Poll: America Fucking with Pollsters

olls conducted by mortal agencies across America are beginning to unravel startling information about polls: They are not always correct, and information is not always given with the most honorable intentions.

This information comes as a shock to pollsters and politicians alike, as some questions have returned information demonstrating the lack of sincerity in responses. A recent Gallup poll on the presidential election found that over 70 percent of respondents described themselves as the head of a their household and reported an annual income of over ten gabillion. According to the latest census information and annual salary figures reported by corporations, determined to be more accurate, less than one percent of the nation actually earns over ten gabillion dollars annually, causing analysts to speculate incorrect information was reported. Backing up this hypothesis is the response to inquiries about the speaker's sex, to which over 97 percent responded "Yes."

Inaccurate polling information leaves some with the feeling that none of the conclusions drawn by polls can be trusted, a disturbing notion for politicians relying on polling information, and an even more troublesome proposition for companies making their money from polling. However, it would explain how polls conducted by different companies can draw different conclusions, such as recent presidential election polls that show the race led by President George W. Bush, candidate John Kerry, or show both tied neck and neck.

"Clearly, someone is fucking with us," said Gallup poll analyst Stephen Herschel. "I guess they think it's funny."

The quandary brings up questions about the similar circumstances of the 2000 election, when Al Gore won a much larger number of votes than predicted in some earlier polls, and less than accorded him by others. Exit polls in Florida also played a significant role in decisions by major news networks to predict Gore the winner of the state, key in the 2000 presidential election, even though the frail polls failed to predict the battle for the state ahead. Herschel, a longtime developer of polling questions for political campaigns, paints a bleak picture of an election with untrustworthy polls.

"A lot of Americans like to vote for the guy who is going to win," Herschel informs. "If they don't have polls to tell them who is going to win, then there is no way for them to make an informed decision about who to vote for. Then there's the nightmare of actually being a candidate running for office and having no polls to rely on. How do you know what to stand for then? How can you reach the voters if you don't have any idea what they want you to say? All you have to fall back on in such a case is personal experience, knowledge of the issues themselves, and leadership qualities. Without polls, you can't preach to the converted."

The concerns about polls beg the question, why in the world would someone not report accurate information to a faceless corporation? Winston-Salem University of North Dakota's Professor Big Jim Dean, of the Department of Psychology, postulates a theory:

"As strange as it seems, we theorize that some people don't realize the value of an accurate poll, or even stranger, could care less about the questions themselves. These people may give inaccurate information on a lark, or to make themselves feel more important than they might by reporting accurately. Others may have their own political agenda, and try to shape the outcome of the poll by giving information that they think will further their own cause, whatever it may be. Alas, these may be the dangers of asking random people their thoughts and feelings on issues. At least, this is the research I've accumulated by talking to my students. And I don't see any reason why they'd make up something like that."

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"There's nothing like a good tornado to put the fear of nature into you. The Hartwig family had their tornado experience back in the early '40s, in the days of us vs. the Germans and Japanese. You'd almost think God was a Nazi, throwing a big heapin' tornado on top of a hardworking American family.

We were doing evening living room things—us kids playing our favorite game, Flapper Smacking—while mom sewed bodybags for the boys overseas and Dad read the paper. Then, Dad looked out the window and raised his eyebrows, the warning to us all like an air raid drill.

The sky outside had turned a frightening Prince-colored purple. It had grown darker and darker by the second, a terrible foreboding like a fat man in a dark suit walking on a miniature Lego city, which I think is hilarious. I'm cracking up just thinking about it. But this storm coming on quick was no laughing matter. It was a peeing-your-pants matter.

'To the underground shelter!' shouted Dad, then ran ahead of us outside to the tornado cellar. We all followed, except Goose, who was getting out his kite and running out to meet the storm like Captain Ahab meeting his whale.

We all climbed inside and Dad barricaded the entrance with wood and nails. We told him it wasn't necessary, but he said tornadoes were sneaky enough to undo mere latches and closed doors. He also said tornadoes were taking all the American jobs and had murdered good Americans at the Alamo.

We survived the tornado, of course, but I spent years carrying confusing stereotypes about Hispanics and tornadoes around, thanks to Dad's lack of education."

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Well, it's official, Alex Rodriguez is now a Yankee and that guy chanting "Hey Gay-Rod!" from the outfield seats will have a Boston accent this year. In a move that many are comparing to the last time Yankees owner George Steinbrenner bought whoever the hell he wanted for his team, a few weeks ago, the Yanks have once again stockpiled enough expensive but boring players to ensure their annual subway stop at the playoffs, and inevitable shitty demise at the hands of some little league team from Scranton, Ohio. Teeth have been gnashed, gripes registered, and the Pittsburgh Pirates have gracefully dropped out of the race during their first spring training workout. Early word that the Brewers have surrendered to the French could not be confirmed as of press time.

Regardless, another season will begin, hopes will be dashed, and someone, somewhere, will actually root for the Yankees. This is likely to be the same guy who roots for Microsoft and the Harlem Globetrotters, but we all have our self-esteem issues to contend with.

Meanwhile, Barry Bonds continues to deny taking steroids, despite his personal trainer being caught with enough steroids to grow another Bonds from scratch. But we're all innocent until proven guilty, and Bonds' denial is entirely plausible coming from a mutant so large he could destroy you for suggesting he wasn't born with eyebrow muscles the size of a normal human's thighs. Bonds instead credits his cartoonish physique to workouts so intense they caused his skull to grow into the size and shape of a football helmet and gave him a chest that seats four. Later, the always-ebullient Bonds charmed reporters with a lighthearted display of bat breaking across his chiseled crotch.

Yankee slugger and fellow steroid defendant Jason Giambi showed up for spring training looking like Shaggy from the old Scooby Doo cartoons, claiming that an improved fast-foodless diet and a new commitment to working out over the offseason helped him shed fifty pounds of muscle and the excess Wendy's fat that was making his head look like it belonged on a He-Man doll. Giambi is looking reasonably human now, though he does occasionally answer reporters' questions out of a small mouth he's grown on his back. The news is good for Yankees fans, however. Whatever home-run power that is likely to be lost by the Bronx slugger shedding his second "overcoat" layer of Michelin Man muscles is likely to be made up for by the decreased likelihood that Giambi's knees will fall off mid-season like they did last year, unable to support the massive pile of Manwich stacked atop his puny human skeletal structure.

Another accused performance drug-abuser, the lovely Gary Sheffield of the Yankees, attempted to disprove steroid claims by huffing three ounces of cocaine and beating a reporter senseless with a toilet seat. Though all present were convinced of his claims, it remains to be seen whether Sheffield will be able to charm the sportsgoing public in the same way.

What does it all mean, if anything, in the big picture? Is there any point when fans will turn their backs, refusing to pay out their fickle dollars to watch a bunch of thick-necked science experiments freebasing human Miracle-Gro, trying to slap baseballs into the grandstands with their bare hands? Will there be anyone left in the stands to notice when the Yankees, a baseball team on steroids with a bulging neckline and $200 million payroll, finally acquire the last of the All-Stars? I can't speak for anyone else, but I'll be there, cheering as always. I want to see these guys tear each other apart and eat each other alive when the psychotic part of their drug cycles kick in. We could be talking about some serious Roman times here, plus hot dogs.

And that sure beats the snot out of network TV in my book.

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