Newton Figg’s rise to political prominence was something of a head scratcher, even in a country with the most head-scratching electoral process on the globe. From competitive eating champion to Moose Lodge officer, the feisty Figg had parlayed his local legend to become a state senator by the time he was a round and robust forty years old. But it was a YouTube video of his impassioned speech at the Cumberland Battle field that catapulted Newton Figg to stardom.
The pundits considered him too extreme. Besides, no one would take a hot dog hog seriously. But the pundits were wrong, Figg’s popularity rose quicker than his deep fried blood pressure.
From the deep south to Jersey and beyond, Newton Figg and the Bumpkin Party polled and clawed its way to the table next to the leading Democratic and Republican candidates for president of the United States. Simply put, Figg was sopping up the competition.
It was a grass roots miracle. The only hitch was that while Figg was great at county fairs and festivals, he was fidgety and nervous under the lights. On stage, prepping for debates, it was clear Figg needed some fine tuning. First he had to ditch the flannel shirts for a suit. Figg had to shave and tame his back-country gibberish. A consultant was hired. Speech coaches. But still, Figg always got sidetracked, went off topic. And sometimes when he went off topic, he “told it like it was.” Only sometimes, Figg took it too far.
So a plan was hatched. The procedure was a mild. Outpatient. A bug implant would give Figg an edge. He was in and out, blinking in the sun and working his jaw. He’d been two hours without a wad of chew, and was eager to hit the road. The suits back at headquarters ran the test.
There was some slight interference on the way home, but after some tweaking the tooth implant was untraceable and solid. But over the next few weeks, things hummed along. With his new implant and fancy suit, Newton Figg held his own when pestered by the main stream media. Sure, he still clenched when things got hectic, but now he had that comfort in his ear. They found Uncle Jessie’s voice worked best. Colonel Sanders ran a close second.
Then the hackers came along.
It was already a tense night for Figg. He was on CNN, seemingly having his way with that Don Lemon about workplace ethics when Lemon asked what Figg had to say about equal pay. Things went off the rails rather quickly.
Figg cocked his head, squinted and then said, “Well, Don. You now…YOU LOVE MY LADY HUMPS. MY HUMPS MY HUMPS MY HUMP, MY LOVELY LADY HUMPS.”
Later, some viewers would claim to have actually seen Don Lemon spit vodka across the studio. Others said it was mineral water. Either way, Lemon took a full minute to pull himself together before he spoke. “I’m sorry, Senator, were you just singing Fergie?”
Newton Figg’s glazed eyes widened, he felt woozy, like the time on the circuit when he’d entered a habanero bowl contest. “No, what? I mean, shoot, where were we? If these gals weren’t taking maternity leave all the time and then having their…WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH ALL THAT JUNK? ALL THAT JUNK INSIDE MY TRUNK?”
The segment went viral before commercial break. And the host had lost any composure he’d ever claim to possess. He wiped his face, while Senator Figg did something with his tongue in his mouth.
“Folks if you’re just joining us, I’m here with Newton Figg, the current leader in the latest Gallup poll, discussing equal pay for women and apparently…I’m sorry, Newton?”
Figg stood. He ripped off his earpiece. He couldn’t say exactly what was going on with the implant but there was certainly interference. This had the mark of the dems all over it. “I’m done here. This is over.”
“Okay, well, before you go, I’d like to get to the situation in…”
“NO DRAMA, NO NO NO DRAMA. YOU AIN’T MY MAN, BOY, I’M JUST TRYING TO DANCE BOY….AND MOVE MY HUMP BOY.”
Newton Figg dropped out of the race the next day. He had every tooth in his head pulled. He was last seen just outside of Shelby County, where he’d gained upwards of seventy pounds and could be found under a wedge of shade outside Lodge #365, sitting hunched at sagging picnic table, sliding down soggy hot dog buns, seemingly unaffected by the calls of “Hump Boy” from passing motorists.
Scores of The New Bumpkin Party “I DIG FIGG” t-shirts were donated to developing countries. Over time, the Figg candidacy was viewed as a turning point in the annals of history–a near miss but a frightening reminder of just how close the country came to the brink. Later, Don Lemon would maintain that his interview with Newton Figg was inexplicably the most bizarre event he’d been apart of in his professional career.