I’ve been busy doing other things now that spring has sprung. Genetically predisposed to practice paganism, my lucky neighbors are, once again, blessed to see a lot more of me since the post-Easter neon blue Speedo has arisen from its dresser drawer tomb. Past the age where worrying about physical appearance makes any difference, the ‘boys’ and I sway (and droop) with Newton County sangfroid; we’re oblivious to jeering motorist(s) or the Old Lady’s hairy eyeball. Because no suitable conical non la (leaf hat) is stocked within Wal-Mart’s cornucopia of imported sweat shop finery, I make do with a ratty Ping Panama fedora.
Although gentle folk seem to find my yard work attire (or lack thereof) lascivious from the eyebrows down, rest assured that my thinning pate is covered with country club straw. The affectation allows me to converse with the good doctor’s wife without straining the bounds of polite society. Perhaps it’s best that I cannot find a proper non la. Replacing Ping with Cong sun shade has the potential to strain outdoor tête-à-têtes, and jeopardize the fun we have recounting our embarrassing bikini wax miscues.
Mrs. DeBakey is convinced that I’m a shameless Peoria half-breed. I doubt if she would be as forthcoming with titillating spa gossip -- or her husband’s gin -- should a pointy non la create suspicion about my ethnic origin. A rather loose lady, her friendliness might wane should she believe I’m more Thanh Pho Ho than Gotebo. There is something about the Noble Savage that fading debutante’s find attractive. Always eager to please, I’ve made up fertility dances on the spot if it prompts Mrs. DeBakey to break out the blender. Last summer, overcome by gimlet and Gitche, she painted her toenails turquoise in honor of an especially moving impromptu patio stomp. Alas, the Old Lady’s unexpected appearance brought the blues to a potentially consciousness-altering experience, and left one fake brave sleeping off his afternoon drunk in the big dog’s teepee.
Speaking of Sarah Palin, I gather a gathering of wine and spirit distributors were not wowed by the former half-term governor’s act. In fairness, nuclear arms reduction jokes are an odd subject for partying Vegas conventioneers. Granted, someone supposedly running for president has to walk a fine line between what is and what isn’t appropriate stand -up material: Humor that’s too risqué runs the risk of offending religious hypocrites; and goofing on the evils of competent government only plays well where shirtless patrons consider lite beer an aperitif.
Fortunately for Palin, conservatives have wandered so far off the reservation it's considered patriotic to sing "Anything Goes". Anson Burlingame, Joplin’s official nuclear arms control expert, believes the former half-term governor is as qualified to discuss America’s nuclear arsenal as the president. It’s true, before she quit her day job Palin did preside over Alaska’s National Guard. President Obama, on the other hand, is saddled with the Pentagon’s spurious input.
Lord knows the world would be a safer place if America just surrendered to Israel.
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