Thursday, November 24, 2005
Pie all around
One of the truly more amusingly warped -- and outright creepy -- tales of Thanksgiving. See if you can guess which house this is:
Karl sneaks furtive glances at Barb. He is awed by her natural power, her girth, her effortless cunning. That teal makes her look so ... so ... seaworthy. He wants her. Badly. She knows it. They have a secret thing -- it is matronly and sweaty and creepy as hell and takes place every other Sunday in a Ritz-Carlton just off the Beltway.
Rummy knows all about it. He and Dick stand near the bar and take huge swigs of scotch and puffs from thick Cuban cigars and speak in low, mean tones out the sides of their mouths, occasionally bursting into dark laughter that sounds like a brick being dragged over a cheese grater. Rummy says something about the Karl/Barb flesh-fest and wonders, a little too loudly, if Oedipus would have felt differently about his mother if she had spanked him. Cheney grunts, retorts with a joke about how pleasurable it must be to hold a lit cigarette near the open eyeball of a terrified prisoner in Guantanamo and demand Osama's cell phone number. Ha.
Dick glances over at Lynne, who is, of course, eyeing one of the Latina servants with open-mouthed hunger. Dick hasn't seen Lynne naked in years. He realizes this is a very good thing. Something to be thankful for, certainly. But Lynne is happy. Her life is full of joyous bridge tournaments and bashing of gay rights and copious lesbian fantasies. She is nothing like poor, lost Condi.
Condi is lonely. So, so lonely, sitting over in the far corner, all by herself, nursing her one glass of white wine. No one really talks to her anymore except Dubya and a maybe few brusque words from Rummy, who she suspects is always imagining her cleaning his guns and polishing his boots and calling him "master." Suddenly, her heart jumps. She sees Dubya looking at her from across the room. She smiles that demonic, dominatrix-y smile that always creeps out the Asian press. He does that thing with his thin little lips, that little gesture only she understands. Her body is instantly warmed. Oh their special bond, a dark secret. It is her breath, her raison d'être. It keeps her alive.
The entire column is one long increasingly funny draw on the same sick drink . . .
Scenes From A Bush Thanksgiving
Dubya pouts, Cheney scowls, no one brings pie -- and why is Rove looking at Barb that way?
By Mark Morford, SF Gate Columnist
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
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