Stefan as undercover Republican

My attention was abruptly called away from the ceiling tile I was lobbing sharpened pencils into by a shout from my editor.

“Stefan, quit destroying Indiana Daily Student property, and listen up. We’ve been getting complaints about the liberal biases of some of the columnists. We need you to go undercover as a Republican and write a sympathetically conservative column. Sort of like if ‘21 Jump Street’ was political and didn’t read as if it were penned by chimpanzees.”

Not sure how to begin, I tentatively announced, “Screw gay people,” in my best Rick Santorum impersonation. My editor shook his head.

“No good. Only the political science majors remember Larry Craig. Work on it.” And so began my brief time as a Republican.

Eager to begin my new assignment, I asked the first anthropology major I encountered where I could find a reasonably representative sample of the general public.

He graciously pointed me toward the nearest bar, before thanking me for my spare change. I nodded gratefully. Twenty minutes as a Republican and I was already feeling the urge to drink myself into oblivion, at least more acutely than usual.

The first prospect was a young woman, sitting alone at the bar. I sauntered up and poured on all of my newfound Republican charm.

“Hey, babe,” I said. “I would love to get my hands on that uterus.”

Following her enraged and horrified expression, I frantically began to explain. “No, it’s cool. I mean metaphorically. You know, your right to choose contraceptives and abortions, that sort of thing. Nothing weird.”

My first thought after I regained consciousness was that I was reasonably sure that I’d been ejected more violently from other bars, although I was hard pressed to remember when. I’ll be damned if I know how Newt Gingrich had two affairs.

I suspected that this would have worked in D.C., having been reassured by Republican planetoid/love guru Rush Limbaugh that Georgetown University students were absolute sluts.

My second, somewhat belated thought was, “Where was I?” Either I vocalized that, or the nurse standing nearby was psychic.

She patiently explained that I had been committed for evaluation after being found wandering the streets, drunk and bloodied, firing my IDS-issued handgun in the air to punctuate my recitation of the Second Amendment.

This presented something of a problem, seeing as my job as a columnist pays roughly the same as selling scrap metal, and there was little to no chance that drunken rampages were covered under the health insurance I didn’t have.

Fortunately, no one at the hospital seemed to know anything more about health care law than I did, so I was able to bluff my way past the front desk using my winning smile and fake identity.

I hurried off to send my experiences to my editor, before booking a flight to D.C. just in case Limbaugh, against all odds, was for once correct.

­— stefsoko@indiana.edu