Dueling Banjos at the End of the Mind

The Conyers/ Rove tango extends well beyond what Einstein considered acceptable parameters for the space-time continuum‘s dance floor. Their buck and wing reminds me of the Star Trek episode featuring loud alien mimes caked in grease paint. (One protagonist was black on the left side of his puss, the other on the right; ergo standard yelling mime-against-yelling mime conflict). Eventually both were cast into the frozen void to forever wrestle with Gene Coon’s ponderous script. I’m guessing the moral is that mimes, whether vocal or mute, San Franciscan or extraterrestial, are always obnoxious. Relieved when Lokai and Bele were energized off the Enterprise, I recall muttering “finally”. Tucking my plastic phaser back into my jammies; I then stomped upstairs to terrorize Sis.

***High on Milk Duds and Coke, hope came crashing down when I realized Spock wasn’t going beat the dook out of Kirk with his Vulcan canoe paddle. Maybe girls liked the Captain’s smarmy machismo, but one particular fifth grade boy wasn’t impressed. Preternaturally drawn to Uhura, little Juan’s color blind heterosexuality stirred whenever she squirmed in her seat; Nurse Chapel not so much.

In fairness to Nurse, I don’t remember her sitting down that often or wiggling in such a way that enhanced the Federation’s female dress code. Had she very deliberately retrieved dropped medical supplies on a regular basis, my budding prurient interest in T & A would have been divided between the bridge and sick bay***.

Mr. Conyers,

To quote the late Joan Crawford, “There’s a lot of bitch in every woman - a lot in every man”. So get bitchy. Either Congress has the power of subpoena or it doesn’t. The Hollywood Ten certainly felt the coat hanger’s sting when they were ordered to Capital Hill. Here’s an idea: Issue an arrest warrant. Assuming Rove isn’t on the lam, he shouldn’t be that hard to find. Just look for a Fox News film crew. Perhaps Ollie North will loan Karl his old Marine Corps uniform - if you promise not to make him cry. No matter how many gun and knife shows the Lt. Colonel headlines, paunchy patriots can’t quite shake the disturbing image of Ollie revealing his sissy side. That’s why he chews glass and encourages illiterate Aryan Nation storm troopers to use his neck for choke hold practice. Testifying dry-eyed and defiant, Karl could daub that salty blot from conservatism’s starched brown shirt. Think of it as doing your part to encourage bi-partisanship.

Herr Rove,

Man up, Karl. There’s only so much glass Ollie can digest before he starts selling gooey semi-organic figurines to Freedom Rally geeks.

****************************

This year I decided to skip the Alfalfa Dinner and honor Robert E. Lee’s birthday by encouraging Allen Shirley to write romance novels via early morning phone calls. I was going to point the lawn jockey south, but two factors thwarted my plan: It weighs 4,000 pounds and my scary sense of direction. Accidentally aiming the lawn jockey north would be a senseless gesture, especially if I snapped my last good vertebra in the process.

Speaking of the endangered novel, “A Tale of Two Twitties”, my fictional account of Conway Twitty’s battle with multiple personality disorder, will be available in time for Easter.

Juan