Home Dear Polly Dear Polly Mailbag: “Help, My Campaign Slogan Sounds Like a Viagra Ad!”

Dear Polly Mailbag: “Help, My Campaign Slogan Sounds Like a Viagra Ad!”

by Tom Foolery
Meet Polly Tix, the no-nonsense, all-knowing guru of political absurdity. With not one, but three master’s degrees in Political Science, Public Policy, and Interpretive Dance (don’t ask), Polly is the ultimate authority on everything from filibusters to fundraising scandals. A self-proclaimed “Professor Emerita of Capitol Chaos,” she’s spent decades decoding the fine art of dodging questions, spinning stories, and surviving bipartisan potlucks. Whether it’s untangling legislative jargon or dissecting the latest Twitter war between politicians who should really know better, Polly delivers advice with a sharp wit and an even sharper tongue. She’s your go-to for navigating the swamp—with humor, a touch of sass, and an encyclopedic knowledge of every scandal since Watergate. Got a question? Don’t worry, Polly knows her sh*t. And if she doesn’t, she’ll fake it better than a campaign promise.

Dear Polly,
I just announced my candidacy for local office, but my campaign slogan accidentally sounds like a Viagra ad. It’s “Stronger Together and Lasting Longer.” My opponent is already making fun of it on social media. How do I fix this?- Embarrassed in Idaho

Dear Embarrassed,
Oh, “Stronger Together and Lasting Longer”—a bold move, indeed. Unfortunately, you’ve wandered into double-entendre territory, and the internet is a ruthless jungle. Here’s your way out: lean in. Joke about it first before anyone else can. Tweet something like, “Well, at least no one can accuse me of being short on ambition!”

Then pivot immediately. Roll out a new slogan—something safe, like “Committed to Community” or “Building a Better Idaho.” Be sure to plaster it everywhere to drown out the old one. And hey, silver lining: at least people are paying attention to your campaign now. Use that momentum and “go the distance.”- Polly

 

Dear Polly,
I’m a city council member, and I accidentally sent a reply-all email ranting about potholes while referring to one as “Satan’s sinkhole.” Now the press is calling me “The Pothole Prophet.” How do I recover?- Road Rage in Raleigh

Dear Road Rage,
First of all, “Satan’s sinkhole”? Chef’s kiss. You’ve inadvertently coined the most iconic phrase in local government history. Now, here’s your recovery plan: embrace the nickname. Call a press conference where you roll out a “war on potholes” initiative. Title it something like “Filling Satan’s Sinkhole: A Plan to Fix Raleigh’s Roads.”

While you’re at it, start a hashtag campaign—#SinkholeSolutions has a nice ring to it. Your constituents will forget the rant if you focus on action, and who knows? By this time next year, you might have Satan’s sinkhole filled, and your approval ratings topped off.- Polly

Remember, politics isn’t about winning—it’s about making everyone else lose first. – Polly

Dear Polly,
I’m running for school board, and my opponent keeps accusing me of being “anti-kids” because I voted against funding for a bouncy castle at the spring fair. I’m not anti-kids—I just think there are better uses for the budget. How do I defend myself?- Fair and Square in Sacramento

Dear Fair,
Oh, the dreaded “anti-kids” label. It’s the political equivalent of someone calling you the Grinch. Here’s your strategy: remind voters that kids love fun and stability. Say something like, “I want our children to have bouncy castles and books—because education is the ultimate springboard.”

Then, flip the script. Highlight how you’re advocating for “long-term investments” that will benefit children beyond a single day of fun. Bonus points if you show up at the next community event with a giant sack of balloons and a killer balloon animal routine. After all, nobody hates a candidate who makes giraffes out of latex.- Polly

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Tom Foolery, the ingenious mind behind Politicule.com, emerged from a childhood spent dodging the ideological crossfire of political extremes, shaping his satirical brilliance. With one parent addicted to MSNBC and the other to Newsmax, his childhood dinner table felt more like a televised debate than family time. By his teens, he was ghostwriting zingers for politicians and crafting punchlines that stirred Congressional drama and Twitter feuds. A career-ending mishap involving a misread joke and an international incident (don’t ask) sent him wandering the nation, searching for meaning—and a Wi-Fi signal.

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