A Wolf in Veep's Clothing
You betcha, I'm struggling with what to say about a silver-spooned guy from our Badger State getting tagged to be the No. 2 on the presidential ticket belonging to the political party for uber-rich white guys, a silver-spooned guy who owes his past, present and future to the beneficence of the United States government and yet signs the anti-tax pledge snake-oiled by crackpot Grover Norquist whose dream is to shrink the government so it can be drowned in a bathtub, what the fock.
Yeah yeah, I don't know yet what to say about a silver-spooned guy from Cheeseland getting tagged to be the No. 2 on the presidential ticket belonging to the political party for uber-rich white guys, a guy whose family construction business has profited more than nicely from the taxpayers' dime for years and years but whose passion is to deny that dime to the Medicare'd and Social Securitied whose passion is to stay alive, healthy and solvent, maybe one more day, please.
For some reason I'm reminded of the time years back when I was the Shepherd's advice columnist for one week. It went something like this:
I've been having this problem of hearing voices in my head. For example, just the other night I'm in bed lying next to a certain female, and a voice inside my head says, “Relax ... you're not the first doctor to sleep with one of his patients.” But then a few minutes later, I hear another voice reminding me, “Richard, you're a veterinarian, for crying out loud.” Can you please make these voices stop?
Doctor Not Feel Good
Jeez louise, pally. Hearing voices can be a bitch, I tell you, 'cause who the heck knows where that kind of nutbag stuff may lead, ain'a? In far, far too many cases of voice-hearing I've heard about over the years, seems one day some guy's hearing voices, the next day he's out carving up Cub Scouts, I kid you not. I'm no expert when it comes to hearing, but listen up 'cause I got two words for you: Ear focking plugs. OK, maybe that's three words. Sue me.
But Richard, before you get the earplugs, please allow my voice to remind you that no matter what one's profession may be, remember that one is allowed to have a personal life. From your letter, I can only assume that yours includes a sexual attraction to—perhaps even preference for—another species. In this conservative Christian voodoo age, a regular guy can feel like he ought to get fried at the stake just for checking out the latest bra ad from JC Penney's.
I admire the courage inherent in the matter-of-fact manner in which you describe your problem—that is, you understand that your problem is not the fact that you're boning a Doberman, or sheep, or even a goddamn chimpanzee for all I know; no sir, that's not your problem. Your problem is simply only with these voices you hear. Good.
Cripes, I know I don't think I could take the raised eyebrows the New Puritans would give me if I showed up at a cocktail party or after-hours business function and my date was a focking barnyard animal. And you must remember this: If you ever begin to feel blue from any kind of harassment like that, I can only suggest patience. Remember that medical science makes a bunch of breakthroughs every day, even as I speak. It may seem like only yesterday—when, in fact, it wasn't—that it seemed really unusual and focking weird that guys could go to Sweden and come back gals.
So hey, stick to your peccadilloes, Richard, 'cause one day doctors will perfect the species-change operation and then Richard can be Rover and everybody'll say big focking deal. Now roll over and play dead 'cause I got one more paragraph and it's got nothing to do with you.
Wait a second: One thing I could say about a silver-spooned guy getting tagged to be the No. 2 on the presidential ticket with a silver-spooned schlemiel as No. 1 is that he's a job creator. And that job is to go to the polls on Nov. 6 and vote Democratic top to bottom, what the fock, 'cause I'm Art Kumbalek and I told you so.