Next time there’s a vote for Mayor, and I am looking for a can-do, speak-it-straight, lay-it-out candidate, I’m voting for Yosemite Sam.
Sam’s my man. No holding back. Shoot first, aim later.
“I’m the meanest, toughest, rip-roarin’est, Edward Everett Horton-est hombre that ever crossed the Rio Grande,” he said during his campaign for mayor (and confusing the Texas river with the Catawba).
Mayor Yosemite Sam.
Yosemite Sam is one of the most explosive and unforgettable characters in the Looney Tunes universe, a pint-sized outlaw with a towering temper and a voice that arrives at full volume.
Created by Friz Freleng and first appearing in 1945, Sam was recognizable by his oversized 10-gallon hat, fiery red mustache that was wider than he was tall, and six-shooters that seemed permanently glued to his hands.
Like all good politicians, Yosemite was always absolutely certain he was right, even as the world collapsed around him.
Like all successful politicians, Yosemite was a study in unchecked ego and impulsiveness.
Like all politicians, Yosemite exhibited a character whose bluster masked a complete inability to adapt.
Perfect for the job. Especially when it concerned dealing with the FEMA dweebs or bringing data and AI centers into the community.
Consider: A coat-and-tie Data Center Dude appears before Mayor Yosemite and council with a polished pitch promising mammoth economic development and riches for the residents.
Before the Dude can get to Slide Number Three in his presentation, Mayor Yosemite lets loose:
“NOW HOLD ON JUST ONE GOLDURN MINUTE,” he shouts in his characteristic aggressive, wild-west delivery.
“I’m elected Mayor of this civilized town, and what do I find? A room full of folks fixin’ to hand over Burke County to a pack of whirrin’, blinkin’, buzzin’ contraptions that eat electricity like a miserable, long-eared, lilly-livered, double-crossin’, mangy rabbit at a carrot convention.”
The dude stops stone cold dead. His mouth opens and closes like a fish.
Yosemite says, “You call it a ‘data center.’ It ain’t nothing but a steel box full of gobbledygook that don’t pay rent, don’t wave hello, and don’t know the difference between Hildebran and the Hi-Ho Hideaway!”
The mayor leans in, eyes blazing. He puts his six-shooter on the council table. “First it’s gonna be data, then it’s gonna be robots and the next thing you know I’M GONNA BE TAKIN’ ORDERS FROM A TOASTER,” he says.
The Data Dude stutters, “Like, wha- wha- what- whatcha wanna know?”
“How much water’s this dagnab fancified rabbit trap gonna drink? Huh?” Yosemite says. “And where’s all that power comin’ from? Huh? And when it’s hummin’ day and night like a swarm of Mexican Murder Hornets, who’s gonna answer for it? YOU?!”
Yosemite slams the council table. The six-shooter bounces.
“SPEAK UP, SON. ‘CAUSE I’M THE MEANEST, TOUGHEST, QUESTION-ASKIN’-EST TAXPAYIN’ CITIZEN IN THIS ROOM, AND I AIN’T ABOUT TO LET SOME FANCY-PANTS, SERVER-STUFFIN’ OUTFIT TURN THIS TOWN INTO A LIGHT-BILL BONFIRE WITHOUT A STRAIGHT ANSWER!”
The place is q-u-i-e-t with a capital Q. Yosemite points dramatically around the chamber, eyeballing everyone, especially staff.
“So, before anybody votes, nods, or signs so much as a napkin, you’re gonna slow this whole operation down, and ol’ Dewey Dataface there is gonna lay out the facts plain and answer every last question from folks who actually LIVE here!”
He steps back, snorts. “Ain’t ya, Dewey Dataface?”
Mayor Yosemite was elected with a landslide because his hair-trigger temper and refusal to pause, or even think for that matter, turn minor inconveniences into full-blown catastrophes, usually engineered by his own overreaction.
Residents witnessing Yosemite’s dismantling of Dewey Dataface remember when the dweeby, big-eared FEMA guy in the flannel shirt and Dockers stood before the council with all manner of charts and graphs and data that was as meaningful to listeners as tariffs on barbecue and beer.
Yosemite had heard enough of The Dweeb and threw his 10-gallon hat at the guy. The Dweeb took that as a dismissal and turned to flee.
“Come back here, you big-eared galoot!” Mayor Sam shouted. The Dweeb froze on the spot.
“I ain’t interested in what might happen three meetings from now. I wanna know what’s happenin’ TODAY,” he says.
Whistles and applause rain down on the mayor.
The cowed town manager tries to deflect discussion to the Consent Agenda, that mysterious bundle of what-the-hell time bombs within every municipal meeting. Yosemite Sam isn’t a fan.
He speaks up. “You mean to tell me you bundled up a whole mess of decisions, tucked ‘em nice and quiet under somethin’ called a ‘consent agenda,’ and expect folks to just tip their hats and ride along?”
He snorts.
“That ain’t consent. That’s camouflage,” he says. “I ain’t your rootin’est, tootin’est gavel-bangin’ Mayor so’s we can approve, stamp, and halfway build sumthin’ before anyone knows what just happened,” he said.
That’s the mayor I’m voting for. At least for the first 10 minutes. Because sometimes you need a man who will slam the table, call the question, and make everybody in the room uncomfortable.
Just not the man who brings the gun.
