I began my Friday night festivities with this promise to myself: Don’t write until Monday. Well, let me modify that: Don’t BLOG until Monday (there is, you know, the novel still in progress). And I was doing oh-so well until this morning when I opened my advertisement-laden Sunday Times Argus. There it was on the front page, Sue Allen’s tip-top story: “Mayor Wants Death Penalty for Drug Dealers.”
The mayor in question is, of course, Mayor Thomas Lauzon of Barre, the man who has been getting way too much attention here of late. It’s not my fault, either. I honestly feel helpless. Because, quite frankly, Thom Lauzon has become the Energizer Bunny of political idiocy. And I simply can’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
Oops, did I say horse? Really, Thom, I didn’t mean to make fun of the fact that you’re the mayor of Barre, Vermont and the proud owner of a George Steinbrenner-bred horse. Wait, that didn’t come out quite right. It’s not that George Steinbrenner – owner of the New York Yankees – actually made love to the horse that Thom Lauzon’s family now owns but, rather, that he orchestrated the one-time illicit sex act that led to the offspring that Lauzon purchased for a mighty sum.
Oh no, I feel a tangent coming on.
Lauzon, of course, is involved in a worse than Sisyphean battle to make Barre, Vermont what Barre, Vermont will never be: a land where more than one family owns a horse that originated from George Steinbrenner’s horse progeny. But Lauzon’s trying. Worse, he really doesn’t seem to mind what a horse’s ass he makes of himself along the way. Hee-fucking-haw.
Lauzon got my attention late last year when he helped orchestrate a publicity stunt of a drug bust – netting 20-something arrests of people who were apparently so scary and so threatening that the judges have released almost all of them back to – are you ready for this? – the streets of Barre. Thanks, Thom. You putz.
But when you’re an egomaniacal wingnut, it’s not the results that matter. Nope. It’s the publicity. And he’s getting plenty of it.
But wait, I can’t get the illicit sex act between two forced horse partners out of my mind. Because, as you’ll recall, the second act in Lauzon’s great purity drive for very unpure Barre was to enforce a “three-foot rule” between the dancers and patrons of the town’s strip club, Planet Rock. Which makes me snarkily wonder, what if one of the dancers was an offspring of Steinbrenner? I’ll bet Thommy-boy would let that one slide. Especially if he could purchase the result.
Tangent complete. Thanks for playing.
Now, where was I? Oh yes, Lauzon’s an ass. Because right after his tightening of the town titty laws (sorry, couldn’t resist that one), Lauzon spearheaded the passing of a town curfew for teenagers despite being told by a committee appointed to study the proposal that it was – well – stupid. But, hey, puritans rarely let facts get in their way.
And now we’re being told that Lauzon wants the death penalty for drug dealers. Are we all starting to see the pattern here yet? Good. Basically, if you live in Barre and you don’t look like a Lauzon, act like a Lauzon, have offspring that can be traced to a Lauzon (high-priced horses included), don’t have a profession like a Lauzon (he’s an accountant), enjoy watching non-Lauzon tits after a long work week, or have a non-approved Lauzon bedtime, you’re fucked.
Barre, Vermont: Meet, Thomas Lauzon, your little Napoleon.
Lauzon knows he’s being an ass, too. But he’s become so addicted to his royal assdom that he can’t stop himself. You know, almost like the drug addicts who need his help not his vengeance. Just listen to the quote he gave the Times Argus this morning regarding his latest proposal: “I’m sure everyone will distance themselves from me.”
He’s got that right. Now if we could just convince him that we live in a democracy where people who have titles like “mayor” are supposed to LISTEN to those same people – er, make that “everyone” – who opposes him.
In the meantime, I have this simple request for the Mayor: Could you please stop being such a dope so I could go back to pretending there’s nothing at the end of the Barre-Montpelier Road (from my side, at least)? Because, as it stands now, you’re making me want to shove my head in Barre tits, take drugs, stay out later than you think is appropriate and otherwise just continuing to pester your privileged ass.
Come on, Barre, wake up and send this guy packing. Please?
