In the game of politics, Double J just rolled a double zero.
Our esteemed commander in chief, who oversees the disease-infested herd of Napoleonic complexes and pseudo-politicians that is UF Student Government, received a political present over a week ago in the form of an old-fashioned police confrontation.
Instead of taking advantage of this gift from the government gods, he pulled an R. Kelly and pissed all over it.
True politicians don’t become great by passing stacks of mind-numbing legislation or twisting syllables in stump speeches. Instead, they write their legacies on the parcel of Ponzi schemes and prostitution stings.
A disorderly conduct charge?
I would expect that out of a girl scout Canadian councilman, not an all-American politician with a million-dollar face and a 20-cent soul.
All it takes to get a disorderly conduct charge is a bottle of Jack Daniels, a creative imagination and an intense hatred for stop signs and bushes that aren’t soaked with urine.
If Jordan Johnson really wanted to catapult his political career beyond Tuesday evenings, he would’ve made the morning of March 20 so bloody that it would make the Old Testament look like “Hop on Pop.”
First off, you can’t just be “well-groomed,” “irrational” and “intoxicated.”
That’s the bare minimum for entering politics. If you’re going to do this right, lose everything, from your sense of reality to control of your own bowels.
Instead of allowing those snippy SNAP drivers to talk that way to you, a few backhands to the face and you’ve got yourself Grand Theft Auto, the real game.
Besides, drunken driving is a 3-D video game after all.
After racking up points in hitting nuns and small children, take a really hard left into Lake Alice.
So maybe you may not get another date with Ms. Rakow, but if a Jacques Cousteau deep-sea plunge worked for Ted Kennedy, it most certainly can work for you.
When you are taken down by a SWAT team right before you put a third snowstorm of blow up your nose, take a page from Mel Gibson’s book and blame everything on a Zionist conspiracy orchestrated by Rafael Yaniz to bring down a career that was built on monotone motions and pointless resolutions.
Worry ye not, our dear leader; after shedding a few tears on Oprah, claiming all your troubles stemmed from that one summer where that “eager” camp-counselor wanted to play tummy-sticks, and kissing a few babies, you’ll be back to soliciting funds to Chinese gambling rings and the Johnson-Charles-Taboada Joint Stock Child Slave Trade Company in no time.
At least after all this fun, people will definitely know who you are.
