Just in time for Roventine's Day, a couple of all-new Rove-o-grams!
Plus coming soon, full color print 'n clip cards. Hey, underpaid Hill staffers - they're free when you use the mimeograph at work! Spread the Rove. I know *this* RoveHo will.
Oooh - and I wonder what I can do to get my Cuddlenumpkyporp into the next issue of Sweet Action! I shouldn't be the only RoveHo who gets an up-close 'n personal peep at my Rovey's chief of staff.
Lieberman can keep his "Cuppa Joe". *This* 'ho is having a hard time keeping her knees together enough to hold back the gush of Rovementum that's straining at the dam! Rovementum is flowing all around us - seeping down the city streets, and trickling into the very plumbing of our lives, filling us it with its warm, golden glow.
Oh RoveHos, I can almost taste the Rovementum, and it tastes YUMMY...
I just have to address something that's been sticking in my craw lately (and thus disallowing Rovey from full access to my craw, and you can just imagine how cranky that makes him!).
I get soooo much nice mail from fellow RoveHos all the time, saying how amazing it is to them that my Doodoolumpikins got to be an incredibly influential White House poohbah, without anyone even having to go to the bother of voting for him. Heck - I don't know what Rovey's boss would do without "the most powerful unelected person in American history" there to help him stay awake at work when has to hunker down and pull an all-afternooner in the Oval Office, stop him from pointing the tv clicker toward Mr. Cheney's pacemaker, spit-wipe the Cheez Doodle dust off his nose and lapels before meetings with the DEA, etc. It's a super-full time job for a guy who didn't even get to celebrate an electoral victory with a Chocolate Meltdown Cake at the Chi-Chi's over at the Winn-Dixie Plaza. No - as usual, it had to be All About His Boss, and I thank all you thoughtful RoveHos who have written in to tell me that you hope he'll have a nice long rest and lots of time to spend with his Cuddlenumplette after the election in November. And extra smoochies to the folks who offered to chip in and buy us both tickets to visit far off lands like Antarctica, Nova Zembla and East Bumblefudge! So sweet of you!
But the thing that's left the bitter taste on my tongue (well, besides Rovey's new brand of male itch unguent - bleaugh!) are the grouchy gingriches who write in to say things like "Eeeeewwww! I can't believe you make a website about making sticky nookie with Karl Rove!" and "Karl Rove humping with you?!? My eyes! Myyyy eeeyyyyessss!!!! You can't be serious!?!?" Well all I have to say is that that is just…well…MEAN and you can all shut your nasty pudding holes, you hear me! I mean, do you think I don't KNOW I'm not the prettiest chicken in the barnyard, and that what with Rovey spending his at-work hours with dishy little vixens like Karen Hughes and his boss's Mom, I'm lucky he so much wants to look at me, let alone make cuddle lumps? He could drape his Sansabelts and sock garters on the credenza of any fetching RoveHo he so pleased, but he picked plain old ME! I can't understand it, but I try to thank St. Dymphna every day by doing something nice like whipping up a batch of Pat Robertson's Age Defying Shakes for hungry young Hill staffers, or distributing Rovey's retired athletic supporters to underprivileged teens at the Police Athletic League. Rovey is playing so waaaayyyy out of my league that I'm grateful for any second he lets me dribble his balls!
Golly - people are just soooo silly sometimes! All this fuss about the little yelp that Dr. Deanypants let out after getting caucus-spanked in the corn belt last week. What the heck would folks go thinking if they heard some of the sounds that Rovey lets fly when he's just sprawled on the davenport with a warmed-up jar of dijonnaise and watching Gilmore Girls? Sometimes they're at such a pitch that the neighbors' schnauzer comes waddling over to bury his little wet snout in the Y of Rovey's tighty whities and sniffle around to see what the heck is going on.
Then again, he also does that if Rovey's had a spill and forgotten to wear his drippin' bib (Oh you just *try* and get that man to put on trousers during supper on a Gilmore Night, and see how it goes!) on Braunschweiger Tuesdays. Sometimes, I'd just about swear that he was making such a mess on purpose just to vex me. Or, truth be told, 'cause he knows that I'll get a l'il jealous of the way the doggie's chilly snout makes him wiggle around, and I'll push the greedy pooch aside and go on my own little snuffling truffle hunt.
But if nothing else, I know for sure that the folks next door are super-extra enchanted with the sweet squeals Rovey peals while we're making our cuddle lumps out back in the jerky shed. They thought it was so neato that they invited all our other neighbors to listen in and call all their city council pals over to hear as well! In fact, we heard them all talking about the neighborhood association having a special meeting just so everyone else could bask in the happiness. But once Rovey stepped out of the shed in his sexy birthday best, they all scurried away. They all know how modest my baby is, and how he wouldn't want to have anyone else make a stink on his account. That's *his* job, after all - my Rovey makes his own stink, and he won't put up with anyone else's!
How totally amazing is it that while we were canvassing in Iowa, we found not only a loose meat restaurant, but one that was Rovey themed?!? It was if all Heaven's cherubim were singing down our golden, buttery love on that chilly Des Moines afternoon. And I don't mind telling you - I took my Sloppy Rove with an extra shot of Special Sauce between the buns, and spent the rest of the day Wet-Napping away the dribbles I'd missed. Snack time with my Rovey is always finger-lickin' good!
More in a bit - Rovey and I have had a super-crazy day. His boss had to give a big speech tonight, and since the next Hooked On Phonics hadn't arrived in the mail yet, the plan to have Rovey's boss read off the TelePrompter was suddenly shot to heck. So, instead of watching the broadcast between our feet, snuggled up in bed with two spoons and a pint of oleo, we had to scurry on over to the Capitol so Rovey could stand backstage and whisper the speech into his boss's earpiece. Of course it was my constitutionally mandated task as First RoveHo to keep Rovey calm, so I had to take my usual position under his podium. Though it was a l'il bit fragrant down there, what with my Poolumpikin's nervous tum-tum, and his motorcade's last-minute detour through the Taco Bell Drive-Thru (you just *try* and get between Rovey and his Nacho Beef Chalupas!), I performed the most inspiring Patriot Acts I could muster, and I found myself simply overflowing with the milk of national pride when the flag I was saluting rose to full mast! The state of OUR union is rock solid, Rovey!
Oh, and speaking of things in a Granite State, his boss totally forgot to mention Rovey's new prescription drug benefit plan! He's testing it out next Tuesday in New Hampshire at Senior centers all across the state. Not only will the medicine be free, but he's also going to surprise them by giving them double the strength they asked for, so they'll be extra-healthy when they go out to vote for their fellow veteran, Senator John Kerry at the primary polls. Yup - a spoonful of Rovey makes everything go down smoother. Which reminds me - it's time to whip his prune 'n Kaopectate shake through the blender. Catch you later, RoveHos!
Oh golly, I have the very sweetest Squbbleblumpkins *ever*! I had to scuttle back home 'cause the pudding truck is scheduled to come by later today (Rovey gets all fretty when the pistachio tank gets low), and Rovey had to stay behind in Iowa to make sure that all the Kerry-ites get out and vote. He's so anxious about their showing up that he's actually personally driving (in disguise, of course - Rovey wouldn't wanna steal the limelight!) busloads of Greatest Generation voters from their nursing homes to their caucus location. From what he's told me, it's being held in a bomb shelter in the middle of a cornfield 80 miles outside of Ottumwa, and he was afraid they wouldn't be able to find it what with the dirt roads, and the no lights or signs and all. But he's such a compassionate Cuddlepants, that he's even taking his lunch hour off tomorrow to go back and pick them up! It really is the personal touches that are going to make the difference for Rovey and in this campaign!
And speaking of personal touching, Rovey didn't want his #1 RoveHo to go neglected while he's off lovingly penetrating the hearts and minds of Iowatians on behalf of Dr. Dean. That funny little monkey must have hacked onto the interweb and played with my plane reservation 'cause something funny about it made me get an orange sticker on my ticket jacket and get LOTS of ultra up-close attention at the Des Moines Airport! With every finger that carefully probed my person, and each careful item-by-item hand shuffle through all my checked and carry-on baggage, I felt as if Rovey himself was copping an intimate snuggle and fondling my as-yet-unlaundered dainties. Mmmmm! Elevate my alert level all the way to red. Red hot 'n ready, that is!
Rovey's off to New Hampshire next week, where naturally he'll be putting the "man chest" into Manchester! Mmmrrrooowww!
Rovey was fretting about my having never canvassed before, so before he let me set out to win the hearts and minds of Iowaitians, we did some role playing in our motel room. All I can say is - the ladies of the Hawkeye State don't stand a chance with Rovey beating a path to their welcome mats! I know *I'd* come to his caucus every single time he wanted to hold it - not to mention taking his entrance and exit polls. Even with such a tight race, that Mr. Dick and the two Johns are surely not going to be able to stand up against Howie Dean when he's got such stiff support from my Rovey!
Oooh - gotta go. Rovey's poking at me to go and get some loose meat (a local delicacy!) with him before we head on back to campaign HQ. More later, RoveHos…
p.s. Oh golly - I got bumped from Anderson Cooper 360 on Friday night, but they say we'll tape a segment with me soon at home! I guess everyone wants to see where Rovey and me make our sweet sweet cuddle lumps at!
p.p.s. That other RoveHo followed us all the way to Des Moines! (scroll down Comment: Strong Showing By New Yorkers Among Deaniacs) Is she trying to wrench my Rovey away, or does she just wanna help me make a Rovewich? Tee hee - if Rovey brings the Miracle Whip, I'll bring something to spread it with!
Oh golly, what a day it's been! Since it was all snowy, Rovey spent the morning simply glued to the davenport watching Zogby returns on CNN (though of course he had The View in split screen in the corner - nothing short of Armageddon could get in the way of Rovey's "Star Time", and even if it came to that, I think Rovey's boss would know to wait until after the show was over to press the button). But once he saw how tight the Iowa race was running, he declared in that manly, mucus-lubricated, won't-take-no-for-an-answer twang of his, "Virginia, get my long johns. We're going to Des Moines!"
Well, after I pried him up from his seat (Turns out he *was* glued to the davenport! I really should be more careful mopping up after we use the honey bear…), oh how merrily we danced! "Iowa?!?!?!", you say? Why would you get so frothed up over a trip to the CornNut State? Well for one, I defy you to find me any girl who doesn't get a little dewy down South over the notion of a great big caucus like that. And in case *that's* not a solid enough thrust in an Iowan direction for you, imagine this motel time with Rovey!
Few things get my Blubblenumpkin's whities tighter than the texture of a musty Vellux blanket on his bare tushie while he's gripping a Gideon bible in one paw, and a moist lump of mushed-up vending machine Nutter Butters in the other. Especially if the TV is wired for basic cable so I can tweezer-tend his lower back tufts to the background dulcet tones of Lou Dobbs. Ahhhh…heaven.
Anyhow, they're expecting us, or rather Liberty Seafoam Smith and his common-law love-bride Dolphinsqueak Patchouli Jones-Smith (he thought we'd fit in better with the campaign that way) at the Iowa for Dean headquarters tomorrow. As I've mentioned before, I think my Rovey has a little boy-crush on Dr. Deanypants, 'cause he seems reeeeeealllly keen on having Dean be the Dem out on the campaign trail come this summer and fall. So, we're going to be campaigning our chilly little buns off door-to-door in the Des Moines area, swapping out Joe Trippi's Diet Pepsi I.V.s, hand-stretching Governor Dean's shirt collars whatever is needed!
Rovey might also slip on over to Gephardt (where he'll be Joey H. Milktruck) and Kerry (there he's Pinkerton Worthington Sheffield Smithson IV) headquarters to get a feeling for what their constituents are thinking and driving, and where they keep the keys and sparkplugs for what they're driving. I'm sure he just wants to make sure everyone gets to the caucus safely and on time on Monday! I'll be sure to keep you all abreast of the situation.
Oh, and if thanks to Rovey's boss's economic policies you're blessed with the funds for luxuries like basic cable and feel like tuning in to CNN on Friday evening at 7:00 EST, there's a chance I might be chatting with that dreamy (all though OF COURSE, he's no hunktacular Rovey!) Anderson Cooper about my boundless love for my Blubblenumpykins, and the super-fun chats I had with the agents who look after his boss! Rovey's only considering letting me do thins 'cause it'd be a remote from Iowa, and not in the studio where I just might fall prey to my past Tuckaho temptations. Like I said before, Tucker Carlson and I have been over for AGES, but my Rovey is *such* a sensitive boy. He cries while watching The O.C. sometimes, you know.
I guess one of Rovey's former workmates has been telling tales out of school, 'cause it sure seems like my baby's name is on everyone's lips again (now they must now how I feel - a Rovey on the lips is sure to make you thrust your hips!).
When I was waiting my turn at the jerky store this afternoon, I heard someone on the radio talking about how that naughty tattletale Paul O'Neill said that my baby has a mantra for his boss, "Stick to principle. Stick to principle. Stick to principle…" Now while I don't doubt that Rovey had to re-tell his boss things a time or two, (When he was over at our house for supper, I had to politely say a few times, "No, Sir - that's just my cornstarch/flour/baking soda, not pretty scented powder", but still I'd find that old silly sniffing around in my kitchen!), I can't say I know exactly what Rovey told him at work. I know that he's said "stick" and "principal" to me, but only on our Plaid Skirt Nights when I have to "go down to the office" and Rovey paddles me for smuggling Chomsky pamphlets and Howard Zinn texts to school in my bookbag. He doles out a l'il "corporal fun-ishment", has me kneel to say a half-dozen Hail Roveys, and sends me back to class chastened and sore-bottomed, with the latest issue of the National Review stuffed in my sack.
Now, while again, I don't know *exactly* what goes on with Rovey all day at his job, I sure hope he's not playing our private game with his boss - I'd feel a tiny bit hurt, I think. And it had gosh darned well better not be with Mrs. Laura! I've seen the way she looks at my Rovey with that sweet glazed-doughnut smile! Then again, I've seen her look at Barney and plates of grapefruit with that same expression, so maybe she's just really, really, really happy and friendly by nature.
And as for a mantra, well, I know that Rovey has one that he likes to say to stay inspired while he's watching Ellen DeGeneres and doing his Thighmaster exercises. But I can't imagine *that* would ever come up at work either, so I'm pretty sure this Mr. O'Neill is just a great big fibber trying to use my sweet Rovey to get his name into the papers!
And speaking of the fourth estate, look - another RoveHo in the news! Hmmm…maybe I should drop her a note…
I've said it before and I suppose I have to say it again, 'cause folks don't seem to be able to shut their flappin' porkholes about it. The ONLY leaking that Rovey's doing is of HIS yummy man-juice into MY mouth (or occasionally into his BVDs after one of our midnight runs to Taco Bell - but that's private between a man and his RoveHo). So you can all just stop with this silly Plame twaddle, and the "frog marching" and the "be careful when you're bending over to pick up the soap" and the "hey, bitch, that's my pudding / look out he's got a shiv / guard! guard!" talk! Pottymouths, all of you!
Double sigh. But if you're *really* feeling like you're needing to lash out and punish someone, Rovey is more than man enough to take it. We've arranged for a session tonight wherein I will slip on the Trippi mask, tighten the straps a notch past comfy on the Special Chair, and perform interpretive dances in front of surveillance tapes of Howard Dean Meet-Ups until my Cuddlenumpkins cries. Will THAT make you happy?!?!
Whooooo - am I ever relieved that Rovey approves of my newest tattoo, 'cause I sure don't think I could go through that whole laser scrapey thing again! I mean of *course* I'll do whatever it takes to keep my baby happy, but he, more than anyone should know that my time as a Tuckaho has been WAAAAAAY over for AGES and Tucker Carlson and I are JUST GOOD FRIENDS now. It was just one of those silly whims of youth - like camping out all night for Vangelis tickets, chugging down quarts of expired skim milk just for the rush, or spontaneously road tripping to the Calvin Coolidge Presidential Library with a bunch of pals for the sheer devil-may-care thrill of it all. Tucks and I had our time, but it's over now, and I try each and every day, in every way to let Rovey know that he's my A#1 G.O.P. humpbunny, and now I've got him under my skin until the day I DIE!
That's not to say that I don't still get the occasional panty pang when I spy a tight-bunned young gent in a dapper bow tie picketing in front of the local Planned Parenthood, but shhhh - don't tell Rovey! It'll be our little secret...
Well thank goodness! The press prints so many nasty little fibs about my Rovey, that it does my heart a bushel of good when some fair, balanced news outlet actually offers hardcore facts about my cuddlenumpkins.
The current issue of Newsweek says…
You bet my baby's got a golden throat - and he's not shy about opening it up to let a sweet stream of notes flow! While I've mentioned before that Rovey got into college on a skin flute scholarship (He doesn't play much these days, but he sure doesn't mind letting me borrow his instrument so he can watch me tootle away!), aside from his legendary performances at Log Cabin Republican cocktail hours and karaoke nights at his favorite little Dupont Circle boite, the general public sadly just isn't aware of his glorious oral talents. But I am one charmed RoveHo, indeed! I just never know if I'm going to get an impromptu full-dress rendition of a number or two from Pinafore, a soulful a cappella croon of whatever Backstreet slow-jam is repeating on his iPod that day, or a full blown Sousa march tooting under the covers after my Rovey's eaten a smidge too much dairy before beddy-bye.
Honestly, though, even more than his music making, I adore my baby for his dancing - especially when he catches me unawares and thrusts me into a horizontal mambo. Rovey may have two left feet, but lucky for me, at least one whole foot of that is right where it oughta be!
One, two, hot cha-cha!
My dears, I have seen some sexy things in my tenure as First RoveHo a denuded Rovey emerging from a midnight dip in the pudding vat, with moonlight glinting off his butterscotch-slicked hindquarters and amply padded man-teats, demanding to be tongue-dried mama cat/baby kitten fashion…Rovey's Crisco-pale skin swelling like ripe, rising sourdough against the edges of the Special Chair's straps…the tender peach-cleft of his sumptuous hindquarters gently fuzzed with fronds of green pajama flannel nestled in the resident hair during an afternoon nap (now that he waxes from navel on down, it is but a distant, cherished memory to which I cling). But after yesterday's retail romp, I believe I can safely proclaim the A#1 (to date) formula for RoveHo happiness…
IKEA Swedish Meatballs + Sweaty Rovey = One ecstatic RoveHo
The trip commenced as it always does - enjoying a lashing of lingonberries and marinated herring, while Rovey pops down a few dozen of the tasty, gravy slathered Swedish meatballs for which the IKEA cafeteria is famous. I'd rather wanted a plate of my own, but that wily Rovey told me that should I prove a good and obedient RoveHo during this shopping venture, he'd allow me some once we'd passed through the check out. Rovey sealed the deal by allowing me to suckle a small rivulet of gravy from the splattered edge of his polo shirt's collar, and I was then, as per my usual, in the thrall of both Rovey and savory pork products.
We wended our way through the store in the usual fashion - testing out the beds and couches for potential springiness and solidity during our typical carnal frolics (And NO, you cheeky monkeys - we kept our clothes ON! There were kids present, for heck's sake! We used our special NASA-designed StealthFly suits to mask any docking from impressionable eyes.) But the *real* thrill came when we entered the self-service furniture section to acquire the Hümpløgg chair they'd called to tell us was back in stock. We'd already nabbed Klïtsukk and Tüshrimm, so by the time we got to aisle 6C, Rovey was a bit dewy from the effort of schlepping the heavily laden cart. As he squatted down to help me heft the awkward box onto the dolly, he emitted a manly grunt, and a bit of wind, and the sound and scent caused me to look over at my Rovey. Ohhhhh…Rovehos…his khaki Sansabelts strained against his meaty loins…the thin cotton of the undershirt down to which he'd stripped clung sopped and matted to his chest, teasing me with the crisp outline of both pert nipples and each wisp of hair on his chest and back…the musky aroma of Rovey's cascading perspiration mingled with the intoxicating scent of the gravy that had seeped through the fabric and sent me into a lustful frenzy, the likes of which even I had not before known…
Gentle reader, I led him by the waistband, behind a discreetly tall stack of Tüngfelch, and you'd better believe I coerced him into feeding me some of those meatballs.
Oh RoveHos, I'm so excited! Rovey's sneaking away from work for a few hours tomorrow, and he's taking me to IKEA! The store just called to tell us that our special order is in, and I'm so giddy, I could barely swallow the spoonfuls of gefilte pork that Rovey was feeding me. I've been measuring and scheming and dreaming just how our cozy, intimate space will snugly accommodate Schtupväär, Wangrübb, Snätchprïk and my favorite, Küntlïkk. I just can't wait to see just how deeply they'll impregnate our current design aesthetic!
Catch you in the ball crawl, RoveHos!
Even though he just drives me nuts sometimes, every once in a while, Rovey's boss gets a big ol' Hickory Farms basket chock full of clue and takes one of Rovey's suggestions! Oh come on now - who do you *think* came up with "National Take Your Ho To Work Day"? Well okay, it was first enacted under the previous administration, but there was, um, sturdy opposition from the East Wing so it wasn't made into an official program. But now Rovey made it so!
I don't know what Mrs. Laura thinks about NTYHTWD, but she was allowed to have an extra one of the yellow pills for breakfast the day they held the press conference (she says it's like a little trip to Club Med - right in your very own head!), so she didn't seem to care very much. Actually heck - she must have been kinda happy about it, because she kept smiiiiiiling until her Chief of Staff Ms. Ball came in to remind her that it was time for Passions. Mrs. Laura asked me to come along, but I think soap operas are kind of smutty, so I just politely said maybe next time.
She gave me a big, wet kiss on the forehead and went off to watch her stories, but also, heck - what does she think I do with my time? I mean sure, there are whole lot of chores around the house - making sure all the equipment is properly lubricated, checking the level and temperature of the backyard pudding vat, seeing that any guests we have staying in the basement (Sigh...just like I suspected, we got stuck taking care of his boss's friend Oscar-Ben Larden and I think Rovey said he's going to be hanging out until at least October!) don't get out of their cages, gherkin wranglin, and sponging up after Rovey eats prune curry late at night and is too sleepy to make it to the little boys' room. Whew! What a day!
But even with all that, I'm not just a stay-at-home-Ho! No Sir - even though Rovey makes enough to keep us both plenty cozy (Rovey said I could just *earn* my keep from him - but all the humpypumpy is just as much fun for me, so really, I should just pay HIM), it just makes a girl feel good to earn a little pin money of her own. So, in addition to having a tiny part time job in the White House Propaganda Department, I have a cute little shop in Georgetown where I sell quilts and cuddly baby toys made from hair Rovey leaves in the shower drain (just like the Native Americans, we believe in using every part of the sexy, sexy animal!), and I'm head of the Radiochem/Polymer Chemistry Department at the College of William and Mary, but I always make sure to be home in time to have a roast on the table, a smile on my face, and a chilled pitcher of Baco-tinis ready for Rovey! After all, my Blubblenumpkins works HARD all day!
So we all know Rovey's the scholar in the family, of course. I mean, sure, I have a couple of PhDs, an MFA in Metalsmithing and an LL.M. in Transnational Law, but Rovey went to SIX different colleges, and he cared just so much about embiggening his mind, that he didn't bother to be a silly ol' degree hog like me! He's just a sucker for the book larnin'!
But, even with all his modesty, I know it must just drive him nuts that his boss is a world famous literary star now. Mrs. Laura had to get all show-offy fancy pants and read that poem he wrote her. You know
"Roses are red
Violets are blue
Oh my, lump in the bed
How I've missed you.
Roses are redder
Bluer am I
Seeing you kissed by that charming French guy.
The dogs and the cat, they missed you too
Barney's still mad you dropped him, he ate your shoe
The distance, my dear, has been such a barrier
Next time you want an adventure, just land on a carrier."
Well of *course* it's *good* - it rhymes and everything, but I still think it lacks some of the finesse of Rovey's poems. Oh, he'd be so miffed at me if I knew he was sharing these (he's such a shy little poo-poo possum!), but I just can't stand by and let his shining talent be dimmed by the bushel basket of, well the Bushes. Here goes…
Roses are red
Urine is yellow
Now down on your knees, Ho
And pleasure your fellow!
Commies are Reds
Hippies are Greens
Get on all fours,
I'll pretend that you're Dean
Roses are red
Now, I'm not naming names,
But, open your mouth
And I'll screw it like Plame's
Roses are red
So's my erection
Pharms like Viagra
Paid for *this* election!
Roses are red
Like the terror alert
Stay crap-your-pants scared
And no one gets hurt
Roses are red
Oil is black
But of course that's not why
Your kid died in Iraq
Isn't Rovey a little softie-pie? He writes poems about pretty flowers. He's so sensitive. Now, of course you can tell if you've been reading along with me for a while, that words are not my first language (I prefer to express myself through the medium of Inuit Lard Dancing). But on occasion I have a halfway decent eye for the pretty where I find it like the way that the moonlight glistens off Rovey's toe blisters in a midnight popping session on the patio, or the plaintive whisper of a summer wind through Rovey's back hair.
So, when I was taking a peek at this site's server logs to see if those nice boys from the Treasury Department were still looking in to see if Rovey and I are doing okay (we're just hunky dory, thanks for asking!), I noticed that the search engine words folks were typing in to find the site made a funny little poem! Here they are, and though I slipped in a little bit of spacing and punctuation, I didn't change anything else. Golly - it's like all we RoveHos wrote a poem together!
Ode On A Greasy Yearn
Karl Rove turd blossoms
Karl Rove antichrist
Karl Rove uranium
Who is Karl Rove?
Jerky turkey loves, click here for my...
Address bucket, all animals!
Photo, little teat pap girl?
[Valerie Plame photos]
Bush, unsticker snackin cake add ins.
Little girls in love.
Mad cow? Hickory Farms sausage safety!
Jerky turkey, Loves? Click here for my address.
Bucket all busted.
Watch! Double double animal style!
Hot valerie plame banged my pics. Double animal gay!
Be her Lieberman for Karl Rove.
My address? Double for little bucket.
Here, Jerky Turkey loves all.
Click, farms, teat, pap, cow, Sausage Girl.
Wheeee! RoveHos are poets, and now everyone knows it! (Pssst! If you write any yourself, send 'em in to me look to the side for my address, or paste 'em in the comments section and I'll post up the best ones! My very favorite one might even get a special Rovey prize!) Oh - and also toss me a little note if you wanna know whenever I have new things to tell you about Rovey!
Oh golly, I'm glad the holidays are over! Not that I begrudge celebrating the day that blessed this world with my Rovey, of course. (For those of you not in the know, his birthday is December 25th - just like Jesus!) It's just that there's barely enough time to schlep to the Sam's Club to stock up on Wet-Naps and dijonnaise, wax the hovercraft, take Rovey's kitty to her Feldenkrais session, and bake festive holiday gherkin bread, let alone get any of my special Pudding Time with Rovey.
And it's not like I'm the only busy one. What with all the hours in the prosthetics chair, the daily trips to Burlington (Rovey's volunteering as an intern on the Howard Dean campaign. Isn't that sweet? He's even doing it under a different name so as not to be a credit hog!), teaching his boss to read, and all the hours over at DARPA working on the PatrioTester™, Rovey barely has time to cram down his mid-morning Wheatena, let alone cramming anything anywhere else it might be needed.
So, it sure was a stroke of luck when a catalog misaddressed to a "G. Stephanopoulos" showed up at Rovey's work, and we were introduced to the wonders of the Electro-Thong! Rovey had one of the NASA boys tinker with the remote's frequency and rig it up so that now any time Rovey trips the switch by scratching south of his Bible Belt, I get a buzzy little bat all flapping in my belfry! And it certainly doesn't hurt that for days at a time, Rovey gets too busy to swap into fresh skivvies. So he itches, and I get the twitches in my britches!
Ain't technology grand?
Well we *were* supposed to be ringing in '04 with a rollicking, patriotic singalong chez one of Rovey's work pals, but at the last minute, Mr. Ashcroft recused himself from throwing the shindig. I don't really know what - something about a leak and his bookcase, suitcase - some kind of case. Heck, I don't know - maybe he's afraid that the damage is going to bring his house down. Personally, I think that's a leeeeetle bit paranoid, but hey - Rovey knows best and he said it was okay if Ashy stepped down from his hosting post.
Aaaanyhow, Rovey spun right into action, and I'll tell you all about our frolic after I get back from the pork store, but…
Res-Ho-lution for 2004
Remember that even if Rovey is a cocksure l'il froggy and marches on up to the head of the line at the Sizzler and orders the hostess to clear the dining room so that you and Rovey can have unfettered access to their famous All You Care To Eat Dessert Bar, make sure that the special Rove-top Sundae you construct is navel to knees rather than nipples to knees, 'cause otherwise you'll lick up so much hot, gooey fudge that you won't even make it to the nuts and banana before collapsing into a diabetic coma. And that's no way to commence the New Year!