Ambition

“Do you have any ambition?” asked my friend the politician.

“No, it’s not within my ambit,” I replied shaking my head.

“Ant bite?” he asked puzzled, “where did it bite you?”

“It’s not within an ant’s ambit,” I said stiffly, “to be able to get away after sucking on my hoard of lollipops.”

“Are you any wiser for being such a miser?” he questioned.

“I’m not a miser, black marketeer or a racketeer,” I protested.

“You mean none of the above,” the politician asked disparagingly, “That means you suck on your big toe to make ends meet.”

“I can see a lollipop end to end,” I replied.

“You mean the end justifies the means?” he asked.

“I believe in happy endings for lollipops,” I said.

“Are you herbivorous?” he asked suspiciously.

“That’s an asinine thing to say,” I protested.

“Are you calling me an ass?” the politician demanded.

“Not if you chew the cud,” I replied.

“Are you calling me a cow?” he asked annoyed.

“Not if you take the bull by the horns,” I said.

“No, I certainly have no ambition to do that,” the politician replied.

“You must steer clear of being ambitious if you have a left-hand drive,” I said earnestly.

“Cows don’t have left-hand drives, they only honk their horns,” he replied.

“And they also give milk,” I said.

“We like milking the milch cows,” he simpered.

“You have a farm?” I asked surprised.

“Several,” he said, “I retire quietly to them when the dung hits the fan.”

“That must be messy,” I said disgustedly, “Why don’t you use an air-conditioner?”

“All my farms are air-conditioned,” he said proudly, “They don’t have fans.”

“Are you thinking of retiring already?” I asked curiously.

“I have a retiring disposition,” he replied with dignity.

“You aren’t snooty then?”

“I will be when they erect a statue in my memory.”

“You want to be turned into a memorial?”I asked astonished.

“That history will tell,” the politician said snobbishly.

“Would you like a fan in your memorial, or will you have it air-conditioned?” I asked humbly.

“That depends on the taxpayers,” he replied.

“Won’t they mind?” I asked.

“They don’t mind if I pickle their brains,” he replied smirking.

“Do you proliferate or propagate?” I questioned.

“What has Watergate got to do with it?” he snapped.

“Still waters run deep,” I said philosophically.

“If you go off the deep end, it will be time for your hearse and wreaths,” the politician said affably.

“What if I take a deep breath?” I contended.

“You should do that in the early mornings when you touch your toes before breakfasting on buttered toast.”

“Wouldn’t that make me the toast of the town?” I asked uncertainly.

“They would possibly roast your unmentionables, mob fury does not follow the compass,” the politician said.

“I like duck roast,” I said salivating at the thought.

“They could leave you a lame duck,” the politician said ominously.

“Does it matter if a roast duck is lame or not?” I asked.

“They could also maim you,” the politician warned shaking a potbellied finger at me.

“That would be sacrilegious,” I retorted, “I don’t waddle like a duck.”

“You won’t if you don’t wear high heels,” he advised.

“I wear flat heels,” I protested.

“I don’t like sanctimonious humbugs or any bug for that matter,” he said poking me in the ribs.

“What about the Praying Mantis? “I asked.

“Only under the microscope, no scope otherwise to determine whether it is actually praying or not,” the politician said.

“Don’t they have ambition?” I asked, “Why only pray?”

“Prey answers all the ambitions of a cannibal looking for one,” he said nodding his head.

“Are you a cannibal?” I asked anxiously.

“No,” he replied with a frown.

“What do you eat?” I asked suspiciously.

“Only my words,” he said with a burp.

“You must have good digestion power,” I remarked.

“No, it’s the electorate that digests all, except when the manure hits the air conditioner,” he replied with a smirk.

“Then what do they do?” I asked surprised.

“They call the cows home and that is bad for my Swiss accounts,” he said shaking his head sadly.

“Do they whistle for the cows or play the French Horn at dusk?” I asked.

“Only the French use the horn when they are driving on the wrong side of the road,” he said informatively.

“What do the English do?”

“They go about with a French dictionary asking for directions,” the politician said.

“Isn’t it good to be bi-lingual?”

“Yes, but you could get the bi-polar disease from driving on the wrong side of the road,” the politician replied.

“Have you been abroad?” I asked timidly, “to have so much knowledge of mob psychology, compasses …”

“And I learned exchange rates,” he said interrupting me, “after stowing away to most countries by sea and air.”

“Were you ever caught?” I asked amazed.

“Once I had to peel bananas and skin watermelons for the rest of the voyage after getting caught flying a kite in the engine room of an ocean liner,” he moaned.

“They did not clap you in irons?” I asked.

“They thought of the iron maiden, but they did not have her onboard as a passenger,” the politician said relieved.

“What about maids, they would have had dozens on board?” I questioned.

“All Made in China,” he said regretfully.

“But you like Chinese food,” I pointed out.

“But not in China,” he said, “it gives me gas.”

“But I thought gas was the strength of all politicians,” I replied.

“That’s true, but it is reserved for the masses,” he grinned.

“You gas the mass?”

“On a massive scale, especially before elections,” the politician said.

“When do you approach critical mass?” I asked.

“When I prick the rival’s gas balloon with a pitchfork I borrow from his gardener,” he said smiling.

“Wouldn’t the gardener be on borrowed time if the rival finds out?”

“Not likely, I inducted him into my party and asked his wife out to lunch,” he said cleverly.

“What are the odds that your wife won’t find out?” I asked.

“Not unless you text her sordid details,” he glared.

“I don’t have a flair for it,” I confessed, “but I could always send her a postcard.”

“You will do nothing of the sort, not even send a birthday card with a ‘wish you were here’ in the postscript!” the politician thundered.

“What about an email?” I persisted.

“Then I will personally mail your bottom half to an unheated igloo in Greenland,” he barked.

“That would be an ambitious project,” I said amazed.

“Ambition is putting a step ladder against the sky,” he said pompously.

“What will you do there?” I asked wonderingly.

“Prick the balloons of my rivals that escaped my notice,” he said happily.

“What’s the escape velocity of the balloons?” I asked awed.

“25, 020 miles per hour if the balloons have left-hand drive rockets,” the politician said knowingly.

“You could use gas, “I suggested, “it would be cheaper.”

“No,” he said shaking his head, “that would not do because the masses will go hungry.”

“You could use LPG or solar power to give power to the people,” I said.

“I already tried electric poles, but they are using them for pole vault,” the politician said disgustedly.

“That must be an electrifying experience,” I remarked.

“It could short-circuit my constituency,” he said glumly.

“Why don’t you give them gas and electricity?”

“Political gas is free, but electrifying speeches must be paid for,” he said putting his foot down on my big toe.

“Ow!” I exclaimed in anguish.

“You do believe in throwing your weight around,” I said hopping on one foot.

“Weight? Who said I was fat?” he asked aggressively bringing his beady eyes to the level of my nose.

“Perhaps a nosey parker then?” I asked.

“Parker? I lost my Parker pen, are you holding it to ransom?” he asked glowering.

“I don’t have the ambition to become a kidnapper of pens and babies,” I said stoutly.

“What do you know about babes?” the politician frowned, “You look too much like a simpleton on a barge pole on the chimpanzee's cage in the zoo at midnight.”

“Don’t bray so voraciously,” I warned, “or else you will turn hoarse and have to apply a band-aid on your throat,” I said warningly.

“I wear the band-aid as a badge of honor for my Swizz bank accounts,” he said.

“Do the income tax officials know about it?”

He shrugged. “The bank accounts are hidden in plain sight!”

“You hide them on planes too!”

“Not planes you fool, plains like hills and valleys and other geographical features,” he said, “did you always fail in Geography in school?”

“Never, I tried once and the teacher told me sweetly not to make a pass at her at such a tender age,” I said proudly.

“You had an ambitious teacher?”

“I never bit her,” I said scandalized.

“Maybe in the leg when you didn’t do your homework,” he said hopefully.

“I was never ambitious in chasing skirts,” I protested.

“When did you learn to chase them?” he asked interestedly.

“When the birds and bees told me to,” I confessed.

“You have fine ambition! You should run for the mayor’s post, or the electric post, the lamp post, or the post as in postage, and play the last post on a trombone in your underwear!” He said slapping me on the back and hurried off to his next election meeting.