Wheeeee! Come to M Shanghai in Brooklyn on March 5th and listen to me chat about vacation fun with Rovey!
There may be pudding.
Just wanted to pop in and say howdy-do to all you RoveHos, and let you know that today's entry is going to be a l'il late. As per his usual Sunday ritual, Rovey was hunkered down on the davenport cradling a mixing bowl brimming with raisin-clam dip and watching Meet the Press, when I heard him peal a delighted squeal the likes of which I haven't witnessed since that nice rep from Phizer stopped by Rovey's work to drop off a holiday care package for Mrs. Laura. Since the show ended, he's been skipping around the house in his stocking feet and Ed Meese underoos, phoning all his pals and asking if they want to meet up later tonight and drag race their Corvairs on the South Lawn. I overheard him chatting excitedly to Mr. Gillespie about a "green party", so I've been beaver busy in the kitchen whipping up his favorite avocado-tater fluffwiches and okra-chip cookies to tote along for the snack table. He's also asked me for a few dozen Dixie-cups of lime Jell-O Jaeger shots, but I had to stamp my tootsies down and say no. Those are unsafe with any feed, and I sure as heck don't want my Cuddlenumpkins ralphing in the glovebox again. Especially since we've only just gotten the interior reupholstered after Rovey's boss's twins hotwired the car for their joyride down to Cabo!
(Photo by Fred Askew)
Aw heck - I know I'm hardly the first or last 'Ho to express this sentiment, but gosh darn it - I love New York! Yes, yes, I know it's full of brigands and ne'er-do-wells and Katie Couric and waiter/actor/models who will just as soon soulfully emote at you as look at you (not to mention that if you happen to leave your hot Choco-Prune Krispy Kreme next to the sink in the ladies' room at City Hall, you will totally see Jerry Nadler walking by later sucking what you KNOW to be the jelly from it off his tie, and you just can't say anything, because he's all "I'm Jerry Nadler! I can have you hauled in for hard time at Gitmo, or turn your spleen to dust with my powerful electro-ray fourth-eye vision, for I am the mighty Jerry Nadler! Fear me, puny human!!!"), but Rovey and I got one heck of a warm reception when we popped into town last Wednesday night.
See, a bunch of Rovey's boss's friends (they're called the Mavericks, and I bet it's because they know how to steal a big, crazy deal when they see one!) paid $250 each to share a snack with my Cuddlenumpkins at a restaurant in Manhattan (and believe me - I'd shell out ten times that to have the privilege of splitting a fruit roll-up and some cole slaw with Rovey if I had to, but we trade off that for me doing chores 'cause he only lets me have enough walking around money to buy him his prescription socks and his monthly case of Feen-A-Mint), and there were a whole bunch of folks waiting outside risking chilblains just so they could let Rovey know how welcome he was! Some of them were a little loud and didn't smell very pretty (I got the impression that to join this "Sierra Club" street gang, part of the hazing involves not showering for the first month and eating a lot of library glue) but they seemed really, really excited to see Rovey, and it was really nice for them to come down from their treehouses and cooperative lesbian mung bean farms just to say hi.
But wowie zowie! The other bunch was dressed up so fancily with sparkly jewelry, pretty dresses, top hats and tuxedos. They said they were the Billionaires For Bush, and I was sort of intimidated 'cause I'm just a plain little RoveHo, so I fibbed a bit and told them my name was Miss Aureola Puffington of the Wisconsin Puffingtons, and that we were very prominent in dairy. Oh, how excited they were to see my Blubblenumpkins. They kept thanking Rovey for all he and his boss had done to benefit them and their friends, and had all sorts of exciting, helpful chants and signs about "Keep our country healthy - tax cuts for the wealthy!" and "Leave no billionaire behind!" and "Corporations are people, too!" I just thought it was so sweet that they took the time away from their spas and emu ranches and warm stretch Humvees to chat with Rovey about the needs of such a small and neglected minority, and letting Rovey know that the super hard presidenting work he and his boss are doing is not going unnoticed. They were even lovely enough to let me hold up a sign (see - there I am right behind my Babyboobum in the picture!) and let the whole world know what a darling little innocent lamb he is.
Sometimes, after I've watched five or six hours of hard-hitting Jerry Springer or Alton Brown news coverage, I can get a little blue about the frowny-face downturn the world is taking. Everybody is so "Me-Me-Me!", "MY baby needs daycare so I can go hog up three whole separate jobs!" and "What about MY dialysis and food stamps?" that it's nice to see folks taking the time to just stop and say, "Hey thanks, Rovey!". Gosh, I hope we see them when we come back in September for the GOP convention. They promised they'd look us up.
Plus - the New York Times thought the Billionaires were so kind to Rovey, they wrote a whole story about them. Wow, the media are such sweetiepies sometimes!
Now in Previews, Political Theater in the Street
Oh RoveHos - I apologize for the short entry (thank goodness that's never an excuse I have to hear from my Chubblelumpkin's gifted, cherubic lips!), but we've got a little bit of a situation 'round the old homestead. See, when I rang the gong to let Rovey know that the pudding vat was at exactly the temp he likes (Too warm, and his bacne acts up - too chilly, and his Speedo zone chafes. For all his gruffy-tuffy mountain man outsides, my baby is such a sensitive Seraphim.), he didn't come padding out of his Plotting Bunker to cannonball into the tapioca bath I'd drawn for the two of us. Now, in all the time we've been a deux, I've never known that man to pass up an opportunity to have me mommy-cat tongue his tummy wrinkles clean on a chunky-style pudding night, so I tossed on one of the togas that Mr. Bush's daughters left behind, and cocked up an ear. Just as I'd suspected, after a couple of minutes, I heard some snuffling in the direction of the jerky shed, and sure enough, there was my Rovey in a soggy little mess listening to Wisconsin Primary returns on the Philco and weeping over Dr. Deanypants's 3rd place finish. Awww - my poor little Bumpybum was so very much looking forward to spending some quality time out on the campaign trail with the Good Doctor - getting to know all about him, and his family, and his hopes, his dreams, his successes, his disgruntled patients, marital indiscretions, wacky, experimental college phase, draft-dodging and sealed gubernatorial records - you know - the kinds of things that men bond about when they're lonely, out on the road away from their 'Hos, and knocking back some of that funny "Truth Juice" cocktail that Rovey likes to whip up and leave for me and Mrs. Pelosi when we have our Girls Only nights. Mmmm! I think it has a touch of Kahlua in it!
Anyhow, my baby is sad, and I have to make him feel better so he can keep on running the country so goshdarned good! Oooh - lucky thing that I remembered to TiVo the Touched By An Angel marathon on PAX last night, cause one thing's for sure - if Della Reese can't get you to smile like a Precious Moments curio, then I sure as heck don't wanna know you!
Well judging from the number of e-mails pinging into my inbox, all the RoveHos wanna know just what Captain Cuddlebum does to dew up the dainties of his beloved on Roventine's Day. Well, I'll get to the evening's entertainment in just a bit, but as for what was plumping up the goodie sack he gave me - in addition to the traditional suite of boudoir pix Rovey had snapped at the Glamour Shots over at the strip mall (This year's theme was Rodeo Rovey, 'cause he knows I love a man in chaps - and extra specially one who's packing a few hundred pounds of bucking beef between his thighs!), a flavor upgrade for the Pudding Vat (mmm…tapioca exfoliates *and* relaxes!), a pack of 9-volts, and a family-sized can of Campbell's Cream O' Weiner Soup, this lucky l'il Roveotee got herself a gift that'll keep on giving! No, not the itchy, ointment-requiring kind (well at least not since the Surgeon General gave me that last injection) - this is a whole different kind of sticky.
See, my sneaky Rovey plopped his sumptuous, spandex-clad bum onto our naugahyde cuddlin' couch, pointed a video cam, and wham, bam, eat some ham, I now have a twelve DVD set of my Nubblenookums reading aloud every single sizzling syllable of the Starr Report! Just the thing I'll need to keep my muffin buttered while Rovey's out on the road with his boss this summer, promoting their positive re-election message of togetherness (For once I agree with Rovey's boss - It IS silly to stand alone when instead all of America can all be huddled in one great big cuddlelump of terror!).
So if you're feeling particularly lonely, and sans a Roventine of your own, come on over and hunker down on the davenport with me. With slow-mo and frame-by frame, not to mention all those special features he packed in there, we can gobble down hot and cold running Rovey all the way up to the General Election. I'll even make sure Rovey leaves his seat nice & warm for you. So long as I'm around, you'll never have to 'Ho it alone!
What with all this flapdoodle about Rovey's boss's military record, I figured that I'd slice straight to the giblets and let all you know that my Porpleblumblum sure as heck did his time in uniform. And oooooh, what an ensemble that was - sometimes he lets me tote along photocopies of his hero photos down in my dainties for an afternoon if I've been a very good RoveHo. See, when his number came up, my Sweetiebung was hand picked by the CIA to serve in the extra super elite JoyCorps - traveling coast to coast, Army post to post shaking his Cinnabons in a spangled thong to raise the morale of female officers. Mmmm…like a gropeable Bob Hope, he was a one-man USO, bumping and grinding and stripping down to his skivvies until the ladies wept and spasmed and could take no more for fear they'd never again be able to make the cuddlelumps with their hubbies back home. See, after you've suckled a frothed-up mouthful of tasty RoveShake, anything else you sip up your straw is gonna seem curdled by comparison.
Oh that Rovey - he's a heartbreaker, a dream-maker, a bum-shaker - don't you muck around with that nutty Cuddlepants unless you're wearing asbestos dress shields. A girl could get burned with the Duraflame log he's packing in his ditty bag!
Private Rovey - this RoveHo salutes you. And if I'm lucky his privates will salute right back!
Well I never! Though perhaps I ought to start because this…this…oh I am one rankled RoveHo! I'm usually so very good about keeping my trap shut (especially since Rovey has the only key to it and we're fresh out of Metamucil and bacon grease, so it's not like I can get to it anytime soon), but Mrs. Laura is just asking for a tongue lashing 'cause she made my Blubblenumpers so upset that he couldn't even choke down his fifth helping of scrapple pot pie at dinner last night. At first I figured that maybe I just hadn't mixed in as much Funyons and Karo syrup as he likes, and the first four bowls were just my sweet baby being polite. But then he asked to be excused so he could go and have some quiet time in his Gingrich room, and I *knew* something was wrong, 'cause he didn't even take a sponge with him! And sure enough, when I flipped on the Roveitron, there was my Puddleblumpkins in a soggy little heap on his beanbag chair, weeping and sticking ripped bits of newspaper all over his sweet, limpet-pale skin.
I scuttled as fast as I could to my bawling baby, and as he collapsed in a sob-steamy lump into my lap, I peeled one of the scraps of paper from his back, and between the whiteheads, the smeary ink read…
In a nearly hourlong interview with The New York Times on Thursday, Mrs. Bush … characterized Karl Rove, her husband's chief political adviser, as not as powerful as "the chattering class" believes.
"I would say his role is definitely overstated, but he probably loves it," she said, smiling. "He's very happy to have his role overstated."
Silly, silly Mrs. Laura. The only thing I can think is that she must have had that chat on a day when she had her mid-day pick-up Cuervotinis with her advisors Eli and Lilly (I've never met them, but I hear they're very influential members of her staff. She doesn't make a single decision without listening to them.), and forgot she was wearing the low-dose HappyPatch. Otherwise, how could she possibly make a statement like that? Who does she think convinces her hubby that no, he won't look more "impressive" at Cabinet meetings if he wears a sheriff's badge, and while it might be fun for him and Mr. Hastert to press up against the window of Marine One and moon EMILY's List gatherings, giving Ellen Malcolm a peek at their well-toned tushies doesn't count as standing up for the lady voters. I swear, if Rovey hadn't slipped those subliminals into his boss's Tae Bo tapes, I'll just bet he would have forgotten the safety phrases and spilled the beans about his and Uncle Cheney's new Baghdad Oil-musement Park & Bible Study Spa when he was chatting with Mr. Russert on Sunday. Sigh…my Rovey - he gives so much and asks so little - just a little derrick and a few humble acres on the outskirts of Halliburtonia. Maybe a camel or two so he and Mr. Norquist can ride off and have their male bonding flute circles in private.
Just you keep your silly tequila hole closed, Mrs. Laura, or you'll have one cheesed-off RoveHo to deal with!
Wheeee! Rovey wolfed down a whole pan of prune-coffee bars while watching TiVoed Anderson Cooper in slow-mo last night, and he used the resultant potty hours to pen a few new poems. Enjoy!
Roses are red
Felons are violent
In Texas we fry 'em
And *then* they stay silent!
Roses are red
Like Dick Cheney's heart
'Cept where docs subbed in
A metallic part
Roses are red
Just like sunshine and daisies,
Keeps First Ladies mellow
Roses are red
As are most Southern states
Cousins who marry
Determine our fates
Roses are red
Kerry's hair's gray
They say he got Botox
He's probably gay!
Roses are red
Beige for Joementum
Dems dropping like flies-
It's just fun to torment 'em!
I'll tell you, it's been mighty snuggly quarters in the ol' pudding tub these past few days. Rovey and I toted a bunch of Tupperware close to busting with his Grammie's super-secret recipe Suet Crunch Casserole (Rovey won't tell me where the crunch comes from, but always after he makes a batch I notice that his l'il tootsies aren't so scritchy-scratchy on my shins when we play a late night game of Hannity & Colmes under the covers.) and my Never-Fail Triple Layer Fudgy Pork & Beet Dip over to the Ashcroft's compound on Superbowl Sunday™ (Mr. Ashy just loooooves any event that lets him say the word "patriot" a whole lot without people looking at him like their BVDs just shrunk up in the wash.). Anyhow, I was a tiny bit twittered that Our Host was again going to enact A.G. privilege and make us all hunker down around his organ and open our throats wide with holy, golden song for hours and hours after the game. But as it happened, my fears never had a chance to rise past half mast. Our Host suffered an extreme case of the vapors after the !shocking! reveal of Miss Jackson's dusky girl-parts (good thing Mr. Cheney's traveling sextet of medicos were right nearby enjoying a refreshing Shasta in the support staff kitchen), and Rovey & I were booking it home in the Pacer by the time the halftime antics ended.
Now I knew that something was amiss the minute we pulled into the carport and saw that one of the kitties (Leeza or Norville? Silly me - after all this time, I still get those two perky l'il pussies all muddled!) was all tangled up in bright orange yarn, and the little stone Agnew with the secret key compartment had been pillaged and rolled under Rovey's prized nabob bush. Now at first I figured it was just the usual bunch of Barney Frank staffers who like to haze the new crop of interns by making them break in and de-alphabetize Rovey's Beanie Baby collection, and then all giggle when he comes in tired to work the next morning. But their staff dune buggy wasn't parked out front, and we could hear some funny little snuffles coming from behind the gate to the back verandah. I wound my twitching fingers tightly into the waistband of Rovey's lucky January underpants and we advanced eeeever so slowly toward the source of the low whimper until what did our goggling eyes behold but…
Lolling there, plunged nipple-deep into the pudding vat (he'd played mix-n-match with the pistachio and butterscotch taps), alternately sobbing, and having heated policy debates with the bright orange ski cap he'd jammed onto his hand as a makeshift puppet was recently deposed Howard Dean campaign manager Joe Trippi! Oh, I couldn't imagine a single soul (okay, maybe Dr. Deanie Meaniepants himself, or possibly Yanni) who Rovey would have been more thrilled to see all a-smear in our very own backyard. He sent me scurrying down to the root cellar for Tab and Ben & Jerry's Tofu-chouli Tsunami to make our guest feel at home, and by the time I got back, Rovey had already slipped on into the vat with Mr. Trippi, and the two of them were having a bubble-making competition! After we'd tucked our guest into some of Rovey's old Dukakis/Bentsen campaign pajamas and set him up in the spare wing with some soothing Mexican pharmaceuticals and David Gergen, Rovey took me aside and explained just how impressed he was with the work that Mr. Trippi had done on the Deaniepants campaign and just how very vital it was that he returns to it soon! It's really nice that Rovey's so generous that he'd want to help out someone from the totally other side. I guess what they say about campaign managers and politicians in general is really true - they ARE all really awesome and sweet, and would give you the jammies off their back, the pudding out of their vat, and the 'Ho off their…oh that reminds me - I have to get to the store soon. I guess Mr. Trippi's off the diet soda right now, 'cause Rovey told me I should serve him up a whole lot of Tang, and looking in the beverage credenza, I just noticed we're all out. Must fly!
Ta ta, RoveHos!
Oh how fun! A book all about Rovey and his work chums! Maybe if I read it, I'll be able to find out why Rovey's boss makes him keep such grueling hours. Sometimes he's not home until at least five o'clock (my Blubblenumpers is such a dedicated worker that he refuses to leave the office until after his boss does!), and I have to wait until Rovey's snuggled up davenport to watch Ryan Seacrest's show on the TiVo. He says I get "notions" when I watch it alone, but really - my little GibletBumBum isn't fooling *this* RoveHo. I've seen him in front of the mirror with the hairbrush/microphone and pageant-sized tube of Dippity-Do...
As any RoveHo who's humped along to Gobbler's Knob knows, February 2nd is RoveHog Day! If Cuddleblumpkins peeps his perky shadow in the snow, then it's back to the jerky shed so you and he can snack on meaty treats for another six weeks. But, if his shadow's a no-show, then scoot over, Punxatawney Phil, 'cause Rovey'll be pumped and ready to sow the seeds of springtime anywhere he sees a fertile entrance to thrust 'em in! That's just what my Puddin' Pants is all about - flooding every crevice of this wide open country with the sweet gush of his love!