Sam Sleepeeai had been in politics for almost sixty years and running for President a couple times a decade, on average, ever since he was thirty-five.  But he’d never gotten very far. 

People couldn’t get excited about him—at least not in the way they got excited about Michael Match…or Jack Stanton…or even Barry Ohgala.  It was a media thing: Nobody mistook him for profound: That was the given.  And except for his gaffs, nothing Sam ever said was able to be reported accurately.  For Sam Sleepeeai rested comfortably in the intermediate zone of the incomprehensible, in the mumbled assurance.  He styled himself in the center—by way of not making sense.  It was a remarkable performance really, and yes, even a little unusual.  Especially when Sam Sleepeeai was nominated once again to run for the office of the President, as the National Party Review Committee’s candidate in 2020. 

No one gave him much of a chance…at first. 

Still…he had a great smile.  He took life in stride.  He’d certainly look good on the backs of bus benches, too.  And even if he wasn’t horribly bright, he was likeable.  That was Michael Match’s weakness in the media’s eyes: He was so unlikeable!  Yuck! was their one-word word for Match.  And so, with Sam Sleepeeai running, there was a choice: You could have action but bad feelings (Match), or you could have a big smile but get nothing done (Sleepeeai).  Even the status quo realized it’d be the economy, stupid in the end.  Nevertheless, the collective NPR must’ve sighed and nodded: “Sam might not win,” one NPR apparatchik said to another, “but he likely won’t hurt us down-ballot.” 

That was the thinking anyhow.  And now that he was older, like so many other retirees, it was just accepted that occasionally Sam’d have trouble speaking, putting his thoughts into a coherent sequence.  But no one—especially no one in the media—wanted to be ageist and harp on that.  So what?  He forgot a word sometimes, or had to pause?  Others would just have to be patient.  Others, who mostly hated Michael Match.  And hated his light so much, they wanted to douse him, extinguish him with anybody else.  Even Sam Sleepeeai. 

So for the first Presidential Debate, in the fall of 2020, Michael Match, his Tang tags wagging in front and in back, figured he’d just tear his NPR opponent up—chew the scraps and spit out the gristle!  This wouldn’t be a debate.  Come on? to coin a phrase.  Not.  And not much of a contest either. 

“Matt, I figure some synapses, the ones connecting his balls to having-the-balls, have snapped in his head.  Or at the very least, they’re only hanging by threads,” the President declared.  “Frankly, I think he had a stroke, but he’s really not that different than he was before—which is maybe why no one says anything.” 

Michael Match mused about Sam Sleepeeai.  And given the diagnosis, it was no surprise that the NPR kept Sleepeeai in his basement—as if he had had a stroke—during as much of the campaign as possible.  Only COVID made such a strategy plausible.  Or possible for that matter.  It was all as relaxed as a pressure cooker could be. 

Thus, by the time the first big Presidential Debate was to set to occur, the NPR’s candidate Sleepeeai hadn’t been seen for months.  The media’s curiosity, and even awe, surrounded his absence.  For this reason alone, the strategy, as it turned out, worked.  Everyone knew what to expect from the fiery Match, but no one was prepared for the extreme suspense of whether Sam Sleepeeai could stay awake. 

He might stick his foot in his mouth?  He might just open his mouth and say nothing?  He might roll up and play possum? Or even fall asleep right there at the podium?  The strategy—of doing nothing—proved brilliant, thwarting the usual jujitsu of my boss.  He’d never had that kind of experience in the boroughs of New York, the experience of having to attack someone who wasn’t moving, who didn’t stand for something, anything ridiculous but strong.  Michael Match hadn’t a clue as to how to defend himself against a dead chicken. 

He had, and still has, many talents, many business skills, but controlling his frustration isn’t one of them.  And fighting rubber chickens who’d bend with every blow was too frustrating to a man who relished punching. 

“You chicken-livered squealing pink blob of nothing, how do you think you’ll be able to stand up to China’s Chi?  I’ll tell you,” he yelled at Sleepeeai from across the spacious stage they stood opposite on.  “You won’t stand any better than you’re standing now,” he chortled with an unusual chirp.  “He’ll roast you on a spit and spin your head so fast that’s what sort of chicken you are, you might actually wake up.  Then he’ll spin you the other way, so you’ll pass out and hand over everything America cherishes.  Sam?  Are you there?  Oh, you’ll be nice, so nice everyone will love you.  Mmmckckck,” he made a smacking noise with his lips pushed together and protruding.  “While they’re stealing from us…again.  Just like it used to be.  Before me!  I’m the greatest!” Michael Match added, as if in imitation of Cassius Clay. 

“C’mon, man.  Just shut up.  It won’t be like that for me.  C’mon, man.” 

“You’re a silhouette, Sam, compared to me, you’re a one-dimensional nothing.  I’m the light.  I’m Match!  You can’t handle what I am, Sam.  Get out while you can.  You better hope you’re not elected.  Or the shock of the job will put you under.  Six feet—darker than your basement.  Call it a day.  It’s not your presidency anyway.  You know that.  I know it.  They all know it.  So why not tell the voters?  ‘I’m not gonna win.’  Just say it.  Come on.  Three words.  Not-gonna-win.  No President-by-Committee for America!  Admit it, Sam, admit it!” 

“You just shut up.  Shut up!”  Sam Sleepeeai had become mad, or at least somewhat agitated.  “There, you see, I can hold my own with you and keep you quiet—” he paused, “if…I just tell you to shut up.  If I yell as loud as you do!  So…up yours!” 

The moderator, FOX’s Bob Bawlis, turned a shade of purple, trying for the first and last time that night to take control, to get some civil courtesy back.  Instead, as he said afterwards, he felt like he’d planned a beautiful baked soufflé only to see it fall flat and ugly at the very moment he took it out of the oven.  Bob Bawlis wasn’t going to cry, but he was far from having a good laugh. 

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he implored the two presidential gladiators—one awake, one asleep, a lion and a lamb. 

“C’mon, man,” Sam Sleepeeai tried to join Bawlis’ song.  “C’mon, man.”  But Match couldn’t hold himself back. 

“What?” he screamed at both of them, turning from Bawlis to Sleepeeai and back to Bawlis.  “I thought this was supposed to be the headline heavyweight fight tonight?  But now it’s a tea party?  If we’re speaking truth-to-power, then tell me what you believe, Sam.  Do you believe anything?  Tell me what you would do as President, Sam.  About anything!  Just tell me.” 

“You’ll see, man…when I’m President.  I’ll show everybody then.  But not before!” Sam Sleepeeai added testily.  “You’ll get nothing from me before then.” 

“What a bunch of bull,” Match’s nostrils flared and the flame rose, igniting his hair with the heat of his frustration.  “Why am I even here?” 

The two others on stage both shrugged their shoulders. 

But Michael Match’s flaring howl was to no avail.  Sam Sleepeeai had a plan.  And his metaphor was the basement.  The plan was to play possum.  At that, he did a fabulous job. 

After that first Presidential Debate, the score was Match, 1—just for his aggression…and Sleepeeai, 3—for not getting hurt.  In comparison to his own calm somnambulance, he made Michael Match look uncontrollably ablaze.