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This Week In Weird Twitter, Volume 125

By: Rich Cromwell
10 min read
Charles Edward Miller / Flickr

Pardon me, gentle voters, but ¿Donde está la biblioteca?

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Rich Cromwell
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There was a time before I was a “legitimate” candidate for president. As such, I should probably get ahead of some things. Back when I was just a normal plebeian, I was footloose and fancy free and following the advice of a sage known as Ice Cube. Cube advised us to take another sip of the potion and hit the three-wheel motion. This was advice I took to heart, although I did it creatively. I suppose you could say that even then, I was forward-thinking.

Whereas conventional wisdom said that true three-wheel motion was achieved with a car outfitted with hydraulics, I went for my own form of three-wheel motion. I’m not sure you could say I kept it real, and I wouldn’t either. What I kept it was authentic. In fact, I probably invented the concepts of authenticity and of being an influencer, and this was before the internet and social media existed.

See, what I did was get one of those adult tricycles, but one made like a kid’s tricycle. The little platform on the back was of great import. That little platform is where I took it to the next level. I had permanent three-wheel motion. That’s kind of the thing about tricycles. But I could go to two-wheel motion, and I could do it with style.

All I needed to make it happen‒besides the tricycle, of course‒was a gorilla. With a gorilla sidekick, I could do anything, including popping sick wheelies. There may have also been some hijinks.


Obviously everything we did, hijinks included, was the right decision.


Because the thing was, Ice Cube’s advice wasn’t only about potions and three-wheel motion.


Not that George, as the gorilla was known, was a font of good decisions.


I mean, he couldn’t even pretend to talk, much less do any sign language. He mostly just pointed and grunted.


There were times when it would have behooved us both for that not to be true.


Especially since George couldn’t articulate just how Nixon-esque he was.


Or how utterly awesome I was, I mean am.


A metric ton of grandeur.


Whereas George, well he also had grandeur, if not great taste in music.


But also redeeming qualities.


As well as a keen instinct for survival in any terrain.


There were never any nefarious plans. As to now, probably not?


As proof, allow me to digress.


And pick a pointless fight.


Then retire, regroup, and refresh.


And recalibrate our plans. It’s all about retail politics, going door to door, being persistent.


Being really, really persistent.


But back to my origins, Ice Cube, and the aforementioned libation that goes alongside three, or in me and George’s case two, wheel motion.


If you’re going to have a good day, you have to hit the ground running or maybe floating.


Also, be prepared.


Especially be prepared since the 4th is nigh and I’m keeping it “real.”


Anyway, back again to George and me. We were charming, especially verbally.


And we had goals.


Lofty goals, which we achieved and we can achieve.


Other goals were less lofty, but equally important.


While others still required lofting heavy objects.


Some goals just got shoved to the side because priorities.


Though we didn’t appreciate feedback. We were trailblazing and whatnot.


And keeping it real, and also filled with hate. Rich, delicious hate.


Anyway, gaining followers back in those days was tough. We had to be persistent. (Also, George’s inability to articulate things and just point and grunt tended to scare people off.)


My propensity for jumping on tables wasn’t always appreciated.


But I was never not forward-thinkingly, even when I was discussing taking it back to the beginning.


It’s called “wind-swept” and it’s fabulous.


It was like we were on a vacation. Sure, it was through East St. Louis in a Family Truckster, but it was still a vacation.


Here’s a word, that while excellent, never comes up when it comes to George and me.


Though we always had an escape plan.


And an entrance planned.


Plus some back-up plans.


Always focused on building our network, even if we didn’t realize that George would mysteriously vanish while I mounted an exciting bid for La Casa Blanca. (That’s White House to you gringos.)


Keep in mind that once I take up residence, you’re not welcome.


Maybe my inevitable quest started with this, back when I really connected with the youths.


Especially as I was quiet like a bomb.


Then I developed an ambitious platform and a common enemy upon which to focus.


Plus, my demise promises to be one that will be colorfully described.


Though, I pledge to you, I will not go silent into that good night. No, I’ll vanish at a time which is convenient for me.


Nor will I allow you to go gentle into that good night.


Particularly as I need an alibi.


Do not fret, though, for now is our time. We were born in a crucible, forged in flames, and are prepared for anything. You cannot faze us.


There is a chance that despite my ability to withstand gelatin desserts, I will not emerge victorious. You people, particularly those of you who vote, are a fickle bunch. It doesn’t help that my name isn’t on any ballots or that I somehow didn’t make it over whatever theoretical hurdle there was for the Democratic debates. Regardless, this is on you and your fickleness.

As to my potential allies/current foes, I have a pledge for you. While I am mostly unknown and not registering in any polls that don’t include fractions of zero, I can still be influential if and when I drop out of the race. Remember, I am an influencer. This offer is true even if you would rather decline it. I’m nothing if not giving.

Richard Cromwell is a writer and senior contributor at The Federalist. He lives in Northwest Arkansas with his wife, three daughters, and two crazy dogs. Co-host of the podcast Coffee & Cochon, you can find him on Facebook and Twitter, though you should probably avoid using social media.

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