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!