Note: Since we are on the road again and don’t feel like writing blog posts, we are now accepting guest posts. The first (in what obviously be a ridiculously long series) is by Kiwi Mike, the very cause of Mike’s win in the senior pic poll. Yes, Kiwi Mike exists. No, he is not a figment of our imagination that Mike has used as a scapegoat for his unlikely win. Enjoy. (If you have something to say, email us your guest post. We only charge US $1,500 for us to post your brilliant prose.)
It was me. I did it. I voted for Mike, and I voted for him a lot. I wanted to do it because he is my friend. But it’s more complicated that that, and I am here to share my story. This is my story.
My name is Mike, but you may know me as Kiwi Mike. That’s because I am a Kiwi, well, not an actual kiwi, but I’m from New Zealand, and that’s what us New Zealanders are called. I mean, you didn’t seriously think I was an actual kiwi? You’ve seen photos of me. I’m way too tall.
My mother calls me Michael, never Mike. Michael was the name she gave me. She gave it to me when I was born, which was lucky. I don’t know how she knew that was my name. I guess it’s a mother thing.
I was born in a small midwest country town famous for its corn. Mom was an artist. She specialised in tractors and was world-renowned for the paper mache John Deere JTR-450. You may have seen it. They have it at the Met. It’s been there since 1982. It’s next to that painting of the soup can.
Dad was in a scooter gang when I was growing up. It was all the rage at the time at the height of the Oil Crisis of ’73. All the motorcycle gangs traded in their big, fuel-hungry bikes for scooters and roamed in big, angry, wasplike packs around the suburban streets. They didn’t do the interstate thing back then because the gas cost too much.
Dad would ride off to their clubhouse…well, they had to downgrade that as well. They had meetings at the local Boy Scout hall in between Scout meetings. They would go down there and plan their next big caper and drink sodas. It was a huge step back from their own clubhouse. They weren’t allowed to drink beer there because the Scoutmaster would tell them off. He’d say, “Hey, that’s our beer…bring your own!” Those Boy Scouts really liked their beer. Dad didn’t want to get on the wrong side of them because they could tie some big knots.
My early years were spent either helping Mom with her art (I was often a model for her) or cruising around on the back of Dad’s scooter causing havoc with him and his gang. I mean, you know how much havoc a man on a scooter with a small toddler strapped to his back can cause. The stares that he would get would cut through a block of butter.
Wait, you don’t want to hear about all of that. That’s got nothing to do with why I voted for Mike. Actually none of it is true. I made it up. Well, everything except for the being Kiwi part. That is totally true.
So why did I vote for Mike? He has answered that already. He knows why I voted for him because I told him why when I told him that it was me that voted for him. I voted for him. Did you know that?
I voted for my friend Mike because he seemed sad that he wasn’t in the top three. I wanted him to win because I liked his photo because he looks so special. I voted for him a lot. I voted for him at work. I voted for him on my laptop. I didn’t vote for him on my iPhone, my other computer, Kylie’s iPad, or anything else. I just voted at work and on my laptop. I did vote so much that my computer told me I couldn’t vote anymore.
I thought I voted about 200 times. I was wrong. I voted about 600 times or thereabouts. I voted a lot. I would come home from work and turn on my laptop and start voting.
I did that for about three days. I wanted to do it for the whole week, but I wasn’t that dedicated. Imagine if I had voted for seven days. That would have been seriously funny. But that is a pipe dream now.
I have no remorse. I did nothing wrong. There were no limits imposed on voting. I believe the exact words were get in and vote for your favourite now. I voted, and my guy won. And deservedly so.
He has got a great name just like me. And a winning personality, also like me. We could be brothers, except for the fact that we only met in Japan. Oh well.
I will answer your questions and comments now. I will not be answering death threats, bags of poo on my doorstep, or any other such silliness.
Good-day…
Around the World in Eighty Liters 