One of the nicest bits about being the 'Ho of a beloved co-president like my Rovey is that I'm always seeing just how much everyone out there in the world adores my Cuddlenumpkins! I mean, of course I'd think my Snookiebum was the yummiest thing on three legs no matter what, but it gets my training thong in *such* a swampy twist (Good thing Rovey's there to unravel 'em! He didn't spend all those months earning his Knot Patch for nothing. Very few folks know that Rovey's a lifelong member of the Beaver Scouts, but I'm figuring there must be a whole coterie of 'em on Capitol Hill 'cause almost every day, Rovey's talking about BS meetings he has to go to.) knowing that there are folks out there who'd do just about gosh darned *anything* to have a moment with him.
But I feel just so super selfish hogging him for myself (He says that's why some mornings he gobbles up my fig 'n Crisco doughnut in addition to his - 'cause we'd all be better off if there were even more of him to go around!) - especially on days like yesterday when the huddled masses, yearning to sniff in just the smallest whiff of my Rovey's manly up-close musk, jammed themselves into bus after bus after bus, piled into our front yard, and demanded to see him. Now, we were in the tack room working our fingers to the nubbins 'cause we'd just harvested a freshly cured batch of jerky from the shed out back, and if you don't bend it around the harness molds while it's still a little pliable, it's too dry for anything but munching on, and you can just forget about having Happy Pony Hour for the next week or so - no matter how good you've been!
Anyhow, I always like to have a little treat ready for fans who drop by - whether it's a drink cozy I've knitted from Rovey's shower drain leavings, or a wallet-sized glossy of my Blubblyplop odalisqued al fresco on his panda skin rug. So when I heard a bunch of them bellowing out in Mexican, I thought maybe I would just forget about my own piggy needs, and make this jerky batch all caliente style with some Mild Sauce packets Rovey'd left in his Sansabelt pockets after last night's 3 a.m. Taco Bell run. (When he quieros his Grande 7-Layer, you'd best let him have it! And I mean the burrito - not that thing we saw on the Spice Channel that I have to stretch out for and get the special warming oil to do.) to give out to his admirers from down Chimichanga way. I mean, I'm not a very worldly girl, unlike Rovey who's been to Tijuana *and* New Mexico, but from what Rovey tells me, most of these people are so unfortunate that even if they've spent the whole day cleaning hotel rooms and running goofballs over the border for Rovey's boss's daughters that they still don't have enough el cashola to afford basics like TiVo and bathwater. Ay carumba!
Well, my Rovey is such a sensitive little chunk o' queso, that it pains him deep inside to see anyone suffering like that. He just couldn't seem to bring himself to open the door and parlez the Español with them, no matter how they banged on the windows and whapped at festive Rovey-shaped piñatas they'd brought along (Mmmmm! How'd they know that if you beat him long enough, you can indeed get sweet, yummy goodness to come pouring out!?!?). But I did my mucho-bestest to cajole and convince him of the joy it would bring into their grimy lives, and eventually, after I promised him a redux of my legendary Dance of the Seven Peppers and permission to lift the ban on eating bean dip in bed while Leno's on (note to self - buy soothing balm and new duvet cover) he shuffled out to let his admirers bask in his cuddlelumptious glow.
Well wouldn't you know, not two minutes later, my humpy l'il hedgehog came scurrying back in and buried his precious head under my jerky apron! Above his sniffles, I could hear sirens and bullhorns and one of those nice boys from the Treasury Department came out of his surveillance cabinet in my powder room to see if we were okay. Once Rovey stopped sobbing enough for me to understand him, he told me that the crowd had stopped by to see if he would help them with something called the Development, Relief and Education for Alien Minors Act, and I understood why my gorgeous gordita was so upset. I mean I understand that everyone adores and admires him, and assumes that he's got the power to fix the problems of everyone in the whole universe, but really - shouldn't we really be working on solving the problem of getting people in this country and on this planet the education they need before we go off willy-nilly helping ten-tentacled critters from outer space get into private schools? I mean I know that Rovey's boss is spending all that time and money getting us to Mars, but we shouldn't make sure that all the Earth kids can read a Chi-Chi's job application form before we go breaking red soil to build a DeVry Institute, si? Si!
Hasta la TiVo, los RoveHos!
Every once in a while, if I've been a very good RoveHo, and done an especially thorough job on my chores (i.e. Febreezed up anywhere the marmot had an accident, exceeded my weekly jerky-curing quota, remembered to clear room on the TiVo so all of Rovey's Franchot Tone film fest gets recorded, etc.) Rovey removes the blocks from a few select channels (I'm usually allowed only FOX affiliates, Disney, Cinemax and all the Clear Channel I can handle. Rovey doesn't want me getting any funny notions from Farrah Fawcett made-for-tv smut on Lifetime.) and I catch a couple of minutes of the Mrs. Oprah show. She is wise and large and chocolatey dark and magically in touch with her spirit - and mine as well, and I was inspired to follow my inner goddess dolphin poet and pen the following little ditty. Rovey says it sounds kind of familiar, but since they've stopped running poems in NewsMax (there really are only so many rhymes for "impeach" and "knee-pads"), I can't imagine where he would have seen it. Anyhow - here goes!
Rovey Rovey, trousers tight
Pol by day and stud by night
What annoying POTUS guy
Could wrest him from his RoveHo's thigh?
Bush says to him "Please come advise!"
And from tone, one could surmise
That there be matters dark and dire -
Troubling polls? Iraq quagmire?
Rather it's "Hey look, I'm smart!
Pull my finger - see me fart!"
Then he'll feign as to excrete,
While Rovey sighs and taps his feet.
"Sir, may we discuss campaign?
You brought me in to be your brain!"
But that's beyond his boss' grasp,
Synapses die or gently gasp.
So when Rovey's dried his tears
Spun things for electioneers
Does he smile his work to see?
Grab camera time, or take a pee?
No - Rovey Rovey, trousers tight
Pol by day and stud by night
Ducks away - eschews "goodbye!"
And hastens home to munch some pie.
People are always writing me notes, and coming up to me at the feed store and sending various NIH employees to our house to ask me just how in the world I can stay with a man like Rovey. And I tell 'em all the same thing - as flummoxy as it is that an ultra-studly Hunkasaurus Sex like him would stoop to let such a rank nobody plumb the deep recesses of his cuddle cavern, he picked ME for his spelunking partner, and I am grateful for any opportunity Rovey gives me to suit up and tunnel the shaft to his snuggle center. Oh how I dig that man! Geddit? "Dig!" Tee hee - I made a funny!
Anyhow, in the time I've known my nekkid poll rat (And by "known", I mean owned the requisite navel-to-knees Jell-O mold of him, sussed out his preferred brand of gentlemanly itch unguent and flavor of Pedialyte, and had the DARPA workmen come in to make his requested modifications of the powder room in my pre-Rovey-cohabitation flat. 'Cause really - until you've memorized the preferred pressure and temp stats for your Blubblenumpkins' Chalupa Night bidet settings, can you honestly claim to "know" him? This RoveHo sez no!), I've learned that it takes a heck of a lot of effort to make passion's Fry-Daddy stay bubblin' hot while my baby's away for days at a time, commingling with steamy G.O.P. glamourpussies like that Condolicious Rice and Katherine "Hubba-Hubba" Harris, not to mention my ex-beau Tucker C., who is irresistible to ladies, gents and wee yippie dogs alike when doused in Aramis and decked out in his breakaway latex bow tie. I try to go along as often as I can, but somebody's got to stay home and stir the tapioca vat, now don't they? (Oooh how Rovey *hates* it when he slips in and feels the slightest hint of un-skimmed pudding skin clinging to his bare bottom!)
But, thanks to trial, error, and some helpful tips from The New Republic, I've figured out a few ways to keep his parts piqued and brobdingnagian libido focused 'Ho-ward. For instance, when I pack his valise for an overnight jaunt to Milwaukee, I'll include some region-specific Polaroid snaps of me all a-frolic with a cattle prod, or squeezing sweet, naughty nothings onto my torso with a tube of Parkay. Perhaps, if I know in advance where my Precious Porky-Pie is going to be resting his pretty head, I'll phone the concierge and arrange to have the mini-bar stashed chock-a-block with a batch of suet crunch cookies and the in-room Victrola cued up to play the copy of "our" Carol Channing ballad I've FedExed ahead. Maybe, I might text a risqué ham sonnet to his Blackberry device, or wood-burn a sketch of my dainty region into the stock of his musket when he's off swan hunting with Justice Scalia. It's really the little things that keep our scrapple pan sizzling fresh, isn't it?
Oh, and while Rovey knows that there's no way this 'Ho would ever think to stray (At least that's what the man said after the last zapping session over at the CIA labs - they even gave me ice cream and some funny Regis Philbin band-aids for my temples for being such a brave little toaster. Reeeeeeeeeegis! Tee-hee!), he still does such sweet little things to let me know he's got me on his noggin. For instance, he'll drizzle his sumptuous hindquarters with Double-Fudge Yoo-hoo and leave an imprint on my favorite pillowcase so I may nestle against the specter of my beloved's cheek as I dream. Or perhaps he'll leave instructions with Andrew Card to sneak in and slip some prescription Dreamy Drops into my porridge and fix it so I'll wake up cinched super-tight to the Special Chair with a DVD of my Cuddlepants performing interpretive tap dances of House Resolutions dressed in naught but his Polka Thong playing on constant loop just inches from my sleep-grogged eyes. So sweet!
Oh, for sorghum's sake! I've rambled on longer than I'd meant, and now I must scoot if I'm ever going to get Rovey's valise packed in time. He's off to a fundraiser in Boise, and unless I take the necessary time, forceps and petroleum jelly to get this potato positioned just so for the photo, I'm not going to be comfy sitting down for at least a week!
Show your favorite 'Ho you give a hoot by shoving their box chock full o' Rovey!
I just cannot for the life of me understand why the media is getting their dungarees all dewy over that creepy ol' Senator Kerry buying a jockstrap with his daughter and a press gaggle. I mean, I have gone through half my treasured collection of antique Gephardt for President stationery, handwriting salvos to grizzled career newsies like Paula Zahn, Ron Popeil and Gene Shalit, inviting them to tag along on one of mine and Rovey's daily jaunts to the unmentionables section of the Foggy Bottom Pic-N-Save, but no takers! Not even when I mentioned that they could take part in our ritual food court excursions to Happy Heinrich's Casa De Cabbage and Mr. Beans A. Plenty, and get the inside poop on just why we're trotting on down to the skivvies shop quite so often. (My Tubblebumbum is such a modest mallomar that hardly anyone knows about the charity work he does! He saves up his week's worn BVDs and donates 'em to the restaurants' employees of the week to auction off for a bundle on e-Bay. They're always too stunned to say much of anything, but their grateful shrieks are thanks enough. As for my frequent need of freshened dainties - please, if YOU got to be that kissin' close to Rovey on a regular basis, I'd bet you'd be heating up one moist muffin in your Easy Bake Oven, too!) Anyhow, the only one who's said yes thus far is Anderson Cooper, and that's just because he thought that we were asking if we could hitch along and watch his upcoming International Male catalog shoot. Well of course we will (We're not rude like SOME Jeannie Moos I could mention!), but Coops best not go blubbering in his Cosmo if Rovey just happens to drop trou and all the lenses go swinging on down to salute his sergeant at arms. And they won't even have to worry about setting up a fancy dressing room for him and his fans, either. 'Cause if I know my Rovey, he'll be pitching his own big tent, and everyone's invited to come!
Grrr! I know it's not very Christian to speak crankily of the dying, but I must say that Rovey's workmate Pastor Ashcroft isn't going to be appointed to the Presidential Council for Partying Politics (established as a bipartisan task force during the Kennedy years, and currently under the guiding hand of Keymaster Emeritus, Brother Teddy Chappaquiddick D-MA) any time this century. Not that he's completely opposed to the notion of folks getting together to socialize, mind you. It's just that whereas Rovey just loves nothing better than gathering together a Gremlin-load of his chummiest staffers and a few wacky pals he's bonded with down at The Eulenspiegel Society for sans-pants Boggle, Clamato-tinis and veal tartare shots in the pudding vat, Mr. Ashy gets *his* knickers bunchy by posse-ing up a fairy ring 'round Barney Frank's office and telling everyone he's throwing a weenie roast. Thing is, he's such a stingy soiree planner, that while he never forgets to bring along sticks, matches, and hymnals, never once have I seen that man whip out so much as a single sausage! Just whose tube steak he thinks we're going to stick in our buns, I've no idea. Such abominable behavior!
Pastor Stick-Up-His-Ashcroft also had the gall (Well, maybe not any more! Tee hee!) to declare a moratorium on West Wing Wet Docker Wednesdays and force female staffers who violate the floor-length hemline rule (plus anyone caught ankle-ogling!) to wear the Punishment Starr-kini over their clothes for the remainder of the workday. (Rovey made me buckle it on once when I'd forgotten to seal the humidor after an impromptu Impeachments 'n Cream social with a gaggle of his favorite interns, and let me tell you - a few hours of that strapped to your Gap thong will have just about anyone down on their knees and pleading for a Presidential pardon.) And does Rovey's boss do anything about it? Noooooo, of course not! He's too busy being all "Hey Rovey, I had a really good waffle this morning - is Belgium a real place? Can we take 'em over?" and "Hey Rovey, am I allowed to Texecute John Kerry if he keeps saying cruddy things about me?" to bother. Luckily Rovey's gonna have some glasnost coming up, 'cause he's shuffling off to Russia for a few days. Even though my Snorklenumpkins is an A#1 super-duper campaign operative, he's never had a candidate get 70% of the vote like Mr. Putin just did! He's gonna stock up a knapsack with Hydrox and Z. Cavariccis and see if he can scare up some tips from his comrades at the Kremlin. Das Rovedanya!
Pssst! Post yesterday's pic as a Rove-o-gram and let a pal know you care enough to stuff their package slot with nothing less than the very Roveiest. Plus, it's guaranteed 100% anthrax-free!
I'm sure you've all heard that Rovey's workmate Reverend Ashcroft is in the hospital 'cause of rotty insides, so I made this pretty bouquet for him! Can you think of anything that'd make your gutty bits go glowy quite like a thoughtful bunch of Roveses?
Scoot over Wayne Flowers and Madame - there's a sassy new vaudeville duo in town, and we're kicking keisters and taking names! (Rovey says he swiped the name-taking idea from his old hero Mr. McCarthy, but I'm adding a special RoveHo flair and making it pretty pink instead of dull old black. Rovey said pink is fine, but pink-o and red are definitely out, and then he giggled so hard I had to re-launder his dance belt. I swear I do not understand that man sometimes!) Anyhow, I had a super-fun time on Friday at Minister Tony Blair Presents, telling silly stories about how Rovey and I met, and smearing warm, gooey mayo on myself while people chuckled, but that wasn't the big showbiz coup of the weekend, nosiree!
I'm sure by now, you've read in the WaPo about how my Twinkletush stole the show at the annual Gridiron Club dinner with his Oz Scarecrow-togged rendition of "If He Only Had My Brain" for his fellow pols & journos, but that's barely a straw from the bale. 'Cause working press is persona-non-gingrich at the dinner (though Rovey lets me keep this blog, technically I'm not "working" press right now since he's suspended my allowance until further notice for failing to get all the béarnaise and Cocoa-Puff crumbs out of the duvet cover this past chore wheel day), a whole lot of funny stuff goes unreported. For instance, his lederhosen-clad flugelhorn and vocal ode to Howard Dean "The Lonely Vote-herd" and blackface soft-shoe to the tune of "Seventy-Six Strombones", not to mention the tens of cents he raised for the Center For Disease Control with his charity lap-dance station off in the corner by the brie wheel and decorative ice-Gore. (Well, at least I *thought* it was a decoration until I went to knock a finger off to chill down my Clamato and realized it was actually the ex-VP. I'm *still* blushing!) Okay, not the most optimum locale for Rovey's sans-pants dance d'amour, seeing as Mrs. Tipper was at the ready with a roll of parental advisory stickers and threatening to affix them the second she spied an inch of exposed nether-flesh. But still Andrew Sullivan and Mary Cheney managed to find their way Rove-ward and slip some spare change into his drawers, and because of their generosity I got to spend the whole ride home playing Miner 69er prospecting for precious veins of metal down my Cuddlenumper's treasure trail. Oooh - must go - Rovey says he's about to pitch another penny, and he needs his Tally 'Ho to make sure it comes out even!
Oooooh, my Rovey came home in *such* a snit tonight! I got the feeling he was going to when he IM-ed me (He's KudLPantz53 if you wanna add him to your buddy list!) saying that he wasn't going to be home in time to watch El Gordo y la Flaca with me and would I please TiVo it for him, and that there would be a federal agent pulling up into the carport in 25 minutes, and would I please hand him the Crisis Satchel with his emergency six-pack of Hanes and calming beef-a-roni aromatherapy candle? So far as I could remember, the last time he asked me to do that was when his boss got cranky and asked Helen Thomas if she wanted settle it once and for all by stepping outside to go mano-a-mano on the South Portico in front of the rest of the press corps. I'll tell you, it was a good thing the soldiers saved that pretty Jessica Lynch that day or else the story would have been all over the papers. And it would have been especially bad for Rovey's boss 'cause just seconds before news of the daring rescue broke, Mrs. Thomas had the waistband of his Presidential BVDs all the way up to his shoulderblades, and he was about to have to tell the press corps who, in fact, "Da Man" was. Not fair, though - Rovey says she's totally a hair-puller. Below the waist, even!
Aaaaaanyhow, I flipped on the Philco, and figured out pretty quickly what all the flapdoodle was concerning. So silly! All the newsies were a-twitter saying that Rovey's boss's new re-election ads were tasteless and exploitative and fear-mongering, and to that I say PHOOEY! My Blubblenumpkins and his pals would never ever dream of asking the American public to slip on their scaredypants unless they were 100% super sure that we'd definitely maybe someday have to think about worrying about something bad happening, and it's their sacred, holy, Jesus-given job to keep us prepared. I mean, do you think that Rovey actually *enjoys* jumping out of the Wheatena pantry in a Lou Dobbs mask and pink vinyl diaper and scaring the pudding out of me?!? Sweet sticky heck no! Rovey would never do something like that unless he thought that I might someday be faced with the real possibility of Lou Dobbs jumping out of the Wheatena pantry at me. I have a speaking suspicion that my Tummyplorpkins may have taken a few liberties with the outfit, though. Everyone knows Mr. Dobbs is an autumn, and would look just SO sallow in pink!
(Pssst! Don't forget to come and see me live tonight at 8 at the M. Shanghai Den in Williamsburg Brooklyn. It's part of the Minister Tony Blair Presents series, and if you come up and say hi, I will probably give you pudding!)
Sigh. Sometimes I'm just sure as Senator Santorum's un-plunged maidenhead that the whole world's huddled together under one ginormous crazy quilt and Rovey's and my invites got lost in the mail. All these people getting their collective unmentionables in a knot over such goofy things! If you're wondering where I've been, and why I've been such a slowpoke about posting, it's cause Rovey and I have been flying back and forth from San Fran (And boy are my arms tired! No - they really are. Rovey wanted to play a mile-high game of veal calf and milkmaid, and guess who was the only one who brought along their stool?), chatting with that nice young mayor, and all those friendly nautical folks (at least I figured that's what they were - Rovey kept muttering about muff-divers and seamen everywhere) outside City Hall. They all seemed really excited to see Rovey, and kept offering to let him taste and kiss and touch various bits of their bodies. That all just made me giggle and realize that things really *are* all different and so much more friendly out there on the Left Coast. Here in the East, we just make those prissy, guppy air-kisses, but now I'm going to start offering people nuts to eat, and my tuckus to smooch when I meet them, too! Everyone will think I've gone soooo California.
Anyhow, even though Rovey has to pretend to go along with what his boss says, I know for a fact that he's not with him on this issue. Rovey's boss says that marriage should just be between one man and one woman, and I could certainly see how that might be preferable from a practical standpoint and all. I mean, now that I've seen how many folks out there were foaming at the Rovehole for a chance to be my Blubblenumpkins' lawfully wedded 'Ho, it seems like it would be a nearly Hastert-sized task to find a venue big enough to squeeze in all his blushing brides, let alone find enough pudding spoons for all the guests. Plus, trying to get around to consummate tender wedding-night cuddlelumps with all of them? Even a thoroughbred pumpy pony like my Rovey can only trot so many paddocks in an evening, and I know just how sad and soggy it'd make him knowing he had to leave a 'Ho's behind.
And also, I saw with my own pretty peepers just how frothed up all those sailors got when they saw that Rear Admiral Rovey of the SS Cuddleblumps was docking in San Francisco Bay. Why, they jumped right to attention, offering to swab his poop deck, tug his dinghy, do various things with yards and arms (I don't know - I'm a landlubber, not a boatwrighter.), etc. It just seems so *wrong* to legally deny anyone the right to Rovey. Roveosexuality knows no bounds of gender, age, social standing, or heck - even species. From the lowliest gerbil, all the way up to, heck - the Governor of Texas, everyone should be allowed to nup up with Rovey, and I'm gonna suck it up right now and say that Rovey's boss is a great big doo-doo head for trying to stonewall that!