As it does in per capita meth consumption and incidences of corn cobs being lost up recta, Iowa leads the nation when it comes to choosing the President. Every four years, Iowans participate in a mysterious ritual known as the caucus, which is to the usual balloteering what prostate electrostimulation is to a good ol’ tugger: it arrives at the same location, but via a different and stupidly complicated route. The Japanese had a better chance of figuring out the Code Talkers than the average American citizen does of understanding the mechanisms of the caucus.
Thank God I am so far above average; I shall explain the Iowa caucus to you.
HISTORY
The election of 1840 saw what is known locally as the Battle of Des Moines when the Daily Register mistakenly printed the headline “Tippecanoe OR Tyler, Too.” The citizenry broke into factions almost immediately and began damaging property, or at least they would have had anything been built yet, and several men ended up dead. Ashamed of their actions afterwards, the Iowans made two decisions: 1, to put into place a system that, through its complexity, would limit political passion; and 2, to cheer themselves up by slaughtering a bunch of nearby Indians. They did both, and since then the intricate caucus has been used instead of the simpler “writing a name down and putting it in a box” method used by literally the entire rest of the world.
SCENT NOTES
Jasmine and sandalwood, with a touch of vanilla and overtones of ethanol subsidies.
RIBALDRY FACTOR
HIGH. Caucus sounds an awful lot like “cock,” and so you could do all kinds of naughty placements and inflections; you could triple or even quadruple an entendre involving the word caucus. Use sparingly around teens.
SCRABBLE VALUE
“Caucus” is worth ten points in Scrabble.
CRUDE DRAWING OF GARCIA FIGHTING GODZILLA
PROCESS
Every two years, Iowa splits itself into 1,861 districts, called Plestasies. Each plestasy is ruled by an elder male known as a mundark. The title of mundark can be passed down through blood, or jousted for. The mundark sets a challenge for the child-rearing females of his clan; it is sometimes physical, and other times trivia-based. The champion is referred to as the lorpat. The lorpat and the mundark enter the fields and, through sex magick and butt stuff, summon the Ghost of Orville Redenbacher. He devours the souls of both the lorpat and the mundark, and sends the Scarecrows of Destiny shuffling through the streets howling the date of the caucus.
On the prescribed day, Iowans meet at private homes, public houses, that clearing in the woods where we found all that porn, billiard table factories, museums dedicated to whittlers, the front yard the couple from American Gothic was standing in, mobile zoos*, diners, drive-throughs, the enormous statue of Guy Fieri outside Mason City, walk-in cob-removal clinics, fire stations, police stations (Iowans love the police), an abandoned 1995 Chevy Corsica with a Landau roof, church basements, synagogue attics, an above-ground pool outside a Chili’s that burned down three years ago, and schools.
Each voting citizen is first tried ‘pon the Wheel of Flesh. Those who survive (and who have a valid photo ID) declare for their candidates via the Ritual of Sho’om. (It should be noted that since 1978, the Ritual of Sho’om only includes symbolic genital torture.) When the sun is two hands above the horizon, the yodeling begins. Whomsoever can yodel the highest, loudest, longest, and purtiest is named Boss Caucus, and they set the agenda thereafter.
When Boss Caucus fires the Starting Pistol of Democracy, the participants begin to rotate counter-clockwise around the space. Aligned supporters lock arms and try to prevent rivals from overtaking them; after four laps, the music stops and everyone scrambles for a Freedom Chair. This is the part of the process that sees the most injuries.
When the wounded are cleared, there is dance-fighting.
The Boss Caucus then calls for Realignment, then Rerealignment, then Anterealignment, and then launches into diatribe about just picking a fucking horse and getting on, and then a Reanterealignment, and then the Starting Pistol of Democracy is fired once again and either everyone settles down or various constituencies commence siege warfare. (Since 1976, Iowans have been searched for trebuchets as they enter their caucus location.)
The voters are counted, and the smallest bloc is put back ‘pon the Wheel of Flesh. Remaining participants can then change their positions, stay pat, or punt. Punts are received by Cornula, who is a six-foot ear of corn with arms and legs and all that, and also fangs because it’s a dracula. Very few people choose to punt.
MALARIAL DANGER
None whatsoever. Virtually no chance of mosquitos in February in Iowa.
POST MALONE DANGER
My hand to heaven, Enthusiasts, I wrote the title of this entry before looking it up, but:
Omaha is so close to Iowa that part of it is in Iowa. He could ABSOLUTELY be at at a caucus. Voters should be patted down for both trebuchets and Post Malone.
CONCLUSION
Iowa is a land of corntrasts
*Iowa is the only state in the nation in which it is legal to chuck a couple leopards and a yak into an RV and call it a zoo
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