N.C. primary season officially spreads its wings today, a grand pageant of democracy that reminds us of our core national values.
Namely, we hate annoyance.
Now that Pennsylvania is behind us, we'll be pestered by all manner of political aspirants. For the next two weeks, they'll materialize on TV, radio, mailers, yard signs and, occasionally, the front porch.
Worst of all, they'll be calling.
Purgatory has a special sulfur chamber on hold for the inventor of the Dial-a-Dummy.
You load in a tape that says something like, "Hi, this is Sally Civic reminding you to vote for me May 6, or the terrorists will win." And then it is unleashed on every telephone in town. At dinnertime.
Little in this world is more annoying than getting called by a machine.
A mechanical lady from Countrywide Loans likes to wake me up Saturday mornings with exciting news about refinancing opportunities. Rest assured that when the time comes to refinance, I won't be calling Countrywide.
Every few months a fax machine calls about 5 a.m. to transmit urgent stock tips. It should be a felony to call anyone at 5 a.m. who is raising teenagers.
Actual humans still occasionally ring, pretending to be benevolent angels. They tell me I've been selected to take a two-day trip to Myrtle Beach to enjoy the splendors of a time-share because I'm such a swell guy. I disabuse them of that notion.
For a while, I toyed with the telehumans for sport. When the guy would call from the almost-legitimate-sounding police charity, I'd tell him I just got out of prison. When the blind man called selling light bulbs, I asked if they worked. He said yes. I asked how he knew.
I quit that after a credit card company called at dinner with fabulous news about raising my debt limit. I told them I was a relative attending the wake -- Mr. Washburn had just been buried. After a good bit of stammering, the solicitor begged off. It was good theater for the kitchen crowd.
But then, a letter addressed to my estate arrived from the credit card company expressing condolences and wanting the balance paid off, pronto.
And letters arrived from rival credit card companies who served me in life also expressing sorrow. Also demanding a check.
Lately, I've been getting Bombay-ed. Dignified-sounding people from India named "Dave" and "Kathy" have been calling with those British accents to tell me I qualify for credit or to remind me about an overdue bill.
It is a wonderful age to live in when a total stranger from the other side of the planet will drop everything to share the valuable benefits of a Citibank card.
But it is also a dangerous age, or so we're told.
You can't get on a plane without inspectors snuffling your shoes, but it's OK to ship my financial information to Calcutta?
I'd feel less annoyed if the calls were coming from Arkansas. At least it would be making jobs for Americans.
There should be a law. Mention it, will you, the next time Sally Civic calls.
IN MY OPINION Mark Washburn
