The hovel’s high dollar heat pump has had trouble pumping heat into hovel. Juan and Beloved are still encased in an assortment of insulated clothing, which makes locomotion through boxed and unboxed debris more than problematic: We lumber about our cold, alien moonscape like two aging Apollo astronauts. The only positive development occurred when Beloved found a strange-looking rock amidst frigid kitchen clutter. Quite unlike the other kitchen rocks, we are holding our visible breath in hope that this particular rock is of interest to NASA scientists. Unlucky with machine generated lottery numbers, perhaps Beloved’s find is our ticket to a Redneck Riviera beachfront travel trailer.
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Yesterday I had the pleasure of being threatened with a buffoon’s imaginary tank, which provided me with three or four minutes of sub-Artic mirth. The buffoon in question is a curious mixture of boundless incoherence and adamant confusion; the perfect combination for thumbing grammatically incorrect opinion pieces and absurd online exchanges. Because journalism is a dying art, financially struggling small town newspapers have turned over political musing to rank amateurs and anonymous paranoids.
Geographically isolated small town newspapers have always been fertile ground for talk radio monologues-cum-three hundred or less word diatribes against ‘Democrat’ controlled government. Blessed with the average pond gar’s memory, local defenders of Ponzi scheme economics and torture-as-patriotism have literally shit their britches after losing last year’s presidential election. But at least the feces flingers are in capable hands. Any day RNC Chairman Michael Steele will say something the same way twice and inspire Obama haters to rally around the tea bag.
And yet trouble lurks. In a rare moment of candor Newt Gingrich, the pewter tongued cable news pontificator, said that Chairman Steele’s skin color is a problem for the 22 percent of card-carrying Republicans. There is a growing suspicion among the defenders of real America that African-Americans hide Muslim inclinations behind flag lapel pins. Islam, emanating from that part of the world where godly fair hair and blue eyed DNA mutated into devilish hues, is indeed a darker religion than the type practiced by 700 Club members. Although Jesus was a Semitic Jew, over the centuries he has appropriated the features of a 1970s era Caucasian rock star. I look more foreign than the framed print that my grandmother hung next to Franklin Roosevelt’s baggy-eyed photo. Should Jesus return using conventional travel, there is the distinct possibility that he would be cavity searched by TSA employees.
If Steele’s race bothers Republicans, its no wonder that a president of Kenyan (and Kansan) ancestry named Barack Hussein Obama gives them the heebie-jeebies. Perhaps if the president bore the physical characteristics of the average Topeka truck driver local “Jugheads” wouldn’t need to change their boxers every fifteen minutes. Of course there is little Steele can do to transform his physical features into Rudy Giuliani’s more pleasing Italian-American flesh and bone presentation. Steele could ditch the business suit and approximate tea bagger wear. From what I’ve seen Old Glory transposed on tee shirt, hat and Muumuu is considered proper attire for parking lot clucking. A black guy strapping on some Second Amendment heat around a pair of relaxed fit Wranglers is always a dandy way to blend in with pistol-packing white bigots.
Imagine the reaction if Jesus arrived wearing stunning mariachi outfit and tasseled sombrero. Aside from leaving Fox & Friends speechless, Sean Hannity’s discomfort when interviewing El Sustantivo would be…palpable.
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