“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:
I adore Chaz Bono.
That little ballroom tranny is like a son to me…and the daughter I never had. I practically raised him back in the day when Cher was out partying every night like a starved cougar in heat, trying to turn back time. And despite the fact that I’ve been engaged in a nasty feud with that no-good, contemptuous shrew – I have to hand it to her for birthing such a lovely young man.
I have been glued to the television for weeks now tuning into his performances on Dancing With The Stars like the proud, preening Aunt marveling at how far he’s come since the days we’d play “dress up” in his venomous mother’s closet, and put on talent shows on our pretend stage with spotlight to an eager audience.
Well, it wasn’t so much “dress up” as it was me squeezing into sequent Bob Mackie gowns and trying on wigs while a butch little girl remodeled the interior of the closet with cedar lines shelves. And it wasn’t so much a pretend stage as much as the tool-belted girl installing soft can lighting and wide planked-bamboo floors. Oh, and it wasn’t so much an eager audience as it was a stoned Betty White giggling into her half-empty Cheetos bag.
Those were good times.
Embracing the sentiment of my strole down memory lane, I decided to surprise my little Snickerdoodle with a good-luck gift just before the season premier of DWTS. It was nothing big. Just a Bostitch 1-3/4 inch coil roofing nailer made from durable magnesium with aggressive wear guards and carbide inserts. I have no idea what it’s for or what it does, but the stalky Asian lesbian with an eye-patch at Home Depot seemed to get so excited when she showed it to me, I assumed it must be useful – or at the very least an erotic toy during foreplay.
Boys and their power tools.
Chaz was beside himself with joy over this little gesture of love and support just before his big debut on the dance floor. He was so moved, he decided to return the gesture with a gift of his own. It arrived last week. It is quite possibly the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received…and that includes the gift certificate for “Talk Away the Gay” counseling I was given for Easter from Michelle Bachman’s wife.
I’d been talking about getting a pet for months now. It’s been rather lonely around the house since my bengal cats and chinchillas were mysteriously kidnapped just before my estranged ex-boyfriend Kanye West and his latest ho were seen walking the red carpet in floor length coats made from, surprise surprise, bengal cat and chinchilla fur.
So last week, to my joy and delight, I opened the door to a giant box with a big checkered flannel bow. The card was from Chaz, and it read, “For my favorite Aunt, with love – Chaz.” I opened the box to find the most darling baby honey badger.
Not a kitten. Not a puppy. Not a parakeet. But a h-0-n-e-y b-a-d-g-e-r.
I was touched. I scooped up the little guy and cradled him tightly and cooed and chirped as if he were a newborn crack baby just waking up from surgery to remove a third foot. It was love at first site. Or, in this case, at first bite. Because that’s what the little guy did as the fog of sleepiness subsided. He bit me. He bit the shit out of me.
Later that day, I was sitting in the emergency room at Cedars-Sinai waiting to have my right index finger reattached. I sat there wondering how I managed to let this digit get away from me – AGAIN. It seemed like only yesterday I was having it reattached after accidentally coming in between a rotisserie chicken and Oprah just after finding out Barbara Walters got the exclusive with Casey Anthony’s attorney.
“You’re just the cutest little thing!” Betty White cooed as the little honey badger licked her palm. She had a way with him. He seemed completely taken with her, and couldn’t get enough of those little Benadryl tablets she gave him as treats. “I like your spunk!”
She was right. He did have spunk. I think that’s what endeared me to him so quickly just before he bit off my finger. I liked his style – and I lost myself in all the good times we were sure to have. I thought of all the adorable couture collars and sweaters I’d buy him. The walks we’d take to the dog park where we would hand out fliers promoting desegregation and equal rights for honey badgers. I was euphoric. Or just really light-headed from the loss of blood. I’m not sure which, but it was a happy buzz – and either way it was because of that sweet, possibly rabid baby badger.
Just before I passed out and wheeled off for a blood transfusion, I decided on a name.
I would name him Buttercup.
A week later, we had just started getting somewhere with the potty training – and I was getting some feeling back in my reattached finger. So I decided we deserved an afternoon out.
That’s when the trouble started…and now Nicki Minaj is not speaking to me.
If you ask me, it was her fault to begin with. One of the reasons I established an instant bond with Buttercup is because I’ve observed that he has a fierce sense of fashion uncommon to rodents at such a young age. He hasn’t even experienced New York Fashion Week, and already has the discriminating sensibility to distinguish between chic haute couture and tragic fashion road kill. And like my dear friend Anna Wintour, he is unafraid to bare his fangs when a red carpet frock appears to be beaten down hard with an ugly stick.
So I maintain that Nicki has no one to blame but herself for nearly having her lavender tutu ripped to shreds when Buttercup went ballistic at the site of this outfit. He went straight for her neck as if to make it clear that she had no business sporting a necklace that looked like a giant turd painted in Pepto Bismol.
If it weren’t for Betty loaning me the electro-shock collar she used to keep her maid in line, I would not have been able to hold back little Buttercup from going all “honey badger” on her ass.
These girls fall like dominoes. Yo Ayo Ayo.
Fortunately, Nicki wasn’t at all hurt by Buttercup’s outburst on the red carpet. Just a bit shaken up is all. I promptly took my fashion-crazed baby badger home and grounded him for the rest of the month.
“No television. No texting. And no pistachios, Buttercup! Now go to your crate and think about what you’ve done.” I said, pointing my swollen, purple stitched-on finger in a show of exasperated disapproval.
He just starred at me blankly. Clearly, Buttercup don’t give a shit.
Love ya like a transgendered cha-cha-cha,