The Grateful Shirt: Nocturnal Visions of Election Year Surrealism, or No Laundry Before Bedtime, a Cautionary Tale
by Miss Q.

I am the proud owner of a "Make Love, Not War" tee shirt from the Grateful Web. You know the one - with the provocative image of a donkey and an elephant engaged, shall we say, in an intimate act.

I've got to tell you, I love this shirt. When I first got it, I held it out and admired it. Then I hugged it and sniffed it. Yes, I sniffed it. The sense of smell is one of the wonders of mammalian life. Brand-spanking new, the shirt still bore the scent of factory-pressed cotton. The smell of hope, maybe? I took off the shirt I was wearing and put it on. I was ready to share it with the world. Make love, not war. Right on.

Unfortunately, it was already dark outside and I wasn't going anywhere but home that night. Only my family would see me sporting my patriotic new shirt. When I walked in the front door, the garment received the obligatory round of shock and amusement from my family, but that was ultimately unsatisfying. And I had only gotten to wear it for a half an hour or so. I wanted more from my shirt!

And so I stuck it in the rinse cycle with a nice, healthy shot of fabric softener, tossed it in the dryer, and wore it to bed that night. My shirt was soft and comfy, and it didn't take long for me to fall asleep.

When I opened my mind, I was standing outside in a park. And right there, in front of me were a donkey and an elephant, getting busy in public for all to see. Now, I have always thought sex should be a private act, but trust me, if one day you should happen upon a donkey and an elephant doing it in the park, you will find the sight too compelling not to watch. And so I stopped. And stared. Gaped, even. Au voyeur.

A crowd had started to gather. Here and there were some familiar faces from political days, past and present. I recognized folks like Newt Gingrich and Al Gore, mingling with the horde. That partying pair of Toms, Daschle and DeLay. It was quite the eclectic bunch.
In the meantime, things were getting pretty hot and heavy, and I could not tear my eyes away from the spectacle. Which, of course, made me feel a little guilty. It was time for some self analysis. A little guilt never hurt anybody, but it's important to understand where it comes from.
Just then I felt a tug at my ear. I looked down at my left shoulder and saw a strange little person standing there. Was it my conscience? Whoever she was, She looked like the Oracle from the Matrix and sounded like Sigmund Freud. She nodded cordially.

"Allow me to introduce myself. I am your inner psychoanalyst."
"Umm, pleased to meet you," I mumbled. She reminded me of my grandmother. I was so busted, it wasn't even funny.
"Why are you watching these two red-white-and-blue animals get it on? Tell me, Why this is so interesting to you?" Tell me, vy diss iss so interesting to you?
"Ummm, I don't know." I didn't.
"It is maybe because you're shocked at the thought of two different species copulating?" She sounded almost hopeful.
"Nooo, that's not it." It's been done before, I thought uncomfortably, although usually unsuccessfully, right? And only under the most sterile, controlled circumstances -- for instance, in a petrie dish. In a private lab. Away from prying eyes. This, on the other hand, was a public arena. With an ever-growing crowd watching. And cheering.

"Well, what is it then?" The little analyst persisted.
"Uh, maybe it's because the donkey is on top. It looks funny." I lied. In fact, it looked perfectly natural. It looked almost too natural. What was wrong with me?
"Maybe they're taking turns," Oracle Freud suggested. She had hopped over to my right shoulder. "Maybe if we wait long enough, they'll switch."
"I hope not." It came out of my mouth before I had time to stop it.
"And why is that?" And vy iss dot? "Would you not like to see the elephant in the dominant position?" Her curious eyes bored into mine.
"Not really," I answered truthfully. The image of the elephant running the show reminded me that lying is never a good idea. Just then the crowd parted and a huge snowball went rolling by, downhill, of course. It missed the donkey and the elephant by mere inches, but they never noticed a thing. They just kept going at it.

"So let me get this straight." The mini-analyst had hopped back onto my right shoulder. "You're saying that the sight of a donkey and an elephant having it off in a public square only bothers you if the elephant is, er, giving it rather than getting it?"
"That's not what I said at all." I defended myself. I didn't mean to get off track, but somehow, a giant snowball rolling by seemed like a more urgent matter to me than the amorous animal pair. "Did you see that?"
"See what?" My analyst looked around, then shrugged. Somehow, she was back on my left shoulder again. Trying to keep up with her was just about giving me whiplash.
"Anyway," she said cheerfully. "It's likely his trunk would only get in the way." What?

"That's right. Then again," she winked,"maybe this particular pachyderm just might actually do something more imaginative with his trunk." I was all for that. I definitely prescribe to the line of thought that says if you have an extra appendage,it should be used for something other than waving around and spouting off uselessly. At the very least, you might...stick it somewhere. At that precise moment, I spotted Dick Cheney in the crowd. He was waving at me. I pretended not to see him.

"Besides, the position doesn't matter," The little oracle was still talking. She was on my right shoulder again. "The thing that's important here is the fact that they are getting together at all."

Meanwhile, our little tableaux was getting pretty rowdy. The cheering of the crowd had elevated to a virtual roar and the earth shook at regular intervals. Whomp! Whomp! Whomp! Where were we anyway, Jurassic Park? I looked around for a T-Rex, but there was only the donkey and the elephant to blame for the tremors. The crowd had gotten so big, I found myself jumping up and down just to see over their heads. Oddly, this didn't seem to upset the little oracle at all.

"Now, doesn't that just look like all kinds of fun?" she asked, in sugary tones. I noticed that now her voice sounded right, deep and comforting, the way it did in the Matrix. "It's a shame for you to just be standing here, all alone and out of things. Don't you want to get involved?"
"No, I don't want to get involved. I just want to watch!" The minute I said it, I was sorry. The twin lenses of her microscopic eyes zoomed in on me. Alas, the bug pinned under a transparent slide has no room to squirm.

"Don't go reading anything into what I just said," I tried to retract, while regaining my composure. What kind of freak did she think I was, anyway?
"Don't worry, I wasn't reading anything into anything." The psychoanalyst spoke calmly. Back on my right shoulder again, she started puffing on a rather large cigarette. Where it came from, I don't know, but it produced a very pungent, intoxicating smoke. Just then, Bill Clinton walked by, holding his breath. Suddenly, he fell right on his face. He needed to inhale.

The analyst didn't seem to notice. "But you know that old saying," she continued. "If you're not part of the solution, you're just part of the problem. And if you don't stand for something, you'll fall for anything.
"And if that happens, well," -- and here she gave an exaggerated sigh -- "let's just say I don't think you would enjoy being on the receiving end, should that old elephant find himself back on top."
Since I wouldn't allow myself to dwell on the image that particular comment conjured, I tried to change the subject.

"So, ummm, can I ask you something?"
"You sure can, sweetie," she said, puffing on her cigarette. It seemed to be getting bigger. We both watched as gigantic plumes of scented smoke rose and floated over our heads and turned into big, fluffy pastel clouds. Pink, green, yellow, blue. That was kind of nice.
"Of course you do realize, don't you," -- she looked at me pointedly -- "that I can't answer all, or even any, of your questions. I'm only here to help you ask them."
"Actually, you're the one that has been asking all the questions," I pointed out.
"So I have. And so I'll ask another one -- What do you get when you cross an elephant and a donkey?
"You have got to be joking."

"Oh, it's no joke. Although that is a good lead-in line, if I do say so myself." The little psychoanalyst shook her shaggy head, amused by her own wit.
"I asked because I really want you think about it. What do you get when you cross an elephant and a donkey?"
"I don't know, What? A donkephant? An elephonkey?" I was getting hysterical.
"No, smartass. What you get when you cross two separate species, if you manage to cross them at all, is - surprised." The oracle blew out more cloud smoke. The air was becoming thick with it.

"No, sirree, there's no telling what the outcome will be," she drew in on her cigarette. Only now it was a cigar. And the Oracle had morphed into Jiminy Cricket. "No, sirree."
Puff. Puff. "Doesn't matter if it's a lamb and a lion, a wolf and a rooster, or an elephant and a donkey. If you could get the two together in any sort of a civilized fashion at all, you just might come up with something totally unexpected. That's what's so exciting about it." He pointed a finger at me. Do crickets have fingers?

"And that's why you're so interested. You're an optimist. You want to see what could happen, believing all the while that it just might be something wonderful." Deep in my head, I heard the sentimental opening strains of "When You Wish Upon a Star." I suppressed hostile thoughts toward the cricket. I gave him my best fake smile.

Unfazed, Jiminy hopped to the other shoulder. "Entertaining though it may be, watching two animals do the wild thing isn't all that's keeping you here," he said, all wisdom and wonder. "You like to think those two might actually be engaged in healthy social intercourse. You're imagining we might even get meaningful, postive, uncorrupted results. But, at the very least, we will get healthy, explosive RELEASE!"
At that moment, a cacophonic paroxysm of trumpeting and braying erupted.

Looking around, I realized that I had been so caught up in the psychobabble that I had missed the main event. But when I tried to see if anyone seemed satisfied, everyone was gone. The crowd had dispersed, leaving artifacts of the day in their wake. Dismantled weapons lay scattered among baby bottles and scraps of old newspaper. The elephant and the donkey had exited with the audience. The grass was as green as ever. And my funny little bite-sized oracle/cricket/analyst had vanished too -- like a touch-screen vote in a peninsular southern state. I had no way to prove he, she, it had ever been there at all.

Pale pastel clouds wafted above, creating a serene afterglow. A gentle breeze was blowing, carrying the comforting, familiar scent of fabric softener. And beneath that, a different odor, deeper and somehow even more reassuring. My newly aroused animal senses analyzed the components. Factory-fresh cotton, encoded with a delicate layer of transfer ink. The smell of...hope?

I woke up and looked down at my chest. Make love, not war, proclaimed the donkey and the elephant, in all their vivid glory. A dream is a terrible thing to waste, and a shirt is a terrible thing to dream. I turned over and went back to sleep, grateful for my shirt.

Authors note: At the time I had this dream, I was still vacillating on the issue of whether to vote in the presidential election or not, and if so, for whom. I think the dream had a lot to do with that. On a broader level, I think it had a lot to do with the fact that I really am an optimist. Like the creators of that naughty donkey-and-elephant logo, I guess I just can't help hoping that harmonious, satisfying consensual acts will take place between those in the political arena. It can only result in good things for our country.

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