Morty 101: Politically Inept in a Politically Correct World

Blogger's Note:
Under the gun and under the wire for another magazine submission, this came to me on the day of the greatest snowstorm seen in the NYC tri-state area in years. The timing could not have been better as just days later, our fill-in governor is under pressure to step down. Call me cynical, but I wholehartedly believe that there is no such thing as an honest politician, and that those who come off as good hearted and squeaky clean simply have not been caught yet.

All right, so it’s tough to sit here and think happy springtime thoughts while outside my window the sound of a passing snowplow briefly overwhelms the echoes of multiple shovels scraping pavement. Admittedly, the snow continues to fall as I type, yet by the time this publication winds up in your lucky hands we will have long arrived at that proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. Flowers bloom and short sleeves abound under a tranquil blue sky during this early and unusually warm spring season.
Global warming or wishful thinking?
Now, far be it from me to exercise my right of free speech, but coming off both the coolest summer and coldest winter in recent history, haven’t our elected leaders taken this global warming thing far enough? Even southern Texas and sunny Florida saw record snowfall amounts this year, not to mention the rest of us right here at home. Why, even in an unprecedented display of intelligence, our illustrious mayor and designated school officials opted for snow days on more than one occasion. Yes, using the word intelligence in the same sentence with any type of government official can often be construed as a contradiction in terms.
Or term limits?
I never talk politics. I don’t like talking politics. I am thoroughly independent and hate everyone equally. Maybe I am shamefully naïve, but when did politics become an Olympic sport? Finger pointing has created a whole new level of Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. Does anybody remember “The Name Game,” that annoying old ditty from the 60’s?

“Shirley!
Shirley, Shirley bo Birley Bonana fanna fo Firley
Fee fy mo Mirley, Shirley”

I am unsure how it might be received today, but I can tell you that with some updated lyrics it just might stand a chance.
I call it “The Blame Game” and it goes something like this.

“Democrat!
Demo, Demo, Obama, walked into a problema
Fingers pointing everywhere
Healthcare.


Republican!
Republican, the GOP, who is watching the money?
Economy is still failin’
Palin”

All right, my future as a songwriter remains in question but don’t stop me now, I’m on a roll, which incidentally is something the MTA is not. We have all reached the conclusion that fare hikes will never be enough to keep the trains and buses rolling, yet it doesn’t hurt in keeping the wallets of the fat cats…well, fat.
It’s time to take a little trip, good people. Now, rather than beat an old cliché to death and tell you how things might be in a perfect world, follow me into a comfortable place of naïveté I call “Morty’s World,” a place where hospitals remain open just outside the shadows of newly constructed multi-billion dollar baseball stadiums.
Your tax dollars at work.
The average employee can actually afford to get to work thanks in part to someone we’ll call “Joe, the MTA worker.” An ethical man tired of greed and mismanagement resulting in un-fare hikes and a budget deficit nearly in line with the price tag of the aforementioned mammoth arenas, “Joe” decides to step up to the plate (pun intended). As a lifelong employee in the transportation industry, “Joe” takes a minor pay raise, ascends the corporate ladder and instills a few ideas of his own with the understanding that if they do not work, he will willingly step back down to give someone else the same opportunity he has been afforded.
The view from the top is breathtaking.
“I can almost see my outrageously overpriced two bedroom apartment from here,” he muses, looking around the new office in which he sits, marveling at the very thought that it alone is far larger than the dwelling he calls home. The wheels in his head begin to turn.
“Hmm,” he thinks, his finger tapping upon the fine walnut desk. “Where can we begin to cut costs?”
He removes the Montblanc pen from the gold plated desk caddy, touching it to the fine textured stationery while CNN inexplicably drones from the 60” flat screen plasma affixed to the wall opposite an oversized gaudy abstract.
Meanwhile, The fat cats have been sent away on extended leave for the duration of this historical experiment, yet rather than whisk them off to a five star tropical resort; they are involved in another type of research. Call it a return to roots as they partake in that great American pastime, Spring Break. They fly coach, stay in cheap sordid motels and the only refreshment they can afford comes in the form of cheap domestic swill, most of which is obtained by entering poolside beer chugging contests. Later they will become disorderly. The cops will arrive and they will forever disappear into a third world prison far off the tourist path.
Unfortunately, the spinning wheels of a car in search of pavement underneath the ice has prematurely interrupted my reverie, roughly depositing me back here in the real world left to wonder if the suggestions of our friend “Joe the MTA worker” may possibly have helped to solve the insurmountable while sparing citizens further inconvenience. Someone once told me that writing could be cathartic.
Visualize with me wisps of steam lazily rising from the warm pavement following a fresh springtime rain, a metaphor for my finally recognized need to vent. Having never visited the offices of the MTA, I can only imagine the accommodations of those who sit at the top, but let’s face it. We all share a similar vision don’t we?
Have I brought us a step closer to world peace or at the very least inspired someone to take a practical stance at cutting the MTA deficit without layoffs or raising fares?
Have I accomplished anything beyond a hopeful smile or chuckle?
I doubt it.
But we can dream, can’t we?