Condi would be a lot happier if she could take a nothing day and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile. She has a headstart (she just needs her own theme song).
Working with Dick Cheney? It’s like having Mr. Grant in the next office. “Condi?!? I HATE spunk!”
George W. and Laura are Condi’s Not-So-Bright Ted and wife Georgette. Well, if Georgette was a chain smoker.
Colin Powell used to be her sensible coworker Murray. I wonder if Colin is working a cruise ship now?
Any ideas on who in CondiWorld fills the roles of Best Pal Rhoda, Slutty Sue Ann, and Bitter Phyllis?
It’s official. One week of silence from Condi. C’mon… CHEETOS™!
Rejected, possibly damaged for life or until my next obsession commences, I went ahead and got a pedicure.
Still no response from Condi about the slumber party. I think she has that sour expression because they keep her so busy in Washington. I’ll probably hear from her the next time she has a day off. I’m upping the ante and adding Cheetos™ to the mix.
It was suggested that we could crank call Janet Reno at the slumber party. I say, why not just invite Janet, too? Now there’s a gal who had a tough time in Washington. AND was part of losing two elections to Condi’s
husband boss and his brother. A little Cheetos™ dust and maybe doing a slam book together could fix some hurt feelings.
Now I can’t stop thinking about Condi. You know what I think she needs? A good slumber party. So I’m officially inviting Condi to my house for an old-fashioned slumber party. (Note to Condi: You don’t have to bring the Secret Service. There are ALWAYS “phone trucks” on my street, and I know what that’s all about.)
Me, Condi, and a few friends. (Note to Readers: Feel free to invite yourselves.) Queso and chips, plenty of Keebler cookies, popcorn, pink sponge rollers, those little thingies you fit between your toes when you give each other pedicures, a Ouija board to commune with Bob Dole and Newt Gingrich… What; they’re not dead? Whatever.
I believe a slumber party could make Condi smile. It’s just a shame that *69 and Caller I.D. have ruined the world of crank calling. I’ll bet Condi knows a LOT of good numbers.
I try not to share my longass dreams very often, because dreams are generally more interesting to the dreamer than to anyone else.
But in my last moments before waking, I dreamed that Tim and I worked for the current occupant of the White House. We were doing PR for a government program we really believed in and were talking to a group of people about it. A journalism professor walked into the room with a large poster and a candle. The slogan on the large poster said, “Thirty-five years ago, I carried this in protest.” Beneath that was a smaller poster that said, “GET OUT OF VIETNAM NOW.” He had crossed out VIETNAM and written IRAQ. He sat down on the floor in front of us with his candle and faced a mostly hostile group. Tim and I looked at each other a moment then, without a word, we both slid out of our chairs and sat down next to him, knowing that was the end of our employment.
My dream switched to election day, year unknown, and I was looking at results on TV that said Bush had received 8% of the vote. I frantically looked at the other candidate’s name to determine which election it was and saw, “Gore, 90%.” And in that split second before I woke up, I was happy because it was like rewinding a tape to a world before 2001.
It is to be hoped that everyone within the Times-Dispatch’s
circulation area is on amazon.com right now ordering Greg Herren’s books to see what all the fuss is about. I’m currently looking up places that may refuse to let Famous Author Rob Byrnes as well as Almost As Famous As Rob Byrnes Author Timothy J. Lambert appear. It’s great when the Frantic and Fearful do your public relations for you, no?
Saturday Tom and I had lunch with three of the eleven liberal Democrats we know in Texas, one of whom is a librarian. We talked about Rep. Gerald Allen’s attempt to remove and bury any GLBT-themed books now in the public libraries of my home state of Alabama.
I mentioned that I was envious that author Michael Holloway Perronne
had sent Rep. Allen a shovel along with a copy of his book A TIME BEFORE ME. My friend Christine suggested a little photo doctoring of Timothy and me, and the result is what I like to think Rep. Allen might call “Unamerican Gothic.”
Today I felt like ranting about politics and religion. Then I took a nap instead.
It’s bizarre to accidentally stumble into the blogs of Republicans.
One time, more than twenty years ago, when there were still movie theaters in malls, on a whim I went to an afternoon movie by myself. I don’t remember what movie. But it was so engrossing that as I left the theater and returned to awareness of my surroundings, I stopped dead still and thought, “Where the hell am I?” Somehow during the movie, I’d forgotten which city and which mall I was in, and the stores facing me weren’t the ones I’d expected to see.
It was disorienting and frightening.
It’s raining. And Denece e-mailed me two articles on the perils of neoconservatism. They were long and made me think too hard. Before noon. You know, life is easier for sheep. Just going along, doing what they’re told, without regard for how it affects the rest of the planet. And oddly, they can afford plumbers.
I still don’t want to be a sheep, though. Thanks, Denece.