“It really isn’t that embarrassing, Harry,” I lied, caressing his arm thoughtfully to sooth his bruised ego.
Then I slapped him across the face.
“Wake up honey!” I shouted. The slap startled Harry Belafonte from the slumber he slipped into while I was talking. “As I was saying, it really isn’t that embarrassing. You know the media has the attention span of a geriatric blow fish. One minute they’re making your accidental on-camera nap a YouTube sensation, the next the masses are on to the latest idiotic drama being played out on Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.”
Now I was squirting him with a water bottle to keep his attention. “Trust me, it will be forgotten about in a couple of days.”
I turned my attention to a crackling coming from the dining room floor. I looked down to find Buttercup perusing the latest headlines in one of my news periodicals.
You may not know this, but Buttercup is committed to staying abreast of current events. Politics. International economics. Foreign policy. You name it, he’s digesting it. Figuratively and literally – since he usually ends up eating whatever he reads. He was making his way through People magazine when he came across an image of Katy Perry performing while on tour in the UK.
The site of Katy set him into a rage and he began furiously ripping the magazine to shreds.
I should point out that for reasons I’m unable to disclose pending police investigation, Buttercup is NOT a Katy Perry fan. So whenever he sees a picture of her, he flies into a violent tirade that inevitably results in my having to replace furniture or feigning shock and disbelief when a neighborhood pet or toddler goes mysteriously missing.
Ordinarily I’d scold Buttercup for such an inappropriate outburst and take away his internet porn privileges – but in this case, I couldn’t really blame him for being upset by this particular image of Katy. Say what you will about my dear Buttercup – but this is one crazy nastyass honey badger who knows a fashion offense when he sees one.
Unless her intention was to apply for a entry level job on the Everlasting Gobstopper assembly line in Willy Wonka’s factory, I have to concur with Buttercup that she would have been better off wearing the plastic bag she sings about drifting through the wind, wanting to start again.
Start again, Katy. Start. Again.
I turned back to Harry, who was now propped up against the refrigerator snoring. I threw a pepper grinder at his head, and it knocked him over. The fall woke him abruptly – so now that I had his attention again, I continued, “And anyway, your little nap via satellite isn’t nearly as damaging as the press my poor dear Lindsay Lohan is getting about her questionable oral hygiene.”
Harry’s eyes started to get heavy again and he lay his head on the pepper grinder as if it were a pillow while my lecture continued, “Just think about that for a moment, Harry. The next time you start to feel sorry for yourself, think about all those nasty things people are saying about my little darling’s meth mouth just because her teeth are starting look like Indian corn.”
I didn’t have time for this nonsense. I should be spending every waking moment planning strategy for the upcoming election. In case you’re living under a rock with no internet connection, I should fill you in on Betty White’s latest pet project in her pursuit to be the most popular girl on earth. She’s decided Hollywood isn’t big enough anymore to sustain her thirst for the chewy center of attention – so she’s announced on Craig Ferguson’s Late Late Show her plans to run for the Presidency.
You should know it was not my idea to be Betty’s campaign manager. I wanted no part of this hot mess. But she is my best friend – so when she asked me, I was compelled to oblige without argument. Besides, she’s been my alibi more times than I can count whenever I’ve landed in sticky situations that required tampering with DNA evidence or disposing of a mouthy “loose end.” Therefore, I wasn’t exactly in a position to decline.
So I really don’t have time for the petty dramas of my embarrassing friends right now. I need to focus if I am going to orchestrate a flawless tour of kissing hands and shaking babies on the presidential trail (Wait. Scratch that. Reverse it.). Managing crisis PR would be a full time job as it is in the face of the political mud-slinging that was sure to ensue the moment Betty’s opponents start digging into her questionable past.
I slid the snoring Harry Belafonte into one corner of the kitchen, put a blanket over him, and kissed him on the forehead. Then I wrapped his foot in gauze and slapped Buttercup on the nose for not minding me when I told him NOT to gnaw on Harry’s toes.
“Bad Buttercup!” I said in a hush whisper as not to wake the dozing Harry. I didn’t want to be in the room when he discovered this little piggy went home. And by home, of course I mean it ended up in Buttercup’s belly.
He’s gonna be pissed.
I spent the rest of the afternoon mapping out the campaign trail. I’m still undecided between having a kick off event at Dunkin Donuts or at a bath house. After all, it’s important to go where the voters are….and getting the police on Betty’s bandwagon wouldn’t be hard. After so many indecent exposure and solicitation arrests, they’ve all gotten to know her pretty well already. And there’s no better time to influence the gays than when they’re in the middle of getting a handy-j in the steam room.
It was a toss up. I decided to give it some more thought while enjoying donut holes during a refreshing eucalyptus steam at the spa.
Love ya like blanketing the campaign trail with “White Power” posters,