“These are dear, dear friends of mine, Betty. Wholesome, good Christian Republicans. I don’t want you saying ANYTHING to offend them while they’re here, do you understand me?” I said as I flipped giant bratwursts on the grill, “The Bachmanns’ are under a lot of pressure right now with all the harsh scrutiny in the media from all those heathen reporters. I don’t need you drinking too much and getting in their faces to push your abhorrent liberal agenda.”
Betty just rolled her eyes and threw my stainless steel William Sonoma spatula across the yard. She was playing fetch with Buttercup. He leaped from her arms and scurried down the lawn after it. He grabbed it and instead of bringing it back, ate it.
“Good boy! Good boy!” she squealed, clapping with delight.
I was too preoccupied to care that neither of them seemed to be grasping the idea of “fetch” or the fact that this game has depleted most of my kitchen utensils and at least two appliances in the last week. I was stressed beyond belief, and the four Xanex I took may as well have been birth control for all the good it was doing – even after my second pitcher of raspberry mojitos.
I wanted everything to be perfect for this dinner party. Not because I’m known for throwing fabulous dinner parties that can only be described by my guests as “perfection” – or the fact that entertaining comes so easily to me that Martha Stewart has attempted to put a hit out on me at least three times that I can prove. But because this dinner party needed to be perfect for Michelle Bachmann. We’ve been trying to out-perfect each other since college, and our affection for one another is based in our neurotic need to make the other feel pathetically inferior at the sight of any minor flaw.
So I was going to be damned if I would give that evangelical fembot Barbie the satisfaction of finding even the slightest blemish or speck of dust to knit-pick with spiteful delight.
When the couple arrived, everything was perfect. My new porcelain veneers sparkled white like the smile of a bitchy angel at the gates of Heaven about to turn away a heathen soul. My suit was flawless. Shoes freshly polished. I was a vision. The house had been scrubbed, bleached and buffed like a guilt-ridden Marcus Bachmann after accidentally having sex with a man.
As I made my way to the door to greet them, my anxiety melted away and I was filled with the fervent joy that I addressed every detail with exacting precision, and Michelle’s teeth were as good as clenched upon the realization that she’d have nothing to criticize. I was giddy.
I wasn’t giddy for long though. Not long….at….all.
As I hoped, Michelle did notice how perfectly coiffed I was, and how clean and polished my home appeared. But the stone-cold slag used it as an opportunity to point out my painfully single status as a bachelor – and how nice it must be to have nothing but time to focus on my looks and have a home right out of Architectural Digest since I wasn’t blessed with the disheveled “lived in” charm of a barefoot and pregnant wife and gaggle of screaming children.
I wanted to slingshot a rusted screw driver at her face.
Once seated at the patio table for my “down home country hot dog” themed dinner (The Bachman’s love themselves a big wiener, after all), Betty started in on her shit.
“So remind me again how you two met?” She asked, grinning because she already knew the answer. She already knew that we met in college, and it wasn’t the college she’s touts as her alma mater in interviews (New York Times, 10-13-11).
Michelle moved uneasy in her chair as if she were auditioning for a commercial promoting hemorrhoid cream. In an attempt to skirt the question, she redirected the conversation to brag about her husband. She spent the next ten minutes explaining his latest Christian outreach efforts with a new social networking site for Christian men. It was apparently a brilliant format that offered a compelling venue for men to chat, share and exchange ideas for new and creative ways to worship. She was tickled by the website’s playful name.
“It’s called adam4adam.com!” she squealed, “You know, as in ‘Adam and Eve?’ Isn’t that a hoot?”
I wanted to hear more about this adam4adam “social network” – but Betty wasn’t giving up so easily.
“So, back to how you all met,” she jumped in, “College, wasn’t it?”
Though for different reasons, the truth was neither of us cared to openly admit to attending Oral Roberts University in Tulsa, Oklahoma. We were part of the inaugural class in an unusual academic experiment: a law school rooted in charismatic Christian belief. We were about getting all honey badger on justice’s ass by committing to the restoration of law to it’s historic biblical roots, Judge Judy style.
The reason Michelle doesn’t like to publicly talk about it is for a couple of reasons: 1) the law school no longer exists because the American Bar Association refused to accredit them because they felt we were all a little bit koo-koo-for-cocoa-puffs. They didn’t seem to appreciate the school’s emphasis on the Bible at the expense of actual law. So they were like, “Uh, denied.” So it doesn’t bode well for Michelle to brag about attending a law school that is now defunct. 2) The school’s philosophy that Church and State shouldn’t be separate could be polarizing to a large number of voters whose response to that concept is “Oh hell to the no!”
I get it. Politics is a numbers game, after all. The image of a fanatical Christian isn’t an image that will win the popular vote – and she knows that.
I, on the other hand, am not trying to win votes for anything. I just don’t like admitting to having attended law school at Oral Roberts University because that would require I also admit that 1) I’m a lawyer. And 2) I made an embarrassing mistake. I’d have to relive the humiliation of attending because I thought I would be getting a very different kind of education. The schools name was cruelly misleading, and I was two semesters in before finally figuring out this degree wouldn’t involve a proficiency in blow jobs.
It’s true what they say. Some things you just have to learn on the street.
I didn’t want to talk about it anymore than Michelle and Marcus did, so I diverted Betty’s attention to her favorite subject: her thriving career as a sex symbol in entertainment. This prompted her to tell the Bachmans all about her latest music video, “I’m Still Hot” – a duet with British pop star Luciana.
That did the trick. She forgot all about our college history and rattled on for an hour and a half about all the fanfare she’s getting for her rap debut. Then she insisted we watch the video:
Michelle and I sat quietly and feigned admiration during the video, relieved to avoid a trip down memory lane.
Marcus wasn’t paying any attention. He was busy passionately devouring his fifth bratwurst, showing no signs of getting full. This is a man who knows how to deep throat a sausage. I’m just saying.
Love ya like prayer group action on adam4adam.com,
Link to New York Times story on Michelle Bachmann’s college years: