyway, I’m just wondering, because I know that orange guy Trump is ahead or whatever, and Cruz is the other guy that wins, but–and thanks much for the pastries and all–I probably had a few too many–”
The crowd laughed, as did she.
“But, what I really came to find out, Governor is–what are you doing here?”
“Well, thanks for that question. My dad was a mailman–”
“Ya, ya, we know about that. I just, I don’t know why you’re still around. I mean, you have no way–and I mean no way at all–to become the nominee. I mean, that’s true, right?”
Murmurs of agreement could be heard from the crowd.
“Yeah, why are you here?”
“Yeah, the weather here stinks. Why don’t you go back to Ohio? Isn’t it warmer there?”
Kasich laughed. “Oh, well, actually not much right now. But that’s not important. I’m here because, as my mailman dad told me once, ‘John, no matter how stupid the cause, or how impossible the climb…watch out for dogs.’”
The crowd began to get restive. “Hey, I have a dog! Whaddyou got against dogs?”
Kasich laughed again for no apparent reason, as another questioner approached the microphone.
“Governor Kasich, my name is Karen–”
“Hi Karen, good morning.”
“Good morning, Governor. Sir, I work in your office in Columbus? In Ohio?”
“Well, hi Karen, that’s great. What can I do for you?”
“Governor I’ve been sent here by your office, and–well, there’s no easy way to say this, Sir. Some of the people in this room aren’t Wisconsin voters, Sir. They’re from Ohio.”
“Well, that’s great, Karen. How can I–”
“No,Governor, I’m afraid it’s…it’s not great. Governor, this is an intervention.”
Kasich’s goofy grin wavered slightly—but just for a second. “Well, great, Karen. Do you have a question for me?”
Karen began moving slowly toward the Governor, as did about half the assembled “Wisconsin voters”.
“Governor,” she said calmly, quietly, “I’ve been sent to bring you home.”
Kasich moved to the podium and gripped it tightly, causing excruciating feedback.
“Cut the mic!” Karen barked sharply.
A man in the crowd leaped to the sound board and cut everything. The system gave a death squeal, and the room fell silent.
“Now, Governor,” Karen said, “You know how much we love you in Ohio, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Kasich said, “I’m very popular. Everybody in Ohio loves me. Everybody. I’ve been a very successful governor.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Why doesn’t anyone understand that? Why don’t they know?”
Karen reached Kasich and put her arm around him. “We know, Governor. In
Ohio. We know.” Kasich began swaying as Karen began stroking his hair. “Shhh,”she said. “Get the car,” she hissed to a man nearby. He scurried out the door.
“Now, Governor, I know you’ve had a great time running for president, but it’s just not good for you anymore. It’s not good for anybody. You have to come home now.”
“Nooo,” Kasich sobbed softly, “but I’m going to be president. Of all America! I am. Yes, I can!”
“No, Governor,” Karen said, as the door opened again, and two large men in white uniforms headed up the aisle.
“You go with these nice men, Governor,” Karen said. They’re going to take you home. You have bills to sign. And your lawn needs mowing.”
As the men headed back to the door, dragging Kasich, “Karen” pulled out her cell phone.
“Senator?” She turned away from the noise of the “Wisconsin voters” leaving the barn. “It’s done.”