It's okay, 'Hos - you can call off the trufflehounds and the search commission! I'm alive and swell (Well - swollen, really - YOU try spending two weeks straight in calf shackles and see if your skin doesn't feel a skoch chafey for a while. And leave it to Rovey to forget to buy the Gold Bond! I swear he'd forget his own underwear if he didn't have me spray mount them to him every day before work.), and promise to be a more reliable RoveHoPoster - now that I've learned just what can happen if my attention wavers.
See, I've been a bit tied up lately. And by tied up, I don't mean busy - though there certainly has been a fair amount of activity on my part. No, by "tied up", I mean "lashed with my own hair to the Barcalounger D'Amour with my face scant inches from a monitor showing tantalizing home movies from Rovey's pubescent years, pudding dish just out of fingertip reach, and a chastity aid padlocked firmly about my dainty regions". And while I know that sounds a lot like one of our usual "funishments", I assure you, it was MUCH more on the torture than the tease side of things because 1. when Rovey *would* allow me the occasional loving spoonful, it was whipped up with plain ol' skim milk, rather than from Rovey's own special dairy farm "Dangly Dell" and 2. Rovey made a point of scarfing down a whole bunch of cheese and other carefully selected snacks for the duration, rather than the patented prune curry coffee bars that assure quick 'n easy access to the padlock's key.
And why was I being censured and ceintured so? Sigh…
Remember a couple of weeks back when I made a passing comment about the scrumptiolicious blubbleumptiousness of Pennsylvania Congressional candidate Scott Paterno? Well of COURSE his main appeal to me
is was that he's possessed of a certain greedy gusto and manly, ample abdomen reminiscent of my Cuddlekins, and I mentioned it on this here website just in case any RoveHos wanted to expand their worship of deliciously portly pols ('cause golly knows - there's rather a shortage of 'em!). Not 'cause I was seeking to supplement my daily intake of Pudding Pops, but just more to keep the 'HoMunity at large informed of some supplemental landing pads for their lust should they be frustrated with lack of access to my Plorplenumpkins (As much as my Mummy taught me to share, there are still only so many ladles of Sloppy Rove I'm willing to dole out!). Well, I guess I still had the potential PaternHos on my noggin' when I was in the middle of my kitchen tasks that day 'cause when Rovey came toddling down for his usual post-Suze Orman nosh late that night, he opened the Crisco tub to find that I'd been unconsciously tracing little hearts and line drawings of Mr. Paterno in the creamy surface. And that's NOTHING compared to what I did with the liverwurst. Well, after my Pulchritudinous Possum choked back his sorrows with a couple dozen packets of Newtons and a sixer of Double Fudge Yoo-hoo run through the blender, he rifled through his NIMH-issued Crisis Smoother Bag, and must have administered quite a Dozy Dose through my sleep-drooly lips 'cause I woke a couple of days later with Naugahyde burns on my sitting parts and Rovey telling me that once my cerebellum was entirely PaterNO, we could snuggle on the davenport and catch up with the four brand new Dr. Phils that'd heaped up on the TiVo while I was napping. Such a sweetie to save 'em for me - especially seeing as I'd been such a wayward 'Ho!
Aaaaanyhow, now that I've gotten the A-OK from the DARPA doc that my typing digits will make a full recovery, and that there was no *permanent* tissue damage up in cranium central, I promise I'll be much more on top of updates (not to mention dates up on top of Rovey!). Oh, and if anyone happened to TiVo the last week's worth of El Gordo y La Flaca and is willing to share, that'd be just luscious! I'd hate to get behind...
Hasta la RoveHo!
Rovey's told me to post some of his new, pretty poems, and I will, and…and…as soon as it hurts a tiny bit less to perch in a normal chair for a while, I'll give all you RoveHos the inside scoopy-doo on just where I've been. But for now, must type quickly, or Rovey will withhold my salve ration and trust me - this 'Ho needs all the soothing goo she can get right now!
Without further ado…
Roses are red
Kerry's a menace
If you *must* snub our Prez
Go with Ralphie or Dennis
Roses are red
Like the welts on your bottom
(The ones that you'll get
if you vote wrong this autumn)
There once was a turncoat named Clarke
Who thought as a bit of a lark
He'd fabricate facts
'Bout nefarious acts
Dickie - don't walk alone after dark.
There was a madman named Osama
Who caused us a whole bunch of trauma
He hid in Iraq -
Yup, that's why we attacked
Or else he'd be raping your Mama!
Roses are red
Like the Commies in Spain
If you'd like, we'll invade -
Let democracy reign!
Roses are red
So is Vladimir Putin
Cossack better behave or
Das ass will have boot in!
Oh, I'm not neglecting you, RoveHos! It's just that well...uh...oh this should explain it...
Bless me, Rovey, for I have sinned. I've been a bit of a PaternHo lately, but really, can you blame me? Sweet Scottie's got all the chubblumptiousness of my Rovey, plus not nearly so buzzy busy as him!
Oh dear - more later...Rovey's bibbed up and banging his sippy cup on the edge of the pen, and if I don't get there soon, I'll be up until the crack of dawn on my hands and knees, squeezing a damp sponge until my fingers prune, and after *that*, I'll have to start cleaning!
Shhhh...it's all our little secret! Tell ya what - I won't go 'Ho-hog! There's more than enough Paterno for a dozen 'Hos, and I'm happy to spread the wealth. Or anything else I need to!
Ooooh - must go! I think the zwieback's about to hit the fan...
A helpful hint from me to you, fellow RoveHos:
Just 'cause it's Easter doesn't mean that Rovey's left tasty chocolatey eggs behind on the sofa cushions for you after he's been sitting there. Take it from me - always sniff 'em before popping 'em in your mouth, or the only basket you'll end up with is the one the ambulance tech puts by your pillow to catch the sick! A visit to the ER isn't *all* rotten eggs, though! If they keep you overnight for observation or a couple of extra hepatitis tests, remember - the adjustable hospital beds can prove almost as useful as Rovey's Special Chair!
Catch you on the bunny trail, RoveHos!
Ohhhhh my achin' noggin! It sure was a tipsy weekend around Rove/Cheney '04 HQ (I don't know why everyone thinks it's so funny when I say that, but it got a giggle the first time I tongue-tripped and said it 'round the campaign office, and I guess it just stuck!)! I guess Miss Dr. Condi needed to blow off a little steam (Rovey said she's in the hot seat, so I guess even though I *keep* scolding him, he still thinks it's awfully funny to go and have a bare-bottomed sit-down in other people's office chairs after he's had lunch at Ben's Chili Bowl. Miss Dr. Condi is a very gracious lady for not reporting him to their boss!), so she invited a bunch of folks over for one of her famous White Chocolate Martini and Square Dance soirees. Well as you know, yours truly is certainly not one to ever miss a 'Ho-down, and especially not one featuring creamy cocktails to chug-a-lug, so Rovey and I spent the afternoon slaving over a man-sized tub of our masterful Condi Rice Pudding to share with the crop of staffers she'd invited. I was afraid that wasn't going to be enough, and while Rovey was off on an Oprah break, I started cutting up one of our spare area rugs, 'cause Rovey said that Miss Dr. Condi and her softball team pals enjoy munching on carpet, but when he came back in he giggled and said he thought the pudding would be quite enough. I said okay, but still made sure to pack along a bit of cardboard 'cause Rovey'd also mentioned she liked to lick a little box, and I sure wasn't going to show up empty handed!
Anyhow, when we got there, I was sort of disappointed to see that there were only a few cars in the driveway - our Gremlin, Mr. Cheney's ambulance, Reverend Ashcroft's Edsel, Mr. Rumsfeld's Black Hawk, and Mr. Colin's Ford Focus. I'd known that Rovey's boss wasn't going to be there because he'd just gotten up to Level 3 on Resident Evil for PS2 and everyone agreed that his time would be best spent on that, but I was at least hoping that my super-fun pal Ari would be there! He's a blast to hang out with, and he can dance around absolutely anything! And especially since it was supposed to be a square dance party, he would have been extra-helpful to have around because let me tell you - nobody spins like Ari! But still, I came in determined to have a good time. Not an easy task with that crowd. I tried to share a Do-Si-Do with Reverend Ashcroft, but he claimed that touching the exposed wrist skin of an unmarried female was tantamount to buying a one-way ticket on the Brimstone Express, and Mr. Cheney can only move within three feet of his defibrillator, so that was not much fun! Heck, it seemed as if all those grumpy Gingritches wanted to do was sit around and talk some panel Miss Dr. Condi was seeing later in the week. Boring! I tried to get into the conversation by telling everyone about the special soundproof paneling that Rovey and I installed in our basement Playroom, but no one seemed to care that much. Mr. Cheney offered me a handful of pretty-colored candy that he said was the reason for the wide, happy smiles on his wife's and Mrs. Laura's faces, and Miss Dr. Condi gave me a great big cocktail to wash it all down and then…oh what a rude little RoveHo I must have seemed! I vaguely remember giggling that my knees felt like Gummy Gergens and then the next thing I knew, I was home in the Playroom with no memory of how I got strapped into the Special Chair, how my shins and forehead got carpet-burned or who left me the spatula and Tupperware bowl with the leftover pudding. Maybe Miss Dr. Condi wanted to make me face some panel of my own, so I'd take her problems seriously - I don't know, but I'll swear under oath that I won't ever ignore that kind of intelligent information again! Golly, I feel bad. Maybe I'll send her some of the fish jerky Rovey and I just cured out in the shed. Rovey said she really likes eating tuna tacos, and it'll be just scrumptious once she moistens it up a little with a finger full of crema. Yum!
And in case you missed it - the official RoveHo clip 'n save Guide to Democratic Candidate Humpability!
Don't forget to hit the links on the side of this page to access archives from October to the present, and send a note to virginia at ilovekarlrove.com to get a note when the site is updated!
Seems like everyone wants to know if Rovey grabbed himself a little April Foolin' with his A#1 RoveHo! Was it a trick or a treat? Guess that all depends on how you feel about ferrets and about all of a sudden realizing "Hey, wait - that's not ROVEY'S HAND!".
In other words - just dreamy!
Super blast from the past (And this time I don't mean from Rovey's midnight gordita run!)! Rovey forgot to reattach my ankle carabiners when he left after our lunchtime "Grand Jerky Empanelling", so I was able to wriggle free from the Play Area and make a rare, unsupervised visit to the Little 'Ho's Room. Well goodness golly if I didn't trip over a loose tile (He may have left the other latches free, but the key to my wooden Training Clogs is still nestled deep inside Rovey's Dutch Oven, and he's at work so no nekkid tootsies for me!), and come upon a whole treasure trove of souvenirs from my LPR (Life Pre-Rovey). I must say, much of that time has been pretty hazy since my Cuddlenumpkins has started having me eat the special candy he brings home from the DARPA labs, but I don't mind 'cause he says that it's good for me 'cause it helps him build a strong bone ten different ways! Anyhow, here's a letter I wrote to my pal Linda in, oh, must have been around '99 or 2000 or so...
- - - - - - -
I've met The One. Now I know, I know - you're shaking your pretty perm and chins and sighing to your tape recorder, "Boy, I've heard *that* one before!" but I swear it's not like that this time. I was young and impressionable, and how was I supposed to know that Mr. Gergen smiles at *everyone* like that? And despite what Roll Call hinted at, Ms. Reno and I are JUST FRIENDS. She just happened to need a practice partner for her lambada revue, and I was the only one of the summer interns who had the foresight to pack dance panties. I mean, life in the White House is so wacky and fast-paced, you never know when a fiesta is going to bust out, and being an ex-Junior Llama Scout, I'm always prepared! Well, almost always. A few weeks ago when Mr. Stephanopoulos came shimmying into the intern closet for a pop drill on the number from Gypsy he'd been teaching us, I completely muffed the step-ball-change/jazz-hands combo, and accidentally kneed his personal assistant right square in his olive branch. Mr. S. was so mad, he made me come into his office and wax "I'm sorry" into his back fuzz so many times that I could actually see skin! But I'll tell you - it sure taught me a lesson, and I skipped 2-for-1 Monicolada 'n Starr-rita nights at the Hawk & Dove to practice until my thighs ached, and my joints would have been a bruisey pulp were it not for your lending me those kneepads your friend left behind. Thank her for me, would you? Are the two of you still in touch?
Well, I know how you love it when your pals share all the sticky details of their boy-crazy adventures with you, and it makes you blue when there's a gap, so I wanted you to be the first to know about this dreamy new guy of mine. As you know, ever since that sleep specialist suggested it might be helpful for my insomnia, I've been traveling coast to coast with Mr. Gore's presidential campaign. My tasks change from day to day. Sometimes I'll be in charge of flicking pinto beans at audience members who look like they're nodding off. Maybe I'll have to hose down the bus after the Straight Talk Express drives by and the McCain press corps lean out the window and try to douse us with their super-soaker Kool-Aid cannons. I might even have to stand outside the VP and Mrs. Tipper's Winnebago D'amour and loudly announce to passers by that they shouldn't disturb the candidate for the next few hours because he's in there making sweet, sweet monkey-hot humpage to his comely wife. They're sooooo in love, you know. I heard a rumor that there was a movie based on the two of them. I think it might have been called Blade Runner but I can't be certain.
Aaaaanyhow, for once, I actually had an evening off (even super pumpy-stumpy robo-sex machines like Mr. Gore get run down and have to recharge sometimes), and thought I might suck up my courage and mosey over to the Bush campaign's bipartisan brisket Bar-B-Q. They're always asking us Gore staffers to come over and frolic with them, but that inevitably ends in wedgies and the duct-taping of our various sensitive parts, so we tend to say no. Still - it's nigh-on impossible for me to say no to a scrumptious hunk of meat, so I set my unmentionables aside, depilated and baby-oiled all potential tape removal danger zones, and wandered on over to the Piggly-Wiggly parking lot where the Bushies had set up camp. Oh my goodness golly! I thought our bus knew how to have a rollicking good time with our water-chugging contests and spirited rounds of House Resolutions Pantomime. But these folks clearly had gone through a crash course in Fiesta 101 'cause the scene was like something straight out of The Decameron, or Falcon Crest, even. See, at our ice cream socials, only Mr. Gore and Mrs. Tipper are actually allowed to touch each other. Opposite-sex staffers are required to stay a Starr Report's width apart while waltzing, and the purity seal on our official campaign unitards must remain un-burped at all times.
Now I know that must sound a bit prudish to a helium-teated sex dugong like yourself, Linda, but I'll tell you a little secret because I know I can trust you. Mr. Gore's boss got into a bit of a kerfuffle a while back for smoking cigars with interns, and the rumor is that Mr. Gore doesn't want anyone to think that he'd be the same kind of bad influence on his young staffers. And I can't say I disagree with him. You go indulging in unhealthy behavior like that in front of impressionable children, and heaven knows what they'll be sticking in their mouths next. As quick as you can say James Buchanan, they'll be on their knees beholden to a giant addiction - maybe one that'll make them blow their job and their whole reputation! They might even start taking the pot, or getting hopped up on goofballs, or tossing away all their pocket money on material to make not very pretty handbags, and that would be just scandalous. Won't someone just once think of the children?
But back to the party. After these past few months of oat bran smoothies, bulgur-kelp mock-nuggets and celery croquettes (Mr. Gore likes his team to be super earth-friendly, as well as regular!), I must admit I was in the mood for something a little bit spicier. Not that we've been entirely flavor-deprived, mind you. Team members who have accrued enough Lockbox Points are allowed two black pepper packets with their Cream of Soy or Organic Gore-zpacho on alternate Souper Tuesdays. However, I've chalked up a few demerits lately for saying the N-word (it rhymes with "raider") out loud at staff meetings, and accidentally humming racy Hanson songs in earshot of Mrs. Tipper, so I've just had to make do with rummaging through the trash for the empty oregano baggies that Green Party VW bus caravans always seem to leave behind at the rest stops. I shake out the dusty bits onto my mung loaf, and munch away, and soon I'm just feeling…better about the world. It's amazing what just a little taste of something herby can do for your disposition sometimes! But to heck with these single hits of flavor. The Bushies were sparking it up calienté style with an impromptu pig roast (Oy - another thing I got demerits for - asking Mrs. Hadassah if she wanted a bite of the Spam jerky I'd made on the radiator of my motel room. Heck, I was only trying to share!), Buckler-funneling out by the dumpster, Jenna and Barbara's Cuervo-rita 'N Kissin' Booth (2 for 1 specials for all DKE brothers or current Wellesley students), Mrs. Laura's Sandoz Chili-out Tent, and in the center of it all, the candidate himself saddling up Pat Robertson to race him across the parking lot.
Oh, there was a-hootin' and a-hollerin' and a-stock-ticker checkin', and like the shy little Goreista I am, I stayed on the fringes away from the booths, just watching it all fly by. But suddenly, out of the corner of my cornea, I saw her. Like a Golden Girl showered down from Heaven above, standing over by the slaw vat, cell phone in one hand (in deep negotiations with Mike Ovitz or Jerry Bruckheimer, no doubt), and hunk of brisket in the other was my life-long sartorial idol, perennial super-starlet Bea Arthur herself. I mean I had heard that the Bush campaign was attracting its fair share of Hollywood glitterati hoping to add some star power to the effort and nab a little bit of political gravitas for themselves (there are only so many mentally challenged characters written every year, and mama's gotta try to bring home the Oscar somehow!), but I'd been anticipating the usual hangers-on like Bruce Willis, Jay Leno or that Austrian bodybuilder with the funny last name - Schwarzenazi or something? Nothing like the white-hot, unquenchable firepower that such a legend as TV's Maude could lend to the proceedings. I screwed my courage to my sticky place, and sidled up to ask Ms. Arthur for the favor of her autograph. Oh, how I gushed and babbled at her, citing exchanges between her and Estelle Getty, and recalling beloved dialogue from her star turn in the Star Wars Holiday Special. Ms. Arthur seemed more than a bit flustered by my torrent of fandom, and noticing her glances toward a nearby Secret Service agent, I jammed a mental finger in the dike to slow the flow, and cursed myself for not heeding the Bushies' laid-back lead and letting her go incognito. Still - I wasn't about to leave there without a memento of my moment bathed in the golden glow of cinematic perfection.
"I…I'm so sorry to bother you, Ms. Arthur, but may I possibly have your autogr…"
And then I saw him. Well, not so much saw him at first, but rather was suddenly, voluptuously engulfed in a warm olfactory haze redolent of roast beef drippings, Gold Bond and my bachelor uncle Chuckie's laundry hamper in the weeks after Grammie Wade fell down the root cellar stairs and hurt her hip. In other words - intoxicating. Had I not eschewed my undergarments before venturing deep into Bush Country, they surely would have by now been twisted into slick knots so ornate that only the most devoted Webelo could hope to unsnarl them. He sidled up, chuckling heartily, setting his voluptuous chins a-wobble, and a sultry mist of mucus loose across my already dewy flesh.
"Another one, Karen? You really should consider a different hairstyle if you don't want this to keep happening." His lavishly lubricated twang trilled juicily from the upper reaches of his adenoids, agitating some previously unknown, un-stroked pleasure center of my brain. Linda - had I not at that moment willed up the mental picture of Mr. Gore and Mrs. Tipper's mandatory after-dinner staff entertainment presentation of Kama Sutra positions 12 through 18 last night, I can't swear I wouldn't have wilted down to a greasy little pleasure puddle on the asphalt.
Not-Bea growled, "Well, Karl, it's not like you didn't have that gaggle of Japanese press mistake you for Ned Beatty last week in Mississippi! Not that you didn't have them squealing like pigs quick as Lewinsky could finish off a tray of hot links!"
Not-Ned flushed, plumping the ample, supple flesh of his jowls with blood, and transforming his head for but a puckish moment into the spitting image of an Easter ham. My stomach growled, and he clucked his tongue. "Well I swear! Leave it to those liberals to leave a poor, starving child behind. Come over to Rovey, and I'll make sure you've always got as much meat as you can handle. Here, let's leave Mrs. Hughes to her very important governmenting business, and we'll see if we can rustle up a few ribs for your pleasure."
I nodded dumbly, and the last clear memory I have before the evening melted into an Open Pit-hued haze of slaw, lard biscuits, brisket, line dancing and sack racing with this grade-A slab of Texas-thick prime rib, was his lifting a single bratwurstian finger to a small daub of butterscotch pudding glistening on his chin and smoothing its sweetness over my parted, parched lips. "Make sure to save room," he whispered.
Oh Linda, I would have sworn it was all a hypoglycemic dream, had I not awoken the next morning to find a tempting array of sausage links and Krispy Kremes arranged on a tray at the foot of the bed, accompanied by a stained napkin scrawled with a cell phone number, an edict to rendezvous behind the Port-O-Potty bank neck to the Charleston Kiwanis Club at 8 that evening, and the initials "KR" traced in KC Masterpiece at the bottom.
Such sweet torture until then. Perhaps I'll use the time to try and get that stain out of my blue dress so I can wear it tonight. Wish me luck! And by the way, this is just between you and me, okay?