GDQ: The Movie (trailer) (first draft) (including sics)
Fleetwood Mac, with their new sax man, Slick Willy Clinton, were wailing out their seventy-third chorus of Give Peace a Chance when Barbra Streisand entered, stage left, to the thunderous applause of the convention. Barbara Boxer, Dianne Feinstein, Rosie O’Donnell, Oprah, and a glut of other semi-intoxicated politicals, rich political wanna-bes and Hollywood-type Bokanovskovics were singing their precious little hearts out on the huge stage that’d been set up on the Washington mall (with the help of Joe & Jenny Sixpack’s tax dollars, of course). The crowd of mostly rich-, mostly east coast-, mostly white women (none of whom actually marched there), with an ultraliberal yet requisite sprinkling of NOW-, GLAD- and Queer Nation types spilling out over the edges of the park and onto the blocked-off street. The joyous sense of victory was palpable: posterboards bobbing up an down in the sea of feminine self-righteousness. Posterboards writ large with such worn out gems as SAVE THE CHILDREN!; GUNS ARE RACIST!; TED NUGENT SUCKS!; SIGN THE TREATY!; LESBIANS DON’T NEED GUNS; NRA = NAT’L RACIST ASSOC; and so on and so forth, virtually every combination of mindless slogan that will fit on a 36x48 piece of posterboard.
It all reminded Sarah of a church camp meeting she’d attended when she was in 9th grade; the year she’d given her heart to the Hebrew’s deity Yahweh and learned to speak in tongues. She could still remember the warmth and sense of brother- and sisterhood as she and her camper buddy stepped forward and walked up to the bonfire to receive the gift of tongues. Of course, it all seemed so comically quaint now, forty years later, that she hardly even felt silly about the short chapter in her silver-spoon childhood. Truth be told, though, at that moment, watching the proceedings of The Million Anti-Gun Mom March, from the comfort of their elk-rack bunk bed, fire crackling in the rustic cabin’s stone fireplace, breathing in the crisp Montana mountain air, well, the whole menagerie on the other side of continent seemed like an impossibly ridiculous scene that even George Orwell or Ayn Rand (two authors, she noted mentally, that she really needed to bone up on) would’ve been embarrassed to write. A wave of shame—much the same as a deprogrammed Scientologist feels when he sees Tom Cruise bouncing around like a baboon and ranting about his pseudo-scientific epiphanies—came over her and she asked forgiveness of Ted, her bunkmate.
“You were blind, my child,” he said, sucking down the last gulp of his Coors, “but now you’ve seen the light. You are forgiven. Now, go down, and sin no more.” At which point, with an overwhelming sense of gratitude she burrowed under the beaverskin comforter and resumed applying felatio, perfected during years of lobbying on Capitol Hill, to Ted Nuggets’ throbbing, cannon-like member.
Impossible! you say? Libelously ludicrous!? Well, bear with me, incredulous reader, for miracles can, and do, occur. Even in that sparkling city on the swamp, that black hole of common sense on the Potomac, Washington.
D.C. that is.
Chuckling at the sadly comical scene on the TV, he pushed the power button on the remote and watched with a certain sense of job-well-done detachment as the 120” HD screen disappeared into the cedar log wall and popped another Coors. He muffled a groan, checked his watch and then nipped the end off the ten inch Cuban he’d been sucking on for the last half hour. Lovingly, tenderly, with the utmost care and finesse, he applied the clear flame to the Cuban’s foreskin, sucked it like a nubile nipple, careful not to overheat the precious little “girl,” (the idea of utilizing a masculine similitude to describe the blissfullaceousness of a great Cuban cigar was abhorrent to Ted). He closed his eyes and leaned back between the giant horns of the moose rack that made up his bunk bed frame, and slowly exhaled a mouthful of sweet, spicy, almost sensimillia-flavored tobacco smoke. And he groaned, and did not attempt to squelch it, and proceeded to rid his mind of all things temporal, and simply enjoy the purging of Sarah’s conscience.
If he’d waited for just one more nanosecond, though, before exterminating the raucous idiocy on the TV screen, he’d have seen the head of “the gentleman from California,” Ms. Rautenstein, appear to disappear. Then, approximately one-and-a-half seconds later, the screen would’ve gone black for about fifteen seconds; after which time a discombobulated reporter in a frenetic newsroom, somewhere, would’ve Uhhh’d and Ahhhh’d his way through an utterly confused and entirely unsure report about a possible assassination at the much ballyhooed Million Anti-Gun Mom March in Washington. Tears welled atop the azure blue of his contact lenses, and he almost choked up.
It all reminded Sarah of a church camp meeting she’d attended when she was in 9th grade; the year she’d given her heart to the Hebrew’s deity Yahweh and learned to speak in tongues. She could still remember the warmth and sense of brother- and sisterhood as she and her camper buddy stepped forward and walked up to the bonfire to receive the gift of tongues. Of course, it all seemed so comically quaint now, forty years later, that she hardly even felt silly about the short chapter in her silver-spoon childhood. Truth be told, though, at that moment, watching the proceedings of The Million Anti-Gun Mom March, from the comfort of their elk-rack bunk bed, fire crackling in the rustic cabin’s stone fireplace, breathing in the crisp Montana mountain air, well, the whole menagerie on the other side of continent seemed like an impossibly ridiculous scene that even George Orwell or Ayn Rand (two authors, she noted mentally, that she really needed to bone up on) would’ve been embarrassed to write. A wave of shame—much the same as a deprogrammed Scientologist feels when he sees Tom Cruise bouncing around like a baboon and ranting about his pseudo-scientific epiphanies—came over her and she asked forgiveness of Ted, her bunkmate.
“You were blind, my child,” he said, sucking down the last gulp of his Coors, “but now you’ve seen the light. You are forgiven. Now, go down, and sin no more.” At which point, with an overwhelming sense of gratitude she burrowed under the beaverskin comforter and resumed applying felatio, perfected during years of lobbying on Capitol Hill, to Ted Nuggets’ throbbing, cannon-like member.
Impossible! you say? Libelously ludicrous!? Well, bear with me, incredulous reader, for miracles can, and do, occur. Even in that sparkling city on the swamp, that black hole of common sense on the Potomac, Washington.
D.C. that is.
Chuckling at the sadly comical scene on the TV, he pushed the power button on the remote and watched with a certain sense of job-well-done detachment as the 120” HD screen disappeared into the cedar log wall and popped another Coors. He muffled a groan, checked his watch and then nipped the end off the ten inch Cuban he’d been sucking on for the last half hour. Lovingly, tenderly, with the utmost care and finesse, he applied the clear flame to the Cuban’s foreskin, sucked it like a nubile nipple, careful not to overheat the precious little “girl,” (the idea of utilizing a masculine similitude to describe the blissfullaceousness of a great Cuban cigar was abhorrent to Ted). He closed his eyes and leaned back between the giant horns of the moose rack that made up his bunk bed frame, and slowly exhaled a mouthful of sweet, spicy, almost sensimillia-flavored tobacco smoke. And he groaned, and did not attempt to squelch it, and proceeded to rid his mind of all things temporal, and simply enjoy the purging of Sarah’s conscience.
If he’d waited for just one more nanosecond, though, before exterminating the raucous idiocy on the TV screen, he’d have seen the head of “the gentleman from California,” Ms. Rautenstein, appear to disappear. Then, approximately one-and-a-half seconds later, the screen would’ve gone black for about fifteen seconds; after which time a discombobulated reporter in a frenetic newsroom, somewhere, would’ve Uhhh’d and Ahhhh’d his way through an utterly confused and entirely unsure report about a possible assassination at the much ballyhooed Million Anti-Gun Mom March in Washington. Tears welled atop the azure blue of his contact lenses, and he almost choked up.
posted by Jefferson | 7:25 AM
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