Ray, people will come, Ray. They’ll come to Iowa for reasons they can’t even fathom.
They’ll allow themselves to be photographed eating a corn dog at the state fair, not knowing for sure why they’re doing it. They’ll arrive at your local cafe as nakedly desperate for approval as a debate team captain whose dad never hugged them, longing for your vote. “Of course, we won’t mind if you have a look around,” you’ll say. “This is the most anybody ever pays attention to Iowa unless the Hawkeyes make it to the Final Four.” They’ll declare their love for you and everything you stand for without even thinking about it; for it is money they have and votes they lack.
And they’ll walk out random construction sites, and point authoritatively at various objects on a perfect afternoon, even though they’ve never done manual labor in their lives. They’ll find kinship with Midwesterners convinced that Mexicans are taking over America, as though Mexicans dream of living in a state that smells like pig shit, and they’ll invoke the memories of syphilitic slave owners in defense of their xenophobia. And they’ll run for President, and it’ll be as if they’d dipped themselves in magic waters. The bullshit will be so thick, they’ll have to brush it away from their faces.
Oh, people will come, Ray. People will most definitely come.
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