The Elian Conspiracy Theory

As anyone who has heard of that newfangled thing called the "TV" in the last six months knows, the New Big Thing in the news is surrounding America’s illegal sweetheart, Elian Gonzalez. For some reason, however, I feel like I’m the only one who thinks there’s something wrong with giving a kid who floated into Miami on an inner tube the best America has to offer. The kid even got to go to Disney World. When I was 6, the answer I got when I asked to go to Disney World was, "No. It’s a long drive and it’s too damned expensive. Now go do your homework." When I did finally get to go, some kid who didn’t speak English stole some of my quarters at the arcade. But I digress.

The point I’m getting to is that there’s a problem with this whole Elian situation. After all, the last person whom the media referred to by first name was our favorite skilled intern, Monica Lewinsky. These events, along with the mad ramblings of my older brother, have helped me to devise a theory suggesting that politics is really nothing more than a big stage show.

In order to prove my theory, I set out to investigate and capture Little Elian during his stay here in Maryland so I could question him personally. I never got past turning off the Playstation and leaving the dorm, but I’ll tell you what probably would have happened. Contrary to popular thought, the Pentagon is a factory containing several chimps at typewriters, pounding out ideas based on what they read in the current teen magazine. Then, a trained crew of Jerry Springer-watching blue collar workers turn this raw material, containing great lines like "i love bananas," into an exciting plot. The result is a script less plausible than an episode of WWF Smackdown! (Come to think of it, it probably would be a much more exciting country if Vince McMahon and The Rock were in office.)

This series of events is the only sensible explanation for the name Elian Gonzalez. I thought of searching for Elian’s phone number and calling him to verify my suspicions, but quickly reconsidered when I remembered that outgoing calls cost nine cents each. Once again, however, the following is the most likely result had I the motivation. "Elian" is an anagram for "Alien;" I bet those chimps were throwing high-fives when they thought that one up. "Gonzalez" would probably the first Spanish last name one would think of, thanks to a certain cartoon mouse, if not for the fact that is was spelled wrong. Typewriters don’t have spell checkers, after all, and it’s a real hassle to go back and put White-Out over your errors when your opposable thumbs aren’t too well-developed.

As for Elian himself, he is believed to be nothing more than a midget in the same workers’ union as Gary Coleman and Emmanuel Lewis. However, he never attained the 15 minutes of fame of his counterparts until now, as he was stuck as a peon in the dinner theatre at Medieval Times. What, you think that’s a crazy notion? Not half as crazy as believing that a pot-bellied six-year-old kid floated across the shark-infested Gulf of Mexico in an inner tube, my friend. Castro’s just getting ready to retire, sent his notice in to the White House, and the search was on for the Golden Child to play the part.

Next, let us consider the "raid" on the place in Miami where Elian was staying. The media seems to paint this as such an awful move by big, bad Bill Clinton. However, I don’t think this is the message the writers wanted to convey. They’ve given the big guy the skirt-chasing intern-seducing reputation for his whole term, especially with the whole Monica saga last year. He didn’t have a war to win in all his eight years, so they had to give him some chance to go out with everyone loving him. Besides, if you ask me, the "Miami relatives" were asking for it. They disobeyed what Bubba told them to do, so they got a taste of what happens when you screw with America, the best damn country in the world. If these guys were patriotic at all, they’d be parading, not rioting.

I ran this idea by a few of my associates, and one of the responses I received was "You are nuts!" Maybe so, but some of the greatest geniuses of our time were insane, and I was dropped on my head as a kid a lot more times than any of them; I guarantee. If you never hear from me again, it’s probably because I indeed knew a lot more than my GPA reflects, and I’m probably having a friendly chat with Jimmy Hoffa. Whatever happens, don’t let the truth be suppressed! You’d truly be surprised by the stories that trained monkeys can cook up.