One of the very nicest things about having such a popular and world-wide famous beau is that my I wake up each and every morning (or sometimes in the middle of the night if Rovey’s had goat burritos for pre-bed snackies) with my box stuffed just meaty full of mail! His devoted fans are just foaming to know about every miniscule inch of how he fits into my life, and I’m more than happy to spread the joy.
But sometimes I get sad. I know I’ve scribbled about this before, and my tuckus should be as tough as a rhino’s by now (especially after those couple of months I spent in the Punishment Pants), but still, questions like, “How could you possibly be with a man like Karl Rove?” still make me ache all the way down to my cloture motion. And not in the fun way. I mean, I know I’m not the sort of bumptastic, bodacious supermodel/Nascar winner/Olive Garden chef combo one would expect to see decorating the chubbleumptiously brawny arms of a diplomat of Rovey’s stature, but he’s super-gracious about putting up with and correcting my shortcomings.
Say, I put one of my Nubblechorpkin’s frijoles “accidents” into the regular trash and not the Depends dumpster, because I forgot he was anonymously donating the collection to the Roveseum he told me Mrs. Pelosi is building on her front lawn. Rovey won’t yell or bite or make me starch and iron his whole bow tie collection like my ex-beau Tucker used to do. Instead, he takes me gently by the ponytail, installs me at the Practice Podium, puts on his Helen Thomas wig and hose and has me tap dance until I fall down. Then, no matter how groggy all that rasping has made him, since we’re already there, he always makes sure to give me a full, guided tour of his briefing room. Sometimes, if I’m lucky and have mastered an extra-hard task, we even have pool spray!
I still don’t know how a goofy l’il bumpkin like me got so goshdarned fortunate as to score daily nuzzlings from Tapioca Times’s January 2003 “Lump of the Month” (centerfold and everything!), but you* bet your filibuster I’m gonna do everything I can to keep him!
p.s. Yeah, that means you Mikulski! Claws off! I’ve seen the way you look at him like a yummy lump of backfin crab. I will not hesitate to cut a Cockade!