Showing posts with label election. Show all posts
Showing posts with label election. Show all posts
October 29, 2008
If It Looks Like A Socialist and Acts Like A Socialist, It's An......
Alaskan governor. Just listen to Keith Olbermann explain how interesting it is that Sarah Palin has been burning down the campaign stump, warning of the evils of community ownership when just a few months ago she bragged of all the wealth distributed through Alaska because they collectively own the resources.
October 06, 2008
I Can See The Cheyenne-Arapaho Nation From My Porch
Hello, it's so nice to finally meet you. I've been a fan for a long time. Do you mind if I call you John? (insert wink)
Great, you can call me Shonda if you'd like. Just go with your gut, I know that's where you really excel anyways.
Well, John, the reason I'm tracking you down today is that I need a job. I mean, with the American consumer going completely freakin' bankrupt and not having the keen foresight of being a corporation so their poor financial decisions could be "bailed out," I fear they'll only be able to scrounge up enough cash for a few beans for their daily meal. Typically a steak dinner is reserved for folks with enough cash to not be, I don't know, homeless, so I'm kinda concerned that the product my husband and I produce, beef, is going to become more of a luxury item for the few rather than the evening meal of the millions. That coupled with $5 a gallon diesel, which makes pulling a profit out of wheat crop easier than Katie Couric wrestling answers out of your girl Sarah, I think this might be the time for me to cut my apron strings and get a job.
But, here's the thing, John, I feel like I am far too qualified and, more importantly, too cool for most the jobs I've been being offered. So, I put on my trust Thinkin' Cap, known by many as shot-gunning a six pack (a little trick I learned from my friend Joe Six Pack. I think he is a common acquaintance of mine and your girl Sarah), and came up with a solution. You see, John, I'm a skilled problem-solver.
As I surfed the world wide web, I learned that the two of the only sectors with positive job growth during the last 8 years of the Homer Simpson Presidency are government and the oil and gas industries. I'm sure you are already aware of that since you supported 90% of that chucklehead's policies and resolutions. In fact, this reassures me of both your and Sarah's competence. God bless you, you saw this shitty economic Hindenburg plummeting toward it's fiery demise and you planted your brilliant butts into job security. Good for you, I say!
Since I'm already living out here in gas-rich Western Oklahoma, I'm sure you'd assume that I was going to pursue a fat paycheck in the oil patch. Well, John, I know lots of folks who work their asses off in that line of work and, to be honest, I just don't really want to have to work that hard. If you ask me, there are only a few activities are acceptable for 5:30 in the morning and drilling ain't on that list. Well, I guess "drilling" is approved, but it is the kind that you don't have to leave your cozy bed to do. I'm just looking for a job that requires a little less, well, work and a little more air conditioning.
I was starting to get a bit discouraged, John, as my quest for the perfect employment was bearing no fruit. Oh, speaking of fruit, does that offer you made for the $50 a hour lettuce-picking gig in Arizona still stand? It's not for me, you know I'm not gonna drag my fat, red-headed ass out in the 110 degree sauna that is Yuma for $50 a hour. But, for that kinda cash, I will totally force my whining offspring to pick that shit all year long. Hell, when they are finished with that, I will make them whip you and I up a nice chicken salad with some ranch dressing, perhaps a few almonds and sun-dried tomatoes. I think child labor builds character. Don't you agree, John?
My brain has always functioned most efficiently after I've cracked open a Bud Light. So, after I listened to that prick who ran Lehman Brothers into the ground whine to Congress about how the value of his Lehman Brothers stock had declined, you know because of his shitty decisions, and how he thinks it is absolutely fair that he gets to keep the $500 million in cash bonuses for his splendid job performance over the last few years, I realized I needed a second beer to really fuel my brain.
That's when it hit me, Joh. I should come to work for you! Like I said before, unless you work in the government or energy, you are probably worried that your job is going to disappear.
So, I googled government jobs. Several caught my eye, but I pushed forward in my quest. I think you will be pleased to know that I'm no quitter, John. When I am committed to task, I do not blink. I am that sure.
And then it happened, the job that I was born to do popped onto my screen. It was like when Derek met Meredith in Joe's bar and he was, like, totally drawn to her. Or like when Sarah Palin saw her first hockey puck.
Are you ready? (Drum roll please)..........
I am formally announcing my candidacy for the Assistant Secretary of the Interior, the one who runs the Bureau of Indian Affairs.
Now, I realize that I won't actually be a "candidate," that you would have to appoint me or something along those lines. I just taught "formally announcing my candidacy" had a more professional ring than "please, John, I'm begging for the job."
I know with your super thorough vetting and interviewing process, you are going to rummage through the entire background of each and every appointment you make in your administration. So, on that note, I have a little confession to make. I kinda, sorta already asked Barack if he would give me the job. I mean, I've always believed that you would storm into Washington on the Straight Talk Express and Put Country First. I just didn't know if you would win. You did, after all, lose the GOP nomination in 2000 to George Bush.
After Barack intereviewed me, I realized you guys were righ. He is a snobby elitist. He gets all self-righteous about qualifications and credentials and I was like, "Dude, you think because you went to Columbia and Harvard and have that sky high IQ are you are sooooo special."
The interview really did happen.....in my highly-evolved, not-at-all bizarre brain. It went something like this here:
ME: So, ummm, Barack, I really need a job and I think this Director of the Indian Affairs title would sound awesome right before my name.
BARACK: Well, Ms. Little...
ME: Please, call me Shonda.....or Assistant Secretary Shonda, whatever you feel comfortable with.
BARACK: Uhhh....okay....Shonda......tell me the education and qualifications who have for this position.
ME: I'm glad you asked, Barack. First of all, I live just outside of Cheyenne, Oklahoma on the Washita River. When I sit out on my porch at night drinking a cold beer while I yell at my kids to stop throwing rocks at one another, I can see the exact location that Custer massacred that sleeping village of Cheyenne women and children. There's a huge monument on the spot and everything. I'm pretty for sure it's part of the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation. So, yeah, I have very close relations with the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation.
BARACK: And you can see it from your porch?
ME: Oh, yes, absolutely! I can see the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation, well at least the part that not one single person lives on, from my house. As someone who can see another nation from her porch, I feel like that also gives me a wealth of foreign policy experience.
BARACK: Shonda, the Bureau of Indian Affairs is the oldest department in the Department of the Interior. The Department of the Interior only handles domestic issues, so foreign policy experience, as you called it, doesn't necessarily qualify you for that post.
ME: Oh, you want domestic experience! Fantastic! I am a domestic goddess, Barack. I can turn any three ingredients into a gourmet meal. I think my sizable ass will speak for that qualification. Would you like to see my credentials?
Three years ago, I started baking my kids' birthday cakes because I just couldn't stomach forking over $40 for a product that cost $3 to make.I've also pioneered a method to prevent lazy women from ironing. I use it daily.
BARACK: Yes, Shonda, frugality is a positive attribute, however, the Department of Interior doesn't really handle baking or ironing.
Do you have any actual experience in matters that the Bureau of Indian Affairs does handle, such as managing the 66 million acres of land held in a trust for the 562 federally recognized American Indian tribes?
ME: I'm glad you asked, Barack. Yes, I do. As you know, my husband and I farm and ranch. After helping my husband move farm equipment, I have sat stranded in a pick-up truck hundreds of times while Rowdy farmed. I normally manage that time by drinking warm beers left in the truck while texting messaging one of my friends about the enormous pile of bullshit I think being left in that sweltering truck is.
BARACK: Are you actually involved in the land management?
ME: Well, I'm not actually "involved" in making any decisions, but sometimes my husband really gets desperate and forces himself to let me plow. I have to tell you, Barack, that is a time I truly enjoy. I feel at one with land as I drive my giant tractor while listening to NPR Radio and narrowly missing fence posts with my plow.
BARACK: (quiet for lengthy period of time. Clearly he does blink) Another responsibility of the Bureau is to provide quality education. Does your background hold any experience in this field?
ME: Hell yes it does, Barack. I spent my late teenage years teaching younger kids how to drink beer. That's where my passion for education was birthed.
Just this week I taught my oldest son to tell his father that he was making him crazy. I also taught my youngest son to whiz off the front porch. Those diapers we are soaking through freakin' dozens at a damn time are bad for the environment, Barack, and like my Indian brothers and sister, I am want sit in a Circle of Harmony and smoke peyote with Mother Earth.
BARACK: Shonda, I think that statement may sound a bit racists to some.
ME: Oh, forgive me, Barack. I know white folks need to be careful when using racially specific words like "brothers and sisters." I apologize.
BARACK: White people have siblings, too, Shonda. That's not what I was referring to. Rather I was offended by the "Mother Earth" and "peyote" comment. It is wildly offensive to suggest that all Native Americans sit in circles smoking drugs to be one with nature.
ME: I just want the Native Americans and Mother Earth to be happy with me, Barack.
BARACK: Are you saying that you consume drugs, Shonda?
ME: Of course not, Barack! I am one of those people lucky enough to have a brain that hears non-existent noises and sees non-existent things all by itself. It's kinda like having a television in your head that no one knows about but you.
BARACK: You know what, Shonda, let's just move on. Providing quality health care to Native Americans is also a mission of the Bureau of Indian Affairs. How does this reflect your personal values?
ME: Well, for starters, Barack, I feel like they should be able to smoke peyote in the case that they develop cancer....or are a Cancer, like the zodiac sign. I feel like the same right should be available to Virgos, Geminis, Libras and any other strange star formation.
BARACK: (shakes head, clearly annoyed for reasons I don't understand): Let me state this more directly. Have you ever worked in health care?
ME: In what sense, Barack?</span>
BARACK: Well, have you ever worked in health care means have you ever been employed with a job that stabilizing and improving the health of other people was one of your tasks?
ME: As you know, Barack, like Sarah Palin, I've turned my uterus into a baby oven. Just as she has explained, being a mother makes you an expert on anything directly or indirectly linked to your children. Have I studied medicine? Well, in a sense, I have, Barack. Almost every time my children cough medicine, I read the label. I mean, if there is a butterfly or some flowers on the medicine's label, I don't read it. I know the FDA would never allow a drug company to place symbols of safety and happiness on a product they know might harm my kids. In those occasions where a butterfly, for example, his fluttering his majestic wings as he sails over a blooming Spring flower, I fearlessly shot that shit down my kids' precious throats.
Also, I have held the Kleenex while my kids have blown their noses on several occasions. I cared for their umbilical cords until they fell over, which likewise gives me experience dealing with amputees.
Oh, and I also breastfed both my sons, which gives me solid credentials in food production and circulation as well as nutrition. Do you think just anyone's milk glands would just aimlessly produce that perfect formula of breast milk immediately following the birth of an offspring, triggered by hormones that all females naturally make after their bodies give birth.
BARACK: (stares blankly at me. I guess he's taken a class on true leadership since he has clearly given up blinking). As one of the most important functions of the Bureau, you would be responsible for promoting economic opportunities for the Native American tribes in the very off chance that everyone else in America, including Dick Cheney and George Bush and Sarah Palin have disappeared and you actually got the job. Do you have any knowledge in positive ways to promote economic development for these tribes?
ME: I'm glad you asked, Barack. I just wish we had more time to talk about this. I'd like to start by saying that the reason my husband unselfishly exposes himself to lung cancer is so that we can help support our Cheyenne and Arapaho neighbors by puffing away on those cheap ass cigarettes they peddle. I've read that you've been known to light up on occasion, so I would like to call for you to also make the patriotic sacrifice of capitalizing on, I mean investing in, the awesome discounts at the Indian Smoke Shops.
Also, here in Oklahoma our Native American friends have the good fortune of being able to profit because of the great future planning of the ancestors. You see, because their great-grandparents had the foresight to generously donate their land in Western Oklahoma to the Land Runs, now they have the opportunity to operate those casinos. Do you know what makes that big-hearted offer of all that land to the white man even kinder? They gave us all the oil underneath it, too, and because of that philanthropy on the part of the Native Americans, my grandparents now get to use their royalty checks to see America from their 50-foot fifth wheel.
So, I would like use the donation of their land and oil and, now, wind energy to my home state (and, indirectly, those lucky bastards whose grandparents and great-parents ran in the Land Run, thus hooking them up with those fat daddy royalties), I would like to help my Native American brothers and sisters. And the first way I'd like to help, Barack, is by finally serving up the booze in their casinos. Seriously, every single time I go in there, I walk around all clear-headed and sober from the utter lack of intoxicants pumping through my blood stream and think to myself, 'Jesus, Shonda, you'd sure be wasting money at much less responsible rate if these Indians would just get you drunk.'
Listen, I've been to Las Vegas on more than one occasion and I can tell you that the key to successfully pillaging your betting customers is by pouring free drinks down their unsuspecting throats through the helping hand of metallic-lipped, ass-shaking waitresses. Now I realize that our Indian friends aren't quite as crafted at disguising a ploy to steal money through fake generosity of their friends, so I would like to execute my patriotic duty and pale face heritage by helping them with this. And, Barack, we must start with alcohol.
BARACK: This has been a very....interesting interview, Shonda. I appreciate your time and interest, however, I don't think you quite have the experience and qualifications to direct the Bureau of Indian Affairs. It's been nice meeting you and I hope you have a pleasant day.
ME: What, you aren't hiring me? Suck it, Snobby Elitist.
So, John, I'm sorry I didn't come to you first. I know you won't make me mull over my qualifications, looking down your super wealthy nose at me. I mean, seriously, not all of us can be raised in a tiny apartment by a struggling single mother on food stamps, studying our already brilliant asses off to earn academic scholarships. I've always favored your wild child path through education. I mean, I think going to a private prep school and then getting into military college with a good word from your 4-star general dad and granddad shows your ability to excel from an early age. Beyond that, it takes a ton of courage to choose freedom over conforming, and by that I mean the balls to tell your powerful parents to suck it, that you'd rather drink beer with strippers and graduate 894 out of 899 rather than oppressively chain your handsome nose to a book. Now if that's not mavericky, I just don't know what is. That is the exact same course I took through school, John .Like you, I always go with my gut instinct. And if that just happened to be skipping school to drink beer all day at the lake, then by God, that's what I did. I think that should tell you what a fantastic job I would do as Assistant Secretary of the Interior, overseeing the Bureau of Indian Affairs.
John, you recognized that Sarah's ability to see Russia from Alaska earned her foreign policy experience. Well, John, I can jump on a four-wheeler and actually be on part of the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation in about two minutes (insert wink). Not that long ago, some of our cattle got through the fence and ended up on their land. I was able to negotiate the top-level talks that got them back onto our land. Well, I sat next to Rowdy while he bullshitted on his cell phone with the super nice dude who runs the deal. But, my instincts and swift actions helped lead to peaceful solution. And by that, I mean that I thanked him for his kind help and then offered him a beer, which he in turn thanked me for and then drank. It was diplomacy at its finest, John.
So, I look forward to working with you next year. For uneducated and unqualified people such as myself, I'm glad to see this period of repression for underachievers has finally come to an end. Sure, occasionally horse trainers have ended up running, I don't know, FEMA, which worked out so positively for hurricane victims. So, perhaps it isn't such a ground-breaking phenomenon. But, when George Bush appointed "Heck of a Job" Brownie to the head post with FEMA, it was cronyism. That's not what you are doing by picking Sarah and now me. Oh no, this maverickism.
Great, you can call me Shonda if you'd like. Just go with your gut, I know that's where you really excel anyways.
Well, John, the reason I'm tracking you down today is that I need a job. I mean, with the American consumer going completely freakin' bankrupt and not having the keen foresight of being a corporation so their poor financial decisions could be "bailed out," I fear they'll only be able to scrounge up enough cash for a few beans for their daily meal. Typically a steak dinner is reserved for folks with enough cash to not be, I don't know, homeless, so I'm kinda concerned that the product my husband and I produce, beef, is going to become more of a luxury item for the few rather than the evening meal of the millions. That coupled with $5 a gallon diesel, which makes pulling a profit out of wheat crop easier than Katie Couric wrestling answers out of your girl Sarah, I think this might be the time for me to cut my apron strings and get a job.
But, here's the thing, John, I feel like I am far too qualified and, more importantly, too cool for most the jobs I've been being offered. So, I put on my trust Thinkin' Cap, known by many as shot-gunning a six pack (a little trick I learned from my friend Joe Six Pack. I think he is a common acquaintance of mine and your girl Sarah), and came up with a solution. You see, John, I'm a skilled problem-solver.
As I surfed the world wide web, I learned that the two of the only sectors with positive job growth during the last 8 years of the Homer Simpson Presidency are government and the oil and gas industries. I'm sure you are already aware of that since you supported 90% of that chucklehead's policies and resolutions. In fact, this reassures me of both your and Sarah's competence. God bless you, you saw this shitty economic Hindenburg plummeting toward it's fiery demise and you planted your brilliant butts into job security. Good for you, I say!
Since I'm already living out here in gas-rich Western Oklahoma, I'm sure you'd assume that I was going to pursue a fat paycheck in the oil patch. Well, John, I know lots of folks who work their asses off in that line of work and, to be honest, I just don't really want to have to work that hard. If you ask me, there are only a few activities are acceptable for 5:30 in the morning and drilling ain't on that list. Well, I guess "drilling" is approved, but it is the kind that you don't have to leave your cozy bed to do. I'm just looking for a job that requires a little less, well, work and a little more air conditioning.
I was starting to get a bit discouraged, John, as my quest for the perfect employment was bearing no fruit. Oh, speaking of fruit, does that offer you made for the $50 a hour lettuce-picking gig in Arizona still stand? It's not for me, you know I'm not gonna drag my fat, red-headed ass out in the 110 degree sauna that is Yuma for $50 a hour. But, for that kinda cash, I will totally force my whining offspring to pick that shit all year long. Hell, when they are finished with that, I will make them whip you and I up a nice chicken salad with some ranch dressing, perhaps a few almonds and sun-dried tomatoes. I think child labor builds character. Don't you agree, John?
My brain has always functioned most efficiently after I've cracked open a Bud Light. So, after I listened to that prick who ran Lehman Brothers into the ground whine to Congress about how the value of his Lehman Brothers stock had declined, you know because of his shitty decisions, and how he thinks it is absolutely fair that he gets to keep the $500 million in cash bonuses for his splendid job performance over the last few years, I realized I needed a second beer to really fuel my brain.
That's when it hit me, Joh. I should come to work for you! Like I said before, unless you work in the government or energy, you are probably worried that your job is going to disappear.
So, I googled government jobs. Several caught my eye, but I pushed forward in my quest. I think you will be pleased to know that I'm no quitter, John. When I am committed to task, I do not blink. I am that sure.
And then it happened, the job that I was born to do popped onto my screen. It was like when Derek met Meredith in Joe's bar and he was, like, totally drawn to her. Or like when Sarah Palin saw her first hockey puck.
Are you ready? (Drum roll please)..........
I am formally announcing my candidacy for the Assistant Secretary of the Interior, the one who runs the Bureau of Indian Affairs.
Now, I realize that I won't actually be a "candidate," that you would have to appoint me or something along those lines. I just taught "formally announcing my candidacy" had a more professional ring than "please, John, I'm begging for the job."
I know with your super thorough vetting and interviewing process, you are going to rummage through the entire background of each and every appointment you make in your administration. So, on that note, I have a little confession to make. I kinda, sorta already asked Barack if he would give me the job. I mean, I've always believed that you would storm into Washington on the Straight Talk Express and Put Country First. I just didn't know if you would win. You did, after all, lose the GOP nomination in 2000 to George Bush.
After Barack intereviewed me, I realized you guys were righ. He is a snobby elitist. He gets all self-righteous about qualifications and credentials and I was like, "Dude, you think because you went to Columbia and Harvard and have that sky high IQ are you are sooooo special."
The interview really did happen.....in my highly-evolved, not-at-all bizarre brain. It went something like this here:
ME: So, ummm, Barack, I really need a job and I think this Director of the Indian Affairs title would sound awesome right before my name.
BARACK: Well, Ms. Little...
ME: Please, call me Shonda.....or Assistant Secretary Shonda, whatever you feel comfortable with.
BARACK: Uhhh....okay....Shonda......tell me the education and qualifications who have for this position.
ME: I'm glad you asked, Barack. First of all, I live just outside of Cheyenne, Oklahoma on the Washita River. When I sit out on my porch at night drinking a cold beer while I yell at my kids to stop throwing rocks at one another, I can see the exact location that Custer massacred that sleeping village of Cheyenne women and children. There's a huge monument on the spot and everything. I'm pretty for sure it's part of the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation. So, yeah, I have very close relations with the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation.
BARACK: And you can see it from your porch?
ME: Oh, yes, absolutely! I can see the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation, well at least the part that not one single person lives on, from my house. As someone who can see another nation from her porch, I feel like that also gives me a wealth of foreign policy experience.
BARACK: Shonda, the Bureau of Indian Affairs is the oldest department in the Department of the Interior. The Department of the Interior only handles domestic issues, so foreign policy experience, as you called it, doesn't necessarily qualify you for that post.
ME: Oh, you want domestic experience! Fantastic! I am a domestic goddess, Barack. I can turn any three ingredients into a gourmet meal. I think my sizable ass will speak for that qualification. Would you like to see my credentials?
Three years ago, I started baking my kids' birthday cakes because I just couldn't stomach forking over $40 for a product that cost $3 to make.I've also pioneered a method to prevent lazy women from ironing. I use it daily.
BARACK: Yes, Shonda, frugality is a positive attribute, however, the Department of Interior doesn't really handle baking or ironing.
Do you have any actual experience in matters that the Bureau of Indian Affairs does handle, such as managing the 66 million acres of land held in a trust for the 562 federally recognized American Indian tribes?
ME: I'm glad you asked, Barack. Yes, I do. As you know, my husband and I farm and ranch. After helping my husband move farm equipment, I have sat stranded in a pick-up truck hundreds of times while Rowdy farmed. I normally manage that time by drinking warm beers left in the truck while texting messaging one of my friends about the enormous pile of bullshit I think being left in that sweltering truck is.
BARACK: Are you actually involved in the land management?
ME: Well, I'm not actually "involved" in making any decisions, but sometimes my husband really gets desperate and forces himself to let me plow. I have to tell you, Barack, that is a time I truly enjoy. I feel at one with land as I drive my giant tractor while listening to NPR Radio and narrowly missing fence posts with my plow.
BARACK: (quiet for lengthy period of time. Clearly he does blink) Another responsibility of the Bureau is to provide quality education. Does your background hold any experience in this field?
ME: Hell yes it does, Barack. I spent my late teenage years teaching younger kids how to drink beer. That's where my passion for education was birthed.
Just this week I taught my oldest son to tell his father that he was making him crazy. I also taught my youngest son to whiz off the front porch. Those diapers we are soaking through freakin' dozens at a damn time are bad for the environment, Barack, and like my Indian brothers and sister, I am want sit in a Circle of Harmony and smoke peyote with Mother Earth.
BARACK: Shonda, I think that statement may sound a bit racists to some.
ME: Oh, forgive me, Barack. I know white folks need to be careful when using racially specific words like "brothers and sisters." I apologize.
BARACK: White people have siblings, too, Shonda. That's not what I was referring to. Rather I was offended by the "Mother Earth" and "peyote" comment. It is wildly offensive to suggest that all Native Americans sit in circles smoking drugs to be one with nature.
ME: I just want the Native Americans and Mother Earth to be happy with me, Barack.
BARACK: Are you saying that you consume drugs, Shonda?
ME: Of course not, Barack! I am one of those people lucky enough to have a brain that hears non-existent noises and sees non-existent things all by itself. It's kinda like having a television in your head that no one knows about but you.
BARACK: You know what, Shonda, let's just move on. Providing quality health care to Native Americans is also a mission of the Bureau of Indian Affairs. How does this reflect your personal values?
ME: Well, for starters, Barack, I feel like they should be able to smoke peyote in the case that they develop cancer....or are a Cancer, like the zodiac sign. I feel like the same right should be available to Virgos, Geminis, Libras and any other strange star formation.
BARACK: (shakes head, clearly annoyed for reasons I don't understand): Let me state this more directly. Have you ever worked in health care?
ME: In what sense, Barack?</span>
BARACK: Well, have you ever worked in health care means have you ever been employed with a job that stabilizing and improving the health of other people was one of your tasks?
ME: As you know, Barack, like Sarah Palin, I've turned my uterus into a baby oven. Just as she has explained, being a mother makes you an expert on anything directly or indirectly linked to your children. Have I studied medicine? Well, in a sense, I have, Barack. Almost every time my children cough medicine, I read the label. I mean, if there is a butterfly or some flowers on the medicine's label, I don't read it. I know the FDA would never allow a drug company to place symbols of safety and happiness on a product they know might harm my kids. In those occasions where a butterfly, for example, his fluttering his majestic wings as he sails over a blooming Spring flower, I fearlessly shot that shit down my kids' precious throats.
Also, I have held the Kleenex while my kids have blown their noses on several occasions. I cared for their umbilical cords until they fell over, which likewise gives me experience dealing with amputees.
Oh, and I also breastfed both my sons, which gives me solid credentials in food production and circulation as well as nutrition. Do you think just anyone's milk glands would just aimlessly produce that perfect formula of breast milk immediately following the birth of an offspring, triggered by hormones that all females naturally make after their bodies give birth.
BARACK: (stares blankly at me. I guess he's taken a class on true leadership since he has clearly given up blinking). As one of the most important functions of the Bureau, you would be responsible for promoting economic opportunities for the Native American tribes in the very off chance that everyone else in America, including Dick Cheney and George Bush and Sarah Palin have disappeared and you actually got the job. Do you have any knowledge in positive ways to promote economic development for these tribes?
ME: I'm glad you asked, Barack. I just wish we had more time to talk about this. I'd like to start by saying that the reason my husband unselfishly exposes himself to lung cancer is so that we can help support our Cheyenne and Arapaho neighbors by puffing away on those cheap ass cigarettes they peddle. I've read that you've been known to light up on occasion, so I would like to call for you to also make the patriotic sacrifice of capitalizing on, I mean investing in, the awesome discounts at the Indian Smoke Shops.
Also, here in Oklahoma our Native American friends have the good fortune of being able to profit because of the great future planning of the ancestors. You see, because their great-grandparents had the foresight to generously donate their land in Western Oklahoma to the Land Runs, now they have the opportunity to operate those casinos. Do you know what makes that big-hearted offer of all that land to the white man even kinder? They gave us all the oil underneath it, too, and because of that philanthropy on the part of the Native Americans, my grandparents now get to use their royalty checks to see America from their 50-foot fifth wheel.
So, I would like use the donation of their land and oil and, now, wind energy to my home state (and, indirectly, those lucky bastards whose grandparents and great-parents ran in the Land Run, thus hooking them up with those fat daddy royalties), I would like to help my Native American brothers and sisters. And the first way I'd like to help, Barack, is by finally serving up the booze in their casinos. Seriously, every single time I go in there, I walk around all clear-headed and sober from the utter lack of intoxicants pumping through my blood stream and think to myself, 'Jesus, Shonda, you'd sure be wasting money at much less responsible rate if these Indians would just get you drunk.'
Listen, I've been to Las Vegas on more than one occasion and I can tell you that the key to successfully pillaging your betting customers is by pouring free drinks down their unsuspecting throats through the helping hand of metallic-lipped, ass-shaking waitresses. Now I realize that our Indian friends aren't quite as crafted at disguising a ploy to steal money through fake generosity of their friends, so I would like to execute my patriotic duty and pale face heritage by helping them with this. And, Barack, we must start with alcohol.
BARACK: This has been a very....interesting interview, Shonda. I appreciate your time and interest, however, I don't think you quite have the experience and qualifications to direct the Bureau of Indian Affairs. It's been nice meeting you and I hope you have a pleasant day.
ME: What, you aren't hiring me? Suck it, Snobby Elitist.
So, John, I'm sorry I didn't come to you first. I know you won't make me mull over my qualifications, looking down your super wealthy nose at me. I mean, seriously, not all of us can be raised in a tiny apartment by a struggling single mother on food stamps, studying our already brilliant asses off to earn academic scholarships. I've always favored your wild child path through education. I mean, I think going to a private prep school and then getting into military college with a good word from your 4-star general dad and granddad shows your ability to excel from an early age. Beyond that, it takes a ton of courage to choose freedom over conforming, and by that I mean the balls to tell your powerful parents to suck it, that you'd rather drink beer with strippers and graduate 894 out of 899 rather than oppressively chain your handsome nose to a book. Now if that's not mavericky, I just don't know what is. That is the exact same course I took through school, John .Like you, I always go with my gut instinct. And if that just happened to be skipping school to drink beer all day at the lake, then by God, that's what I did. I think that should tell you what a fantastic job I would do as Assistant Secretary of the Interior, overseeing the Bureau of Indian Affairs.
John, you recognized that Sarah's ability to see Russia from Alaska earned her foreign policy experience. Well, John, I can jump on a four-wheeler and actually be on part of the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation in about two minutes (insert wink). Not that long ago, some of our cattle got through the fence and ended up on their land. I was able to negotiate the top-level talks that got them back onto our land. Well, I sat next to Rowdy while he bullshitted on his cell phone with the super nice dude who runs the deal. But, my instincts and swift actions helped lead to peaceful solution. And by that, I mean that I thanked him for his kind help and then offered him a beer, which he in turn thanked me for and then drank. It was diplomacy at its finest, John.
So, I look forward to working with you next year. For uneducated and unqualified people such as myself, I'm glad to see this period of repression for underachievers has finally come to an end. Sure, occasionally horse trainers have ended up running, I don't know, FEMA, which worked out so positively for hurricane victims. So, perhaps it isn't such a ground-breaking phenomenon. But, when George Bush appointed "Heck of a Job" Brownie to the head post with FEMA, it was cronyism. That's not what you are doing by picking Sarah and now me. Oh no, this maverickism.
September 16, 2008
September 06, 2008
Confessions of a RNC Guard
Source: Salon.com
Avi Steinberg
ST. PAUL, Minn. -- Gathered in the basement of an office building in a tough section of St. Paul, less than two weeks before the gavel drops downtown at the Republican National Convention, roughly 30 recruits hired by a private security company sit through 12 hours of lectures. I am one of these officers-in-training.
The group is a mix of moonlighting prison guards and cops, infantrymen and Marines between tours of duty in Iraq, immigrants, assorted freelance goons and young career seekers. There is also a crisp-looking airman and an outspoken right-wing ideologue, who never fails to demonstrate his remarkable talent for transforming any conversation, even one about the weather, into a discussion about the Mossad.
The RNC, I am told, is a training ground for these recruits. Those who perform well during the grueling 12-hour shifts before, during and after the convention will be considered for permanent jobs at the security firm.
The instructor is Charles T. Thibodeau, or Chuck, a rotund and self-effacing 65-year-old security consultant bedecked in gold jewelry. Thibodeau leans back, cracks open a can of Rockstar Energy Drink and extols the virtues of non-heroism. He has taken painkillers all week to cope with a recent operation to remove varicose veins and is in something of a confessional mood; having been raised by a town drunk (one of his confessions) he isn't much of a romantic to begin with.
"I'll be the first to admit it," he says, crossing his arms. "I don't fight fair. I fight to win. If you got to take someone out -- sorry, I mean, 'reposition them to the ground' -- you go in with help. Under no circumstances do you go toe-to-toe. You gotta get some beefcake in there. I myself prefer to go in with four to five people. Last thing I want is a level playing field."
"What if you're alone and the guy is coming for you?" asks one of the recruits.
Thibodeau doesn't miss a beat.
"You run."
"I know what some of you tough guys are thinking," says Thibodeau, draining his Rockstar. "But trust me, unless you've got no escape route and are being seriously threatened, and can prove that in court by crying on the stand, you had better retreat. You either run or you cry. Your choice."
A recruit sitting in the back of the room begins to fidget and sink into his chair. He wears a T-shirt in the ubiquitous purple and yellow of Minnesota Vikings football. The shirt reads "What Would Leif Erikson Do?"
Soon enough the recruit answers his own question: Leif Erikson, it turns out, would stand up, wipe his hands on his jeans, mutter "Fuck this" under his breath, slip out the back and not return.
I, however, stay until the bitter end and await my assignment. The following is a log of a night in my life as an RNC security officer. The night shift is 7 p.m. to 7 a.m.
6:20 p.m.
I am assigned to guard the Hyatt Regency in Downtown Minneapolis, the official headquarters of the 2008 Republican National Convention. My uniform is cop classic: a jet black flying-cross patrolman's shirt with epaulets; black slacks (along with black belt and shoes that I had to provide myself); and a shiny golden badge that features a bald eagle, the Liberty Bell and the words "security enforcement officer" on it. I'm also sporting two shoulder patches: an American flag on the left and, on the right, the Doric-columned logo of my employers, surrounded by the words "courage, fortitude, protection."
Enthralled by this dizzyingly patriotic get-up I have neglected to try on the cop slacks ahead of time. This turns out to be a tragic mistake. The pants are tight -- obscenely tight -- at the waist. But duty calls. I squeeze into the pants, wince and look at myself in the mirror. My fears are confirmed: I look like the cop from the Village People. I walk gingerly toward the RNC headquarters downtown, trying, like everyone at the convention, to stick to the script.
6:30 p.m.
I walk downtown on Hennepin Avenue and notice a small crowd taking shape. As a "security enforcement officer," naturally I stop to investigate. The crowd is chanting "Ru-dy! Ru-dy! Ru-dy!" and there, indeed, is Mr. Giuliani, waving and baring his teeth to the delight of all assembled. I ask one among the crowd if he's as big a Giuliani booster as his enthusiastic chanting would seem to indicate.
"Naw, can't stand the guy. Way too liberal."
He returns to chanting. I'm running late, but I have to ask.
"So why are you chanting his name?"
"Have you ever chanted his name?"
I confess that I have not.
"Try it, buddy, it's fun. You'll like it."
So I do, to myself, as I trot toward the RNC headquarters. The guy is right; it does put me in a good mood.
6:40 p.m.
A group of college hipsters are loitering on Nicollett Avenue, near the Hyatt. They are clad typically -- scruff, tight jeans, chucks, ironic T-shirts and bandannas. One of them calls out, "Fuckin' fascist!" I look around for this fascist bastard and realize that he's talking to me. I'm partly relieved -- at least he didn't say, "Hey, look! It's the guy from the Village People."
It's been a tense week in the Twin Cities. A series of rough pre-convention raids on the homes of anti-RNC protesters has left even mild-mannered Minnesotans feeling sour.
At the moment, however, I'm in too much of a rush to point out that my pants are just as tight as any hipster's and my shirt possibly even more ironic. I have time only for some quick role-playing and so I shout back, "Get a job, you brat."
7 p.m.
The RNC headquarters at the Hyatt is a gilded fortress -- this week it's service with a smile and a concealed weapon. I am part of a team of 12 security officers (unarmed) who will patrol every entrance and exit to the hotel, front, back and side, for 24 hours a day during the RNC. Guards are also placed in the emergency stairways. We are told not to let anyone up past the sixth floor. Why? Because that's the order. There is no further discussion.
In addition to my team of black-clad officers, there are hotel security personnel, Minneapolis police, an odd guardsman, state trooper or sheriff's officer, another squad of hired officers (from a different private firm), and members of the FBI, Capitol Police (in suits) and Secret Service (in nicer suits). If you include the Evangelicals, nearly every person at the RNC headquarters has a voice whispering in his ear.
8 p.m.
The voice whispering in my ear belongs to my operations supervisor, Charlie, a good-humored young private detective, who looks like the approachable guy in a boy band, walks like a determined penguin and has a tendency to giggle. He posts me to the front of the building, where I soon witness a heartbreaking exchange. A stocky man in a Hawaiian shirt walks up to a strapping young TV news producer who's milling around with his camera crew. The stocky man says, "Hi, I'm a delegate from Kentucky. Which station you guys from?"
"We're from New York," replies the producer, turning his back on the man.
10 p.m.
The Capitol policemen order pizza; the Secret Service, on the other hand, splurges. A Secret Service agent -- a linebacker with glasses -- walks past me with two big bags of takeout, en route to his undisclosed location upstairs. As he passes, he winks at me and says, "A little sushi action for the fellas."
My partner, who just finished police academy, says, "Man, those guys got style, don't they?"
11 p.m.
I ask an older gentleman -- a delegate from Idaho who seems to go by the name "Doc" -- to open his bag for a security search.
"If you want to be a real cop," he says, "you got to be more forceful. Try again."
I've been standing for four hours in pants that are two sizes too small; I'm developing welts in strange places and rapidly losing patience for what seems to be an endless train of preppy wiseguys.
"Sir, open your bag for me," I say. "Please."
"Good," he says. "Much better."
Midnight
The first wave of delegates, staffers, lobbyists and hangers-on are returning from their parties. I'm still guarding the front door. My first drunk: a guy whose dress shirt is recklessly untucked, his "McCain for America" pin dangling precariously from his lapel. Looking for his credentials, he fumbles around for almost five full minutes.
A car stops in front of the entrance. A man and a woman emerge and exchange a long meaningful hug. They whisper for a bit. Then the woman goes into the hotel and the man steps back into the car and drives away.
"Cheaters," says my new partner, Scott Mendes. "They both got wedding rings."
1:12 a.m.
Two discussions about the war in Iraq suddenly take place.
The first discussion is among a group of young Republicans standing in front of the Hyatt smoking cigars -- party favors from the Giuliani party. The men are all similarly clad in J. Press; some in houndstooth, some in navy blue blazers. The girlfriends, however, wear designer cocktail dresses.
"I'm sick of this chickenshit," says one guy, a sturdy Stanford 2L. "I hear too much apologizing for the war. We should all get behind McCain and stand up proudly and use the 'W' word. We have to tell the voters, 'No, we're not just making gains, we are winning this war.'"
The second conversation takes place between me and Scott, a baby-faced Marine who has served two tours in Iraq (and is expecting to be called up again any day). We're standing 2 feet away from the Republicans. As Scott tells it, his platoon spent almost two years roving around western Iraq doing the bidding of various local tribal bosses, fighting fierce and undefined battles against enemies who had been allies a week earlier.
His take on the war?
"It's bullshit," he says with a shrug. "We got no business there. We get played by all the locals. Guys are dying for nothing. Everyone's losing their minds. It's a disaster."
A new group of Republicans approaches.
"Here come some happy drunks," Scott says to me, smiling.
Three girls in the new group pose for a photo, beaming for the camera. Instead of saying, "Cheese," they surprise us and say, "Facebook!" The image is captured.
Scott opens the door for them, smiles and says, "Good evening," as they stumble in.
2:50 a.m.
At the RNC, the truth-telling starts somewhere around 3 a.m. Delegates who were on-message when they left for their parties at 10 p.m., return too hammered to walk a straight party line.
"How you doing, dude?" one of the drunk delegates says to me as he pulls out a cigarette, almost emptying an entire pocket in the process.
"To tell you the truth," I reply, "my pants are way too tight on the waist. They're killing me."
He gives my pants a glance.
"There's a lot of hot chicks here," he tells me in a failed attempt at a whisper. He reeks of chardonnay. "You cannot spring a woody here, dude. Your pants got no give, know what I mean? It'd be totally obvious. Gov. Palin is staying here -- you gotta be careful. You get what I'm saying? You can't get wood on the job."
"Thanks. I got it," I say.
One of his pals chimes in.
"Gov. Palin is hot, dude," he says, collapsing onto a bench in front of the hotel entrance.
Even in their lusty, alcohol-fueled swoons, these young politicos still call Palin "governor." In a way, this reverential horniness is sort of endearing. But mostly it's just creepy. Sitting on the bench, the young man leans his head back and squeezes his eyes shut, trying, and failing, to stave off vertigo. "Total MILF."
"All right, gentlemen," I say, wielding the word "gentlemen" like a prison guard. "Get out of here. Time to go to sleep."
The right-wing youth resurgence is taking shape here before my eyes and it has a strong erotic undercurrent. For the first time in American politics there is a strong alpha woman with whom mothers identify, and after whom sons lust. The GOP is playing the Oedipal card. And it could mean bloody war, fought house to house.
4:15 a.m.
I'm developing a purely anecdotal theory about Republican drunkenness: that it's related to ideology. The less ideological arrive back at the headquarters earlier in the evening, between midnight and 1 a.m. These are, in chronological order, the Romney and the Giuliani supporters. Both are East Coast, urban college grad, corporate types. They like to drink and reminisce about the Harvard-Yale game, but they also like to wake up early, shave and not smell like booze at committee meetings. The Giuliani people are secular and more openly lecherous. So they tend to drink a bit harder and stay out closer to 1 a.m. The Ron Paul people party past 1 a.m., but not much. And they shave but they don't showboat.
The ones who stay out the latest and come back the drunkest, I notice, are the Huckabee folks, the party's rural conservatives. They believe in Jesus, in the hard-bitten way of the true alcoholic. If they ever sober up, it'll be by the grace of the Lord; and if they intend to stay on the sauce and continue living, then they'll really need His loving kindness. If you intend to be drinking heavily until closing time -- 4 a.m. in the Twin Cities during the RNC -- you had better walk home with Jesus.
I can't place true McCainites on the alcohol-ideology matrix. I think they were all asleep by 9:30 p.m.
5 a.m.
The only people around the RNC headquarters now are security personnel. Cops of all stripes circulate around the hotel, nodding to one another as they pass, keeping watch mostly on their fellow watchmen. Every once in a while, Charlie's voice crackles over the radio, "Wake up!" and my fellow officers oblige by telling lewd jokes over the line to stay awake. The agony of my ill-fitting cop slacks has given way to a mellow numbness.
I am now posted behind the RNC headquarters, at the back exit, which is an outdoor ledge overlooking a park. It's a lonely perch and the night has turned chilly. Fall is definitely in the air. A man in his mid-60s -- who, to my exhausted eyes, looks a bit like John McCain -- suddenly materializes nearby. Given that I'm dead bored and my eyes have begun playing tricks on me, and that I'm manning a post in the dead of night, I can't help thinking of the ghost of King Hamlet, disturbing the night watch just like this gentleman, with "a countenance more in sorrow than in anger."
All the hotels in the area are dark. Thousands of Republicans stir in their beds, dreaming thousands of dreams about Sarah Palin. But Charles Hunter, an environmentalist delegate from New Hampshire and a veteran of Republican conventions going back to the 1980 coronation of Ronald Reagan at Detroit's Joe Louis Arena, can't sleep at all.
"This is my last convention," he tells me, lighting a cigarette.
"Why?"
"I'm a real McCain guy. I served. But I liked the old McCain -- when he was a true hero, before he signed on with the yahoos. I actually believe in 'country first.'"
"Not a fan of Palin?"
"If I were McCain I'd probably bring her onto my ticket, too. That's exactly the problem. I guess I tricked myself into thinking that McCain, even after he watered himself down for the election, could somehow restore sanity. The Democrats tried to paint him as a twin of Bush. Not true. But Palin ... she does remind me of Bush. McCain has made a devil's pact and sealed this party's fate."
Even though he's older, he smokes his cigarette like a young man, with earnest haste, before he flicks it off into the dark.
"That's it," he said, "we're through. Even if we win, we've lost."
Avi Steinberg
ST. PAUL, Minn. -- Gathered in the basement of an office building in a tough section of St. Paul, less than two weeks before the gavel drops downtown at the Republican National Convention, roughly 30 recruits hired by a private security company sit through 12 hours of lectures. I am one of these officers-in-training.
The group is a mix of moonlighting prison guards and cops, infantrymen and Marines between tours of duty in Iraq, immigrants, assorted freelance goons and young career seekers. There is also a crisp-looking airman and an outspoken right-wing ideologue, who never fails to demonstrate his remarkable talent for transforming any conversation, even one about the weather, into a discussion about the Mossad.
The RNC, I am told, is a training ground for these recruits. Those who perform well during the grueling 12-hour shifts before, during and after the convention will be considered for permanent jobs at the security firm.
The instructor is Charles T. Thibodeau, or Chuck, a rotund and self-effacing 65-year-old security consultant bedecked in gold jewelry. Thibodeau leans back, cracks open a can of Rockstar Energy Drink and extols the virtues of non-heroism. He has taken painkillers all week to cope with a recent operation to remove varicose veins and is in something of a confessional mood; having been raised by a town drunk (one of his confessions) he isn't much of a romantic to begin with.
"I'll be the first to admit it," he says, crossing his arms. "I don't fight fair. I fight to win. If you got to take someone out -- sorry, I mean, 'reposition them to the ground' -- you go in with help. Under no circumstances do you go toe-to-toe. You gotta get some beefcake in there. I myself prefer to go in with four to five people. Last thing I want is a level playing field."
"What if you're alone and the guy is coming for you?" asks one of the recruits.
Thibodeau doesn't miss a beat.
"You run."
"I know what some of you tough guys are thinking," says Thibodeau, draining his Rockstar. "But trust me, unless you've got no escape route and are being seriously threatened, and can prove that in court by crying on the stand, you had better retreat. You either run or you cry. Your choice."
A recruit sitting in the back of the room begins to fidget and sink into his chair. He wears a T-shirt in the ubiquitous purple and yellow of Minnesota Vikings football. The shirt reads "What Would Leif Erikson Do?"
Soon enough the recruit answers his own question: Leif Erikson, it turns out, would stand up, wipe his hands on his jeans, mutter "Fuck this" under his breath, slip out the back and not return.
I, however, stay until the bitter end and await my assignment. The following is a log of a night in my life as an RNC security officer. The night shift is 7 p.m. to 7 a.m.
6:20 p.m.
I am assigned to guard the Hyatt Regency in Downtown Minneapolis, the official headquarters of the 2008 Republican National Convention. My uniform is cop classic: a jet black flying-cross patrolman's shirt with epaulets; black slacks (along with black belt and shoes that I had to provide myself); and a shiny golden badge that features a bald eagle, the Liberty Bell and the words "security enforcement officer" on it. I'm also sporting two shoulder patches: an American flag on the left and, on the right, the Doric-columned logo of my employers, surrounded by the words "courage, fortitude, protection."
Enthralled by this dizzyingly patriotic get-up I have neglected to try on the cop slacks ahead of time. This turns out to be a tragic mistake. The pants are tight -- obscenely tight -- at the waist. But duty calls. I squeeze into the pants, wince and look at myself in the mirror. My fears are confirmed: I look like the cop from the Village People. I walk gingerly toward the RNC headquarters downtown, trying, like everyone at the convention, to stick to the script.
6:30 p.m.
I walk downtown on Hennepin Avenue and notice a small crowd taking shape. As a "security enforcement officer," naturally I stop to investigate. The crowd is chanting "Ru-dy! Ru-dy! Ru-dy!" and there, indeed, is Mr. Giuliani, waving and baring his teeth to the delight of all assembled. I ask one among the crowd if he's as big a Giuliani booster as his enthusiastic chanting would seem to indicate.
"Naw, can't stand the guy. Way too liberal."
He returns to chanting. I'm running late, but I have to ask.
"So why are you chanting his name?"
"Have you ever chanted his name?"
I confess that I have not.
"Try it, buddy, it's fun. You'll like it."
So I do, to myself, as I trot toward the RNC headquarters. The guy is right; it does put me in a good mood.
6:40 p.m.
A group of college hipsters are loitering on Nicollett Avenue, near the Hyatt. They are clad typically -- scruff, tight jeans, chucks, ironic T-shirts and bandannas. One of them calls out, "Fuckin' fascist!" I look around for this fascist bastard and realize that he's talking to me. I'm partly relieved -- at least he didn't say, "Hey, look! It's the guy from the Village People."
It's been a tense week in the Twin Cities. A series of rough pre-convention raids on the homes of anti-RNC protesters has left even mild-mannered Minnesotans feeling sour.
At the moment, however, I'm in too much of a rush to point out that my pants are just as tight as any hipster's and my shirt possibly even more ironic. I have time only for some quick role-playing and so I shout back, "Get a job, you brat."
7 p.m.
The RNC headquarters at the Hyatt is a gilded fortress -- this week it's service with a smile and a concealed weapon. I am part of a team of 12 security officers (unarmed) who will patrol every entrance and exit to the hotel, front, back and side, for 24 hours a day during the RNC. Guards are also placed in the emergency stairways. We are told not to let anyone up past the sixth floor. Why? Because that's the order. There is no further discussion.
In addition to my team of black-clad officers, there are hotel security personnel, Minneapolis police, an odd guardsman, state trooper or sheriff's officer, another squad of hired officers (from a different private firm), and members of the FBI, Capitol Police (in suits) and Secret Service (in nicer suits). If you include the Evangelicals, nearly every person at the RNC headquarters has a voice whispering in his ear.
8 p.m.
The voice whispering in my ear belongs to my operations supervisor, Charlie, a good-humored young private detective, who looks like the approachable guy in a boy band, walks like a determined penguin and has a tendency to giggle. He posts me to the front of the building, where I soon witness a heartbreaking exchange. A stocky man in a Hawaiian shirt walks up to a strapping young TV news producer who's milling around with his camera crew. The stocky man says, "Hi, I'm a delegate from Kentucky. Which station you guys from?"
"We're from New York," replies the producer, turning his back on the man.
10 p.m.
The Capitol policemen order pizza; the Secret Service, on the other hand, splurges. A Secret Service agent -- a linebacker with glasses -- walks past me with two big bags of takeout, en route to his undisclosed location upstairs. As he passes, he winks at me and says, "A little sushi action for the fellas."
My partner, who just finished police academy, says, "Man, those guys got style, don't they?"
11 p.m.
I ask an older gentleman -- a delegate from Idaho who seems to go by the name "Doc" -- to open his bag for a security search.
"If you want to be a real cop," he says, "you got to be more forceful. Try again."
I've been standing for four hours in pants that are two sizes too small; I'm developing welts in strange places and rapidly losing patience for what seems to be an endless train of preppy wiseguys.
"Sir, open your bag for me," I say. "Please."
"Good," he says. "Much better."
Midnight
The first wave of delegates, staffers, lobbyists and hangers-on are returning from their parties. I'm still guarding the front door. My first drunk: a guy whose dress shirt is recklessly untucked, his "McCain for America" pin dangling precariously from his lapel. Looking for his credentials, he fumbles around for almost five full minutes.
A car stops in front of the entrance. A man and a woman emerge and exchange a long meaningful hug. They whisper for a bit. Then the woman goes into the hotel and the man steps back into the car and drives away.
"Cheaters," says my new partner, Scott Mendes. "They both got wedding rings."
1:12 a.m.
Two discussions about the war in Iraq suddenly take place.
The first discussion is among a group of young Republicans standing in front of the Hyatt smoking cigars -- party favors from the Giuliani party. The men are all similarly clad in J. Press; some in houndstooth, some in navy blue blazers. The girlfriends, however, wear designer cocktail dresses.
"I'm sick of this chickenshit," says one guy, a sturdy Stanford 2L. "I hear too much apologizing for the war. We should all get behind McCain and stand up proudly and use the 'W' word. We have to tell the voters, 'No, we're not just making gains, we are winning this war.'"
The second conversation takes place between me and Scott, a baby-faced Marine who has served two tours in Iraq (and is expecting to be called up again any day). We're standing 2 feet away from the Republicans. As Scott tells it, his platoon spent almost two years roving around western Iraq doing the bidding of various local tribal bosses, fighting fierce and undefined battles against enemies who had been allies a week earlier.
His take on the war?
"It's bullshit," he says with a shrug. "We got no business there. We get played by all the locals. Guys are dying for nothing. Everyone's losing their minds. It's a disaster."
A new group of Republicans approaches.
"Here come some happy drunks," Scott says to me, smiling.
Three girls in the new group pose for a photo, beaming for the camera. Instead of saying, "Cheese," they surprise us and say, "Facebook!" The image is captured.
Scott opens the door for them, smiles and says, "Good evening," as they stumble in.
2:50 a.m.
At the RNC, the truth-telling starts somewhere around 3 a.m. Delegates who were on-message when they left for their parties at 10 p.m., return too hammered to walk a straight party line.
"How you doing, dude?" one of the drunk delegates says to me as he pulls out a cigarette, almost emptying an entire pocket in the process.
"To tell you the truth," I reply, "my pants are way too tight on the waist. They're killing me."
He gives my pants a glance.
"There's a lot of hot chicks here," he tells me in a failed attempt at a whisper. He reeks of chardonnay. "You cannot spring a woody here, dude. Your pants got no give, know what I mean? It'd be totally obvious. Gov. Palin is staying here -- you gotta be careful. You get what I'm saying? You can't get wood on the job."
"Thanks. I got it," I say.
One of his pals chimes in.
"Gov. Palin is hot, dude," he says, collapsing onto a bench in front of the hotel entrance.
Even in their lusty, alcohol-fueled swoons, these young politicos still call Palin "governor." In a way, this reverential horniness is sort of endearing. But mostly it's just creepy. Sitting on the bench, the young man leans his head back and squeezes his eyes shut, trying, and failing, to stave off vertigo. "Total MILF."
"All right, gentlemen," I say, wielding the word "gentlemen" like a prison guard. "Get out of here. Time to go to sleep."
The right-wing youth resurgence is taking shape here before my eyes and it has a strong erotic undercurrent. For the first time in American politics there is a strong alpha woman with whom mothers identify, and after whom sons lust. The GOP is playing the Oedipal card. And it could mean bloody war, fought house to house.
4:15 a.m.
I'm developing a purely anecdotal theory about Republican drunkenness: that it's related to ideology. The less ideological arrive back at the headquarters earlier in the evening, between midnight and 1 a.m. These are, in chronological order, the Romney and the Giuliani supporters. Both are East Coast, urban college grad, corporate types. They like to drink and reminisce about the Harvard-Yale game, but they also like to wake up early, shave and not smell like booze at committee meetings. The Giuliani people are secular and more openly lecherous. So they tend to drink a bit harder and stay out closer to 1 a.m. The Ron Paul people party past 1 a.m., but not much. And they shave but they don't showboat.
The ones who stay out the latest and come back the drunkest, I notice, are the Huckabee folks, the party's rural conservatives. They believe in Jesus, in the hard-bitten way of the true alcoholic. If they ever sober up, it'll be by the grace of the Lord; and if they intend to stay on the sauce and continue living, then they'll really need His loving kindness. If you intend to be drinking heavily until closing time -- 4 a.m. in the Twin Cities during the RNC -- you had better walk home with Jesus.
I can't place true McCainites on the alcohol-ideology matrix. I think they were all asleep by 9:30 p.m.
5 a.m.
The only people around the RNC headquarters now are security personnel. Cops of all stripes circulate around the hotel, nodding to one another as they pass, keeping watch mostly on their fellow watchmen. Every once in a while, Charlie's voice crackles over the radio, "Wake up!" and my fellow officers oblige by telling lewd jokes over the line to stay awake. The agony of my ill-fitting cop slacks has given way to a mellow numbness.
I am now posted behind the RNC headquarters, at the back exit, which is an outdoor ledge overlooking a park. It's a lonely perch and the night has turned chilly. Fall is definitely in the air. A man in his mid-60s -- who, to my exhausted eyes, looks a bit like John McCain -- suddenly materializes nearby. Given that I'm dead bored and my eyes have begun playing tricks on me, and that I'm manning a post in the dead of night, I can't help thinking of the ghost of King Hamlet, disturbing the night watch just like this gentleman, with "a countenance more in sorrow than in anger."
All the hotels in the area are dark. Thousands of Republicans stir in their beds, dreaming thousands of dreams about Sarah Palin. But Charles Hunter, an environmentalist delegate from New Hampshire and a veteran of Republican conventions going back to the 1980 coronation of Ronald Reagan at Detroit's Joe Louis Arena, can't sleep at all.
"This is my last convention," he tells me, lighting a cigarette.
"Why?"
"I'm a real McCain guy. I served. But I liked the old McCain -- when he was a true hero, before he signed on with the yahoos. I actually believe in 'country first.'"
"Not a fan of Palin?"
"If I were McCain I'd probably bring her onto my ticket, too. That's exactly the problem. I guess I tricked myself into thinking that McCain, even after he watered himself down for the election, could somehow restore sanity. The Democrats tried to paint him as a twin of Bush. Not true. But Palin ... she does remind me of Bush. McCain has made a devil's pact and sealed this party's fate."
Even though he's older, he smokes his cigarette like a young man, with earnest haste, before he flicks it off into the dark.
"That's it," he said, "we're through. Even if we win, we've lost."
September 05, 2008
Even Dooce is Getting Poltical, so I Guess I Should, Too
Every little subculture has their god, their holy being for which the entire group revolves. You know, like the way all the chest-beating UFC fans (love ya, Dad) swoon over that bald-haired beauty Chuch Lidell. Or, the way aspiring Susie Homemakers get all tingly in their panties when Martha Stewart rolls out her full assault strategy for the perfect Mexican Fiesta Birthday Celebration, approaching the party as though they are mounting a military a coup. The glass will be tinted purple and full 3/4 to the brim with cactus-shaped ice cubes, the sombrero pinata will be stuffed with chocolate grown in the Yucatan and then air-expressed via Air Mexico (love you, Mollie.)
In the ever-expanding world of female bloggers, snidely coined "mommy bloggers" by the geniuses at The New York Times (you know, the same assholes who ran daily prewar stories about Iraq's hand in 9/11, which turned out to be, I don't know, false), we worship at the alter of Dooce. She can write witty ass jokes and lay out cleaver bribes she pulls on her kid and we suck it all up like adoring lap dogs. Even those of us who aren't totally hypnotised by her brilliance are intrigued by her unchallenged reign of Blogger Extraordinaire. From jotting down the silly bullshit her husband and daughter do, which is freakin' child's play in comparison to my man and his two hellcat spawns, Dooce's blog supports her family. I am awestruck and jealous all at the same time.
I have to admit, I check her blog daily, often many times. Normally I giggle a little and then think to myself how much I want to be Dooce.
Dear Jesus, why didn't you make me Dooce? I don't want to be me, I want to be the awesome, rockin' Dooce.
But, like Chuck Lidell isn't the only badass who can defeat a wiry opponent by forcing their face to his crotch or like Martha Stewart isn't the lone domestic goddess to over-coordinate a 2-year-old's birthday party, Dooce isn't the only female blogger to make me giddily squeel, "Oh no she di'nt." They all bring something different to the table. From Anna, I get all knowed-up on the necessity of high-end eyebrow waxers, quite beneficial to a lady like me who buzzes hers off with her man's shaver and calls that bitch good. Cathy inspires me to cook outside the box, to turn my shabby kitchen into a gourmet masterpiece. She's a little Martha herself, I suppose. While Suzanne and I share many political views, I really love her site because, like me, she believes there are some places no razor belongs. Listen fellas, I just don't care what Jenna Jameson did.
But, as a political junkie, I normally get the best fix at PunditMom. Through the last week, I've been there multiple times a day, my head all drunk with the notion of a mayor running the vice presidency.
There are about 25 other blogs I visit on a daily basis and they all have a unique flair they bring to my otherwise bland life, but I would never get to the meat of this bloggy sandwich if I didn't get to it. So, here goes. Step aside, rambling, my readers want a point, any point. Focus.
When I went through my daily stalking, I mean reading, of Dooce yesterday, I giggled a little when she wrote about the universe humping her face. That shit happens to me all the time. Then I read the rest of the post, the part about her anger over McCain's choice of the unqualified Sarah Palin. Dooce doesn't normally write about politics, so it kinda took me back for a second. Then, of course, my infatuation grew into unfettered love and I wondered to myself if she would leave her man to be my first lesbian lover.
At the risk of firing up my conservative friends and family, I agree with Dooce. Now, I know I have already disclosed that I worship her Holy Blogginess at least three times a day, you know, like Muslim people turning to the East in prayer, so you probably think that my opinion is comprised. During Sarah Palin's speech on Wednesday evening, I cussed and spit, shouting at Rowdy how distorted I thought many of her statements were. He just agreed, not because he really agreed (He's a nutty Republican. Can you believe I married one?), but because he knows with even a smigen of encouragement, I will ramble on 'til his ears bleed. For a calmer, fact-founded, non F word flinging article from the Associate Press over the misrepresentations of Palin, click here. This was also in Dooce's post. Seriously, read it.
As far as Republicans go, I have always loved John McCain. Just ask my husband. I haven't always agreed with him and I certainly won't vote for him, but he hasn't come close to making my head spin around like that little girl in Poltergeist. Now, George Bush, that's a whole other story. But, no matter who John would've picked, short of Chuck Hagel, I am an Obama Momma.
That said, like Dooce, I am fired up about his selection of Sarah Palin. Not because she is a mother to all those kids or because her 17-year-old daughter is pregnant (abstinence-only education, bay-bay). Just like I don't give a shit about who Bill Clinton or John Edwards are screwing, I don't care that Bristol Palin is getting down with that hot hockey player or that Sarah Palin is reproducing like Catholics on a Mardi Gras binge. I take that back, I do care about that hockey hottie. Bristol, my email address is shondy26@hotmail.com. Be a good girl and email a desperate, old housewife some steamy details about that hot piece of Alaskan ass. I totally love you, Levi Johnston.
Anyways, I've got to stop daydreaming about Palin's superfly future son-in-law or I won't get a thing done. I don't want Sarah Palin as my vice president because I've already lived through 8 years of Cheney. I don't want a vice president who has made statements that the War in Iraq is a mission from God. Hitler told the Germans that invading Poland was exactly that, a mission from God, but that didn't make it so. I don't want a vice president who asks her church to pray for completion of pipelines. I don't want a vice president who doesn't believe in global warming, or at least that it is being caused by man. I don't want a vice president whose spouse belonged to the Alaskan Independence Party, a group dedicated to leaving the USA and starting their own country. Country First, what? And, I don't want a vice president who has run a town smaller than Elk City and been a governor for 20 months. I know Alaska is the largest in size, but it is the smallest in population.
As John McCain gave his acceptance speech last night, my entire family cuddled in our bed, Rowdy and I absorbed each word while Ridge and Rolan bounced over one another. As my darling boys played hide-and-seek under the covers, I touched my husband's hand. Even though this wasn't my party's convention, it was a very "American Dream" moment. We felt very much like our dreams were coming true as a young couple with our two small and healthy children and I know it will be one of those Wonder Years memories that stays with me always. Plus, I discovered that John McCain used to keep company with strippers and I fell a little in love with him. You know I love a dirty dog.
John McCain made some pledges in his speech I hope he keeps, like the one where he vows to re-educate workers whose jobs have been shipped overseas in the last eight years or the resources he promised to our educational systems. He vowed to make college more available for upcoming Americans and I sincerely pray he follows through. Like John McCain, I am a Christian and, like John McCain has said on many occasions, I believe religion doesn't have a place in government. When our country bombs another, and there will be times we do, I don't want a president that tells me God told him to do this. I want a president that tells me he weighed all the options and this was all he had left. I've always felt that when a leader puts that decision on God, they also give him the deaths of the innocent people who perish because of it. Although I knew I probably wouldn't vote for John, I have found comfort that, when faced with that kind of violent and tragic decision, that he knew all the subsequent fall-out from that sort of warfare would be held at the hands who made it. I think it makes a leader think a little more about the choice they are making if they don't convince themselves that they aren't responsible for the innocent casualties. I've respected John's persistence, especially when he has gone up against his own party, like when he voted against the Constitutional amendment to define marriage between a man and a woman. With his pick from the religious right, I hope his belief wields his potential administration's policy on that, not the other way around.
Of America's 43 presidents, nine of them have to office by the death of resignation of their predecessor. Some crazy religious zealots are praying through their blogs that McCain be elected and them smited by God (I guess that's nut talk for killed) so, I don't know, the country can be one big church. As I type that, I am seriously shrugging because the thought of praying for one man to be elected and then off'd is something I cannot wrap my mind around. Can you?
As a war protester held up a sign that said, "You Cannot Win an Occupation," and chanted something I could not make out, John McCain said that American wants us to stop yelling at each other.
Well, in between that and your former love of strippers, you almost have my vote, John. (To me, promiscuity is a sign of real leadership skills. Stop laughing, I am being serious. You know I love Bill Clinton). I think you've been a great servant to the nation, John, I do. If those fruit loops weren't putting some voodoo hex on you as I type this, maybe I could. If their vengeful prayers are answered, you'll be swallowed by the Earth or turned to stone or some other Biblical nightmare and I just can't get behind your girl.
Okay, now I have to go. I bet Dooce has posted something new and I'm having separation anxiety.
In the ever-expanding world of female bloggers, snidely coined "mommy bloggers" by the geniuses at The New York Times (you know, the same assholes who ran daily prewar stories about Iraq's hand in 9/11, which turned out to be, I don't know, false), we worship at the alter of Dooce. She can write witty ass jokes and lay out cleaver bribes she pulls on her kid and we suck it all up like adoring lap dogs. Even those of us who aren't totally hypnotised by her brilliance are intrigued by her unchallenged reign of Blogger Extraordinaire. From jotting down the silly bullshit her husband and daughter do, which is freakin' child's play in comparison to my man and his two hellcat spawns, Dooce's blog supports her family. I am awestruck and jealous all at the same time.
I have to admit, I check her blog daily, often many times. Normally I giggle a little and then think to myself how much I want to be Dooce.
Dear Jesus, why didn't you make me Dooce? I don't want to be me, I want to be the awesome, rockin' Dooce.
But, like Chuck Lidell isn't the only badass who can defeat a wiry opponent by forcing their face to his crotch or like Martha Stewart isn't the lone domestic goddess to over-coordinate a 2-year-old's birthday party, Dooce isn't the only female blogger to make me giddily squeel, "Oh no she di'nt." They all bring something different to the table. From Anna, I get all knowed-up on the necessity of high-end eyebrow waxers, quite beneficial to a lady like me who buzzes hers off with her man's shaver and calls that bitch good. Cathy inspires me to cook outside the box, to turn my shabby kitchen into a gourmet masterpiece. She's a little Martha herself, I suppose. While Suzanne and I share many political views, I really love her site because, like me, she believes there are some places no razor belongs. Listen fellas, I just don't care what Jenna Jameson did.
But, as a political junkie, I normally get the best fix at PunditMom. Through the last week, I've been there multiple times a day, my head all drunk with the notion of a mayor running the vice presidency.
There are about 25 other blogs I visit on a daily basis and they all have a unique flair they bring to my otherwise bland life, but I would never get to the meat of this bloggy sandwich if I didn't get to it. So, here goes. Step aside, rambling, my readers want a point, any point. Focus.
When I went through my daily stalking, I mean reading, of Dooce yesterday, I giggled a little when she wrote about the universe humping her face. That shit happens to me all the time. Then I read the rest of the post, the part about her anger over McCain's choice of the unqualified Sarah Palin. Dooce doesn't normally write about politics, so it kinda took me back for a second. Then, of course, my infatuation grew into unfettered love and I wondered to myself if she would leave her man to be my first lesbian lover.
At the risk of firing up my conservative friends and family, I agree with Dooce. Now, I know I have already disclosed that I worship her Holy Blogginess at least three times a day, you know, like Muslim people turning to the East in prayer, so you probably think that my opinion is comprised. During Sarah Palin's speech on Wednesday evening, I cussed and spit, shouting at Rowdy how distorted I thought many of her statements were. He just agreed, not because he really agreed (He's a nutty Republican. Can you believe I married one?), but because he knows with even a smigen of encouragement, I will ramble on 'til his ears bleed. For a calmer, fact-founded, non F word flinging article from the Associate Press over the misrepresentations of Palin, click here. This was also in Dooce's post. Seriously, read it.
As far as Republicans go, I have always loved John McCain. Just ask my husband. I haven't always agreed with him and I certainly won't vote for him, but he hasn't come close to making my head spin around like that little girl in Poltergeist. Now, George Bush, that's a whole other story. But, no matter who John would've picked, short of Chuck Hagel, I am an Obama Momma.
That said, like Dooce, I am fired up about his selection of Sarah Palin. Not because she is a mother to all those kids or because her 17-year-old daughter is pregnant (abstinence-only education, bay-bay). Just like I don't give a shit about who Bill Clinton or John Edwards are screwing, I don't care that Bristol Palin is getting down with that hot hockey player or that Sarah Palin is reproducing like Catholics on a Mardi Gras binge. I take that back, I do care about that hockey hottie. Bristol, my email address is shondy26@hotmail.com. Be a good girl and email a desperate, old housewife some steamy details about that hot piece of Alaskan ass. I totally love you, Levi Johnston.
Anyways, I've got to stop daydreaming about Palin's superfly future son-in-law or I won't get a thing done. I don't want Sarah Palin as my vice president because I've already lived through 8 years of Cheney. I don't want a vice president who has made statements that the War in Iraq is a mission from God. Hitler told the Germans that invading Poland was exactly that, a mission from God, but that didn't make it so. I don't want a vice president who asks her church to pray for completion of pipelines. I don't want a vice president who doesn't believe in global warming, or at least that it is being caused by man. I don't want a vice president whose spouse belonged to the Alaskan Independence Party, a group dedicated to leaving the USA and starting their own country. Country First, what? And, I don't want a vice president who has run a town smaller than Elk City and been a governor for 20 months. I know Alaska is the largest in size, but it is the smallest in population.
As John McCain gave his acceptance speech last night, my entire family cuddled in our bed, Rowdy and I absorbed each word while Ridge and Rolan bounced over one another. As my darling boys played hide-and-seek under the covers, I touched my husband's hand. Even though this wasn't my party's convention, it was a very "American Dream" moment. We felt very much like our dreams were coming true as a young couple with our two small and healthy children and I know it will be one of those Wonder Years memories that stays with me always. Plus, I discovered that John McCain used to keep company with strippers and I fell a little in love with him. You know I love a dirty dog.
John McCain made some pledges in his speech I hope he keeps, like the one where he vows to re-educate workers whose jobs have been shipped overseas in the last eight years or the resources he promised to our educational systems. He vowed to make college more available for upcoming Americans and I sincerely pray he follows through. Like John McCain, I am a Christian and, like John McCain has said on many occasions, I believe religion doesn't have a place in government. When our country bombs another, and there will be times we do, I don't want a president that tells me God told him to do this. I want a president that tells me he weighed all the options and this was all he had left. I've always felt that when a leader puts that decision on God, they also give him the deaths of the innocent people who perish because of it. Although I knew I probably wouldn't vote for John, I have found comfort that, when faced with that kind of violent and tragic decision, that he knew all the subsequent fall-out from that sort of warfare would be held at the hands who made it. I think it makes a leader think a little more about the choice they are making if they don't convince themselves that they aren't responsible for the innocent casualties. I've respected John's persistence, especially when he has gone up against his own party, like when he voted against the Constitutional amendment to define marriage between a man and a woman. With his pick from the religious right, I hope his belief wields his potential administration's policy on that, not the other way around.
Of America's 43 presidents, nine of them have to office by the death of resignation of their predecessor. Some crazy religious zealots are praying through their blogs that McCain be elected and them smited by God (I guess that's nut talk for killed) so, I don't know, the country can be one big church. As I type that, I am seriously shrugging because the thought of praying for one man to be elected and then off'd is something I cannot wrap my mind around. Can you?
As a war protester held up a sign that said, "You Cannot Win an Occupation," and chanted something I could not make out, John McCain said that American wants us to stop yelling at each other.
Well, in between that and your former love of strippers, you almost have my vote, John. (To me, promiscuity is a sign of real leadership skills. Stop laughing, I am being serious. You know I love Bill Clinton). I think you've been a great servant to the nation, John, I do. If those fruit loops weren't putting some voodoo hex on you as I type this, maybe I could. If their vengeful prayers are answered, you'll be swallowed by the Earth or turned to stone or some other Biblical nightmare and I just can't get behind your girl.
Okay, now I have to go. I bet Dooce has posted something new and I'm having separation anxiety.
August 25, 2008
An Ass Whoppin' You Can Take to the Bank: Pollyester Kotton For President.
Until this week, I thought I was an Obama Momma. Turns out, by Golly, I want Polly....ester Kotton that is.
This little gem stars an Elk City native who will remain nameless for the time being. Now, if you are an Oklahoman, you will recognize the names as local township, which only made me giggle more.
If you are an uptight, stick in the mud, by all means, don't watch the youtube video. However, if you like to giggle so hard you piss your pants a little, please watch. This paints rainbows all over my blues.
This little gem stars an Elk City native who will remain nameless for the time being. Now, if you are an Oklahoman, you will recognize the names as local township, which only made me giggle more.
I don't know who I'm going to vote for in this president erection. Yes, I said erection 'cause somebody's gonna get screwed. --Pollyester Kotton
An Ass Whoppin' You Can Take to the Bank. --Pollyester Kotton
If you are an uptight, stick in the mud, by all means, don't watch the youtube video. However, if you like to giggle so hard you piss your pants a little, please watch. This paints rainbows all over my blues.
August 23, 2008
Joe Momma, Joe Biden. I'm so Excited!
I just checked my email. He's running with Joe Biden. He's running with Joe Biden! Ummmm.....in case you can't tell, I freaking love Joe Biden. I was kinda holding out hope for my favorite Republican Chuck Hagel to swoon the Democratic VP position, but I'm about to do a cartwheel. Joe's perfect! Top that, McCain.
Here's my email from Barack, which you know he wrote directly to me.
Here's my email from Barack, which you know he wrote directly to me.
Shonda --
I have some important news that I want to make official.
I've chosen Joe Biden to be my running mate.
Joe and I will appear for the first time as running mates this afternoon in Springfield, Illinois -- the same place this campaign began more than 19 months ago.
I'm excited about hitting the campaign trail with Joe, but the two of us can't do this alone. We need your help to keep building this movement for change.
Please let Joe know that you're glad he's part of our team. Share your personal welcome note and we'll make sure he gets it:
http://my.barackobama.com/welcomejoe
Thanks for your support,
Barack
August 06, 2008
Paris Does Politics
Well, I've been meaning to blog about John McCain's sad and desperate campaign ad, the one comparing a scholarship-winning Columbia and Harvard graduate who also happened to be the first black editor of the Harvard Law Review, to globe trotting trust fund babies. Please forgive me, my brilliant readers, I've been busy wrangling my lawless children into conformity.
Now, if I would've gotten around to writing that blog, I would've explained how it reminded me of a middle-aged, desperate divorcee, dressing two generations younger than her age or buying midlife crisis Corvettes he can't afford, just to win the attention of an uninterested old lover or a new one, young enough to be his/her child. During McCain's speech last April given aboard the Straight Talk Express, I was all inspired as the old geezer promised to run a clean race, focused on the country's issues and problems rather than dipping into the gutter for spin-doctor dirty politics. Honestly, I already knew the false, sensational email chains on the Internet would add enough smut to this election, so I hoped McCain would stick by his good guns on this one. After all, he knows better than anyone what the collateral damage caused by this kind of politics. Few campaigns have been nastier than the primary he ran against President Bush in 2000, in the Carolinas in particular. He took a few below-the-belt hits thrown by Dubya. But, after some Bush mob, namely Karl Rover's protege Steve Schmidt, went to work for the McCain Camp this week, they lured Ole' Johnny to the dark side. It's hard for me to pinpoint what I find most alarming about the Bush presidency, but at the top of the list is his spoiled frat boy badgering he has lavished upon other world leaders who have disagreed with him. I hope this cheap shot ad of McCain's isn't an indicator of the same isolationist, Imperialistic Bush policies.
Well, I kept scolding myself for my lack of productivity in blogging, Readers. Now I'm glad I spent all that time scouring myspace profiles rather than writing about this ridicules bullshit.
I woke up this morning not knowing it was going to be better than any childhood Christmas morning. No, Santa's elves didn't whip my cluttered house into shape as we slept. Yes, that wise-crackin' Ridge is still talking back to me. So what, do you ask, made this day's dawn better than Kahlua in my coffee? Well, let me tell you. In response to McCain's (the old, white haired dude) ad comparing her to Barack Obama, Paris the heiress released her own. The best part is when she boasts, "Get ready for the debate, bitches."
Simmer down, McCain fans. As you see in the video, Paris, like, totally tells Barack what's up, too.
Like a cocktail waitress in a tacky wig, John McCain was reaching for something that simply wasn't there. When I saw this video this morning, I could just envision John flying into one of this famous shit fits, like the time he called his wife a CUNextTuesday in front of TV cameras. But, it was he who ran that ridicules ad, so it was he who invited this hilarious rebuttal by either of the two people featured in it who aren't running for the presidency. As absurd as Paris is in many ways, she quite cleverly demonstrates that she and the Democratic Nominee are apples and oranges, or three-piece men's suit to a barely pieced swim suit.
***Oh, on a side note, my man Barack has pissed me off recently with his FISA vote, a strategy to look tough on national security.
Now, if I would've gotten around to writing that blog, I would've explained how it reminded me of a middle-aged, desperate divorcee, dressing two generations younger than her age or buying midlife crisis Corvettes he can't afford, just to win the attention of an uninterested old lover or a new one, young enough to be his/her child. During McCain's speech last April given aboard the Straight Talk Express, I was all inspired as the old geezer promised to run a clean race, focused on the country's issues and problems rather than dipping into the gutter for spin-doctor dirty politics. Honestly, I already knew the false, sensational email chains on the Internet would add enough smut to this election, so I hoped McCain would stick by his good guns on this one. After all, he knows better than anyone what the collateral damage caused by this kind of politics. Few campaigns have been nastier than the primary he ran against President Bush in 2000, in the Carolinas in particular. He took a few below-the-belt hits thrown by Dubya. But, after some Bush mob, namely Karl Rover's protege Steve Schmidt, went to work for the McCain Camp this week, they lured Ole' Johnny to the dark side. It's hard for me to pinpoint what I find most alarming about the Bush presidency, but at the top of the list is his spoiled frat boy badgering he has lavished upon other world leaders who have disagreed with him. I hope this cheap shot ad of McCain's isn't an indicator of the same isolationist, Imperialistic Bush policies.
Well, I kept scolding myself for my lack of productivity in blogging, Readers. Now I'm glad I spent all that time scouring myspace profiles rather than writing about this ridicules bullshit.
I woke up this morning not knowing it was going to be better than any childhood Christmas morning. No, Santa's elves didn't whip my cluttered house into shape as we slept. Yes, that wise-crackin' Ridge is still talking back to me. So what, do you ask, made this day's dawn better than Kahlua in my coffee? Well, let me tell you. In response to McCain's (the old, white haired dude) ad comparing her to Barack Obama, Paris the heiress released her own. The best part is when she boasts, "Get ready for the debate, bitches."
Simmer down, McCain fans. As you see in the video, Paris, like, totally tells Barack what's up, too.
Like a cocktail waitress in a tacky wig, John McCain was reaching for something that simply wasn't there. When I saw this video this morning, I could just envision John flying into one of this famous shit fits, like the time he called his wife a CUNextTuesday in front of TV cameras. But, it was he who ran that ridicules ad, so it was he who invited this hilarious rebuttal by either of the two people featured in it who aren't running for the presidency. As absurd as Paris is in many ways, she quite cleverly demonstrates that she and the Democratic Nominee are apples and oranges, or three-piece men's suit to a barely pieced swim suit.
***Oh, on a side note, my man Barack has pissed me off recently with his FISA vote, a strategy to look tough on national security.
See more Paris Hilton videos at Funny or Die
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