I know I shouldn't say this, because Rovey likes him and all, but Rovey's boss just drives me so crazy sometimes! It's like he's always trying to get between us, and doesn't care that while yes, Rovey loves his job, sometimes he just needs a little private time with his Babykins. We'll be in the middle of a private moment - maybe sneaking a smooch on the portico, and his boss will just come butting in with "Oh my God, I totally have this meeting with the Fed Chair in twenty minutes, and, like, I can't even balance my checkbook. Could you explain it to me, Karl?" or "You SO have to come and see the SIZE of this dump that Barney took in the Rose Garden!" or something like that, and because he's his boss, Rovey just has to smile and act nice and do what he says.
For instance, take Thankgiving. The night before, Rovey and I were sitting down to a late dinner - some leftover pot pie, creamed onions and schnaaps (his favorite!) - and we heard someone leaning on a car horn out in front of the house. We figured it was just his usual groupies who like to drive by and leave love notes in toilet paper on the lawn, or soap funny messages onto the car windows. But it kept going, and someone started rapping pretty insistently at the front door. Rovey groaned and said it was the special secret code knock and he went and got the door, and of COURSE it was his boss. He was acting all covert, and was dressed way casually and actually tried to get Rovey to give up his Thankgiving plans with ME, and hop on a plane with HIM and go hang out in…well he wouldn't say it directly with me in the room, but I knew darned well that a trip to "Aghdadbay" wasn't gonna get my Rovey home in time to carve up the turkey.
I couldn't just sit there and let him wreck our holiday, so I said, "I'm sorry, Mr. President, my Rovey is too nice to say anything, but we have plans for tomorrow, and you're just going to have to understand that he is NOT at your disposal 24/7. I know you think it'd be fun to have a pal with you when you go and have fun in the nice, warm, desert sun for a few hours, but you have to learn that the whole world doesn't revolve around you!"
And would you believe that he actually had the nerve to try and tell me that the whole trip was Rovey's idea in the first place? I'm sorry, but my Rovey would NEVER be behind anything that would keep a bunch of people far away from their loved ones on a special day like Thanksgiving. And he sure as heck wouldn't want to keep that van full of reporters working on a day that everyone should be at home with their friends and families, celebrating the freedom that makes America the great nation it is. I thought his boss was just being a big chicken, and I said so!
Anyhow, the two of them went off into Rovey's workshop in the basement for a few minutes (You know, I don't know what the heck he does when he's down there! One time I joked that maybe he had a bunch of spare robot parts lined up in case Mr. Cheney's heart went kablooey again, and he got such a funny look on his face. I felt so bad - I know Rovey's such a sensitive soul, and it hurts him when I'm tactless like that.), and when they came back up, his boss pulled his baseball cap down over his face and left through the back door. He must have been so ashamed about trying to split us up, that he couldn't even face me. Rovey told me that he'd convinced his boss that it would look better in the press if it didn't seem like he had anything to do with this trip and I agreed. Who in the world would support a presidential advisor who'd leave his best girl behind on a holiday?
Mmmmm...gobble gobble! A meal fit for a RoveHo.
You may have heard that Rovey and I took a little jaunt across the pond to Merry Old England recently to hobnob with the Queen! Oh there was tea and chanting and merry puppet shows in the street there just to give us a super, or should I say "bloody" (look at me, talking all fancy-like!) English howdy-do, but Rovey and I managed to slip away from the madding crowd (though they were really keen on meeting his boss!) and do a l'il sightseeing 'round Crumpet Town.
Thing is, though, I don't know who this "Ben" is, but if those barmy Brits think *that's* big, they really oughta get a gander inside my Rovey's tighty whities. The U.K. can keep their Spotted Dick and leave the Toad in its Hole. I'm feasting on HIS meat and two veg tonight! God save my Rovey!
Well gosh and golly heck! I just noticed that it's the 25th, and as any good RoveHo knows, that can mean only one thing - only one shopping month until RoveDay! I know the last thing any of us would wanna do is forget the anniversary of Rovey's glorious emergence on this lucky, lucky planet on December 25, 1950, so I've whipped up the Karl Rove Birthday Kountdown Klock!
During the next month, I'll be sharing some of my traditional RoveDay recipes, games, decorations, etc., but I also wanna hear about how people all over the globe celebrate this special occasion. Be a sweet RoveHo, and let us all know via the comments link, 'kay?
Oh dear...so much to do...so little time...do you think I can still get Fingerhut to deliver by RoveDay? Or would a Frenched Loin be more appropriate? Oh but, it's got "French" in the name - are we still supposed to be loathing the Gallic folks? Would Rovey be angry? Then again, he always seems to be pretty gol-danged happy when he's frenching *my* loins...
Karl Rove Birthday Kountdown Klock: http://www.ilovekarlrove.com/countdown.html
You might not know it from looking at my studious (and he does put the "stud" in "studious") sweetie now, but Rovey likes to have himself a little tipple sometimes! Why, at all six of the undergrad colleges he went to, he had nicknames like "Chug-a-lug Karl" and "Ralphing Rovey". It just wasn't a shindig unless my baby had Jell-O shot in one fist and an Alice B. Toklas brownie in the other!
Now he may not have gotten an actual "degree" from any of these schools (and what the heck do the diploma mills like the University of Utah, the University of Texas at Austin and George Mason University know about education anyhow, huh?), but to a heck of a lot of folks, my Rovey always be known as "Professor Partypants".
(And of course to me, he's Dr. Deeptongue LuV! Tee hee!)
I just have to say that as a slavishly devoted RoveHo, it just scalds my cocoa that George W. can be such a nasty nabob to my sweet Rovey sometimes! Okay yes, W's got sense enough to refer to him as "Boy Genius" a good deal of the time (And he gol dang well better know that if it weren't for the massive medulla of my darling Rovey that he'd be lucky to get elected as head of the bake sale committee for the Midland, TX T-ball team! Humph!), but on other occasions, it's been said (in Time magazine, no less!)...forgive me, it's crushing my heart just to type this...but he likes to refer to my Rovey as..."Turd Blossom".
Oh Rovey, if you're reading this...and I pray to heaven above that you are, the next time W. says anything like that to you, tell him, "With all due respect, Mr. President, shut your stupid piehole, you big meanie! You just SHUT YOUR STUPID PIEHOLE!"
He may be the President and all, but if Rovey is...that word, then...then, I'd rather have a great big, fragrant GARDEN of Turd Blossoms then just one measly Bush in my yard! A Rove by ANY name smells just fine to THIS RoveHo!
Ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh!!! Rovey answered me!!! It's almost as if he's reached through the computer screen and personally laid a meaty finger on my tender frontal lobe and whispered "Shhh...shhh...don't fuss your purty l'il head about it. Just lay back and let Rovey take care of you. Now, just get settled into the harness while Rovey runs to the kitchen for the salad tongs and marmalade..."
Um...I think I need a minute...
I've been thinking how lucky we are to live in the age of unfettered media access - to know that just scant years ago we'd have been deprived the right to scrutinize each and every scintillating second of our government's legislative process in action, that in nations with strictly state-controlled press, the general populace is cruelly deprived of the God-given right we Americans enjoy, of seeing what their democratically elected officials look like when they're whacked out on grande lattes and trucker speed (let alone having democratically elected officials to begin with). Yup - I'm talking filibuster, y'all.
I don't know how you all celebrated, but I stocked up on General Foods International Coffee and chocolate-covered espresso beans and cuddled up in my comfiest jammies on the couch in front of C-SPAN 2, all prepped and ready for a fun-filled night of good ol' fashioned American grandstanding. Granted, I may have missed a few minutes while I was running off to the powder room to, um, revisit the Pizza Hut Meat Lovers' pie and pint of Chunky Monkey I'd bought to share with my girlfriends who totally bailed on coming over to watch this with me tonight. Said they'd "thought I was kidding" and maybe I should "double up on my meds". Well phooey - just shows what they know. NOTHING is better than a 'buster. Not even the party they said they were going to. (Hmmm…my E-vite to it must have bounced or something.) Well I showed them by spending the night (and half the next day) with BOTH parties, so there!
Okay, granted, I may have drifted off a little around hour 15 or so (not sure exactly when it was, but a middle-aged white guy was speaking…), but sure as the swallows fly back to Capistrano, my thoughts fluttered off Roveward. Sigh…just imagine if Rovey was in the Senate, and there were 30 unadulterated hours of him ejaculating pearl after pearl of governmental wisdom. Oh, I'd be first in line to buy that DVD boxed set to watch it slow-mo, freeze frame, or let it fully fill my TiVo hard drive - I'd take it in any way I could.
Just think - a filibuster is sometimes referred to as a "Senate Slumber Party". How utterly adorable would it be to see Rovey take the floor in his footie PJs - or maybe in a robe and comfy slippers…a loosely tied robe that might just happen to slip open or flip up while caught in a gust of air as he strode manfully up to the microphone? Maybe it could even turn into a real slumber party, and when Orrin Hatch fell asleep, Rovey and I could stick his hand in warm water so he'd tinkle himself, or we could freeze Barbara Boxer's bra and then she'd cry and her mom would have to come and pick her up, and we'd giggle, Rovey and I would.
Best of all, there'd definitely be a game of truth or dare and I'd get picked, and I'd have to say which Senator I thought was the hunkiest, and I'd be all "Truth!" and confess my crush on Rovey, and he'd get embarrassed. But when it came around to him, he'd be all "Dare!" and they'd dare him to kiss me, and he'd be trying to act all cool and tough, but then when it finally came to it - he'd totally slip me the tongue. That's just how my Rovey is.
He can buster THIS filly any time he likes!
Life's so much prettier...
...when you see it through Rove colored glasses!
We interrupt this RoveDream™ to let you know that Rovey his own, yummity nummity self, will be taking questions at the next session of Ask The White House! Oh calloo callay! Oh frabjous day, what a magical time it is to be a RoveHo!
Sweet, sweet interweb - you give so much and ask so little. You bring the hunkiest Domestic Policy Advisor in the history of EVER tumbling through the cosmos to nestle all cuddly under the covers with me, Me, ME! Note to self - devise protective waterproof shield for laptop screen, 'cause boy, it's fixin' for a licking come 11/20.
Hmmm...so many questions to ask...it's like having my own little Magic 8-Ball window right into his very SOUL!
"Dear Karl - do you love young ladies who maintain frequently-updated blogs about their hot sticky passion for your husky-boy-sized machismo, and hope to some day exchange adoring glances with one of them while collaborating on clever solutions for the Washington Post's Style Invitational over Grand Slam Breakfasts and Sanka on a lazy Sunday morning?"
"Signs point to yes...Yes...OH GOD IN IN HEAVEN YEEESSSSSSS!!!"
(now back to the rest of the dream I was describing...well, soon...)
Now where was I again? Oh that's right - whacked out on TheraFlu and sacked out watching the West Wing special episode. And for those of you who wrote in and asked, the "riding The Sizzler with Alan Greenspan" is in fact NOT a euphemism for nonconsensual backdoor play amongst incarcerated inside traders in minimum security prisons, nor is it dot-com-era slang for doing coke in the restrooms at an IPO party. It was from a Clinton-era White House staffer in the episode talking about how exciting the job was, and she'd be exhausted and looking forward to relaxing at home, and then pop by a South Lawn carnival with the intention of departing soon after, and instead end up decamped for several hours and riding The Sizzler with Alan Greenspan. Oh, those nutty 90s. Now I can't honestly say that absent the opportunity to nestle my face 'twixt Rovey's manly mammaries for protection, Greenspan would be my automatic thrill-ride go-to guy, but what with his being Federal Reserve Chairman, I'd imagine he's more than used to high-speed ups and downs. Ba dump bump. Thank ya, folks. I'll be here all week. Try the veal.
Aaaaanyhow, I'm wandering through the hallowed halls of the West Wing - at least I assume that's where it is if the TV show is to be believed. Things are all a-bustle, and it occurs to me that I must be dreaming because although I have never been there and as such could not definitively swear, somehow I imagine that in the real life White House, staffers are likely not required to wear adult-sized diapers and terrycloth bibs atop their work attire while humming George Jones' greatest hits. That part's just a guess, but I feel I can with a degree of certainty state that Ari Fleischer and Scott McClellan would not be hanging around the office at the same time, and if so, would likely not be doing it with arms linked, dressed as Tweedles Dum and Dee and skipping about in an exceptionally merry fashion. A hora, perhaps for Ari, and a festive reel for the McClellan lad, but maybe not so much with the skipping. Nonetheless, they bound up a deux.
"What is the message, Ma'am?" "What is the message?"
"Excuse me, um, Sirs?"
"The message, Ma'am" "The message" "We don't" "Know what" "To do" "Unless" "Unless" "We're given" "A message" "A message" "To give"
They grin and cock their heads to the side, seemingly waiting for instruction. It's hard to follow what they're saying, because they're alternating phrases, the one who is speaking stands tall while the other squats down, and they're repeating each other, but eventually I manage to formulate a response. "Uh…I guess I'd like to…see Mr. Rove…If that's allowed…"
As one creature, they spring to their feet, and Tweedle Ari grabs my right hand while Tweedle Scottie squeezes my left. "Only one way" "Just the one way" "That we know of" "To Rove". They're slightly ahead of me, ruffled collars rustling against each other as they mumble with heads bowed toward one another's ears. I can make out very little of what they're saying, but note with amusement as they reach into baggy pockets with their free hands and simultaneously lob over-ripe bananas into an open doorway we pass right before we veer sharply outdoors toward a lavish, manicured garden - the sight of which is ingrained into my memory from photographs and television reports from childhood onward. Flowers bloom prodigiously, despite the light haze of snow that now seems to follow AriScott wherever they bounce about, and the lawn is impossibly lush and green, rolling lazily around what appears to be a carnival ride smack dab in the center of the grounds. I stroll around it, slightly bemused, and a shade overwhelmed by the heady midway scent of popcorn in the air.
"Um, guys? Where's…I mean, this is interesting and all, but you said Karl would be out here and…"
"Oh Ma'am" "Ma'am" "Tee hee!" "Tee hee!" "We never promised" "No we didn't" "We never promised you a Rove garden"
My heart sinks down and leaches into the soil as Tweedle AriScott walk away. So close…so close I was to encountering my lovely Rovey and…"What the hell are you DOING?" The two of them have sidled up and are quickly massaging something warm and oily into my bare calves, knees and arms. Ari is reaching up toward my forehead, when I bat him away and whirl around to see the stand from which they've both returned. I look up from a TV-familiar face to note the banner above - "Hot Buttered Rumsfelds $1". I scowl at the proprietor, and he grins back.
"You'll like him much better" "Much better" "Much better indeed" "After you've been through" "Been through the machine" Now firmly grasping and massaging the goo into my elbows, they're marching me over toward the carnival ride. Now that I'm looking straight at it, rather than darting my eyes around in search of a rambling Rovey, I note that it's seemingly constructed just for one person.
"Just what does that thing DO, and why in the world are you SLATHERING me, you madmen?"
"It's better this way" "It's butter this way" "He'll like you utterly" "Butterly" "Better this way" And by this time they've wrested me into the padded armchair in the center of the ride, harnessed me in, and are walking to opposite sides of the round, lightbulb-bedecked pedestal to which the chair is bolted. "The butter makes it better"
They've each grabbed a handle and begun walking, so the entire device is beginning to turn, and the bulbs have begun colorfully, tourettically flashing. "Makes what better?!?" I'm starting to panic.
"Machine works better" "Works better all buttered up" "No go" "No go to Rovey unless you've ridden it." "He built it himself" "Himself, you know"
"Built WHAT? Ridden WHAAAT?" The words are ripped from my mouth as the Tweedles have sped up their pace. The roses and bushes are blurring, but just before I succumb to sick and dizziness, I hear quite clearly, they speak as one…
"Hiissssss spiiiiiiiiiin maaaaaachiiiiiine…"
(to be continued - sorry, RoveHos - it was a wicked long dream!)
And while you're waiting to read the next entry (and find out just what in the world "Riding The Sizzler with Alan Greenspan" has to do with anything), suckle on a steaming hot cup 'o Karl!
Guaranteed 100% leak-proof!
Now where was I? Ah yes…sacked out on the couch with the sniffles and a steaming mug of TheraFlu. Now if you've never had the pleasure, I recommend that you shut off the monitor THIS SECOND and hightail it on down to your local drugstore to buy yourself a one-way ticket to the TheraValley, doll! Tee hee! It's good for what ails ya - from post-nasal drip, flu aches and hacking coughs to dealing with calls from your mother when she's all, "But I really thought you and 'Demmy' were in it for the long haul, I don’t understand, he was such a nice boy, and you're not back on that whole Thing again are you? I thought you'd worked through all that with Dr. Rugmunch after the incident…and besides, I can't believe that a daughter of MINE would hold such a right-wing, civil-liberties-stomping, autocratic regime in such high esteem. Did Francine and I teach you nothing? You know we'll be chanting a special prayer for you to the sparrow goddess at doumbek circle tonight…" and you're all just wanting to chill out and watch Hannity & Colmes.
Aaaanyhow, I was navigating Lake Blissful Haze on the SS TheraFlu, when my TiVo made its blingy little "please ma'am, may I change the channel?" noise, and generally I let it, because, well, it's gotten to know me pretty well, and lucky I did 'cause if I've said it once, I've said it a kajillion times - a TiVo should be mandatory for any RoveHo in the know. Just plug "Karl Rove" into your "wish list" (ah…if only that worked in real life…), and your TiVo will grab all shows with Rovey in the listings! Does this make me a TiVo RoveHo? Tee hee! Anyhow, I must have dozed off for a little while, but something…some magical Rove-dar must have aroused me (meow!) from my sleep, because when I woke up…oh glory day, and pass the wet-naps, there was Rovey DANCING on my screen! It was a merry little jig in the snow as he frolicked about like Santa's Senior Advisory Elf at play on a break from the workshop. Oh how he cavorted, ducking frozen projectiles from playful reporters outside a stump stop in the hinterlands of New Hampshire. Needless to say, I was transfixed…and freeze-framed and slow-mo-ed until he was dancing a sinuous sub-zero samba just for me…just for V…chins swaying an achingly sweet pas des deux in the arctic air….oh my sin, my soul…my Rovey…
I checked the info on the TiVo menu and noted that it was "Journeys With George" (and left it cued right up to the money shot for, uh, future use) before browsing to see what other goodies the technology fairies had left me while I was passed out. Why, I must have saved a whole basket of drowning kitties in a past life, because there he was AGAIN! This time in the West Wing Special Episode - and oh, just like me, my snuffly-wuffly Rovey had a wittle cold (maybe from playing in the snow sans his galoshes, that naughty boy!). Boy, that Aaron Sorkin's got a good head on his shoulders. Usually when I hear "special episode", I think oh great, it's gonna be like that one on Little House on the Prairie where the blacksmith in the clown mask rapes Albert's girlfriend, or the Diff'rent Strokes where guest star Gordon Jump tries to touch all the little boys on their winkles. Well, this West Wing sure made MY bathing suit area feel all thingly, but it sure wasn't in a "bad touch" kinda of way, no sirree! Again, my nimble fingers got a workout (on the TiVo remote, you dirty birdie! Okay, maybe it was on one particular hot button…), and I stretched Rovey's twenty mucus-soaked seconds into a heavenly quarter hour before I opted to watch the rest of the very very special special. Spent from my efforts, I must have dozed off again sometime after hearing a low-level Clinton staffer rambling on about "riding The Sizzler with Alan Greenspan" (I checked later and yup indeedy, that's what she said.) because…
(To be continued…soon…I promise…)
Mea, maxima mondo culpa to all you RoveHos lookin' for a fix this week, and coming up bupkus. I'm working on a wicked long entry (one needs an especially long entry where Rovey's concerned, I'll tell you!) which'll be posted soon, but for now...
"COLUMBIA, S.C. - A man charged with entering a restricted area during an October 2002 presidential visit has subpoenaed U.S. Attorney General John Ashcroft (news - web sites) and Bush political adviser Karl Rove to testify at his trial next week."
Well garsh! If I knew it was *that* easy to get in the same room with Rovey, I'd have filed a motion *ages* ago.
"Mr. Rove, you're being served."
"What's this lawsuit about?"
"My client is charging you with breaking and entering."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Sneaking into her dreams and stealing her heart, Sir. Not to mention destruction of *very* private property."
"Her lingerie, sir. It's suffered severe dampness damage and she claims it's all your fault..."
To be continued...
Look - Rovey's trying to protect my modesty. Isn't that sweet? I always think it's so cute when we're out and he tries to do that but then we get home and he's pulling out the marshmallow fluff and a packet of bulldog clips for use, um, *not* in the kitchen or the office, and I'm all "So, where's all the modesty supposed to be now?" and Rovey's all "Be quiet and tighten the straps, and hurry up, because Bernie Mac's on in twenty minutes and I don't want to miss it!" and I'm all "Mmmmm...that's my Rovey." Other politicians *say* they're into diversity, but my snookie-pie really means it!
Heidy-ho, my fellow RoveHos! Hope y'all are having a spiffy Halloweekend. I'm just dying to see how many of you were indeed lucky enough to seduce your sweeties or pals into suiting up as our yummy l'il dreamagogue. Send in pix! I'm having to be all vicarious on this one 'cause 1. well, readers from my old site know all the gory details of why I'm sans significant other as of late (I'll recap for all you newbies at some point soon - suffice it to say, my ex (a.k.a. "Demmy") was no Rovey, so he had to go-vey - LOL - I'm a poet!) and 2. yours truly had a raging case of the sniffles and huddled on the couch in a TheraFlu-induced stupor - though strangely, that ended up working out pretty goshdarned well. I'll explain in a minute, but first…I must apologize.
To all of you whom I may have inadvertently offended, I offer my maxima maxima culpa. It's come to my attention that I may have alienated some members of the RoveHo community by initially offering only the ILKR Thong, and not considering that there would be those out there in aching need of man panties festooned with Rovey's pouting puss. I was in such a hurry to get the merchandise out, so as to give his female constituents (especially ME!) a chance to have a private, in depth briefing with him, that I neglected the needs of the male RoveHos, and I'm terribly, terribly sorry. Roveosexuality crosses all party (and panty!) lines, and if we've learned nothing else from our Commander-In-Beef(cake), it's that everyone needs to cover their ass from time to time! Tee hee! Again, I'm super duper sorry, and I'm hoping that my sister and brother RoveHos (or is it RoveHeaux? We've never really worked that one out, have we?) can see clear to forgive me. I'm so em-bare-assed. Oh there I go again!
Ohhhh…right…I've still gotta tell you all about my little trip on the TheraFlu Express. Hang on…I need to grab a Fresca…
It's the official "I Love Karl Rove" MAN PANTIES! Who better to cover your glueteus maximus than the hunkus maximus who's made an art form of it?