As something of a celebrity these days, I get my share of surreptitious winks. Not an event passes by that Anselmo does not greet me afterward with a musky pocketful of the dainty underthings handed to him en masse by the hopeful ladies in the poon lagoon. The “poon lagoon,” by the way, is political jargon for the area to the bottom right of the podium where the loose women congregate. Some of the more senior politicos, incumbent Senators mainly, also have “wranglers,” who cruise the pit for choice cuts to be brought back to the bus. I’m not into that, though. My only mistress is America, and she’s the only one I’m thinking about screwing these days.


The other day, though, temptation reared it’s ugly head. I was attending one of those exhausting dinners with celebrities and dancing, and Anselmo and I were standing in a corner talking shop when I noticed a commotion to my left. A car had pulled up and a woman was stepping out into a cluster of paparazzi. She was tall, willowy, and had the lean, limber legs of a newborn foal. A shimmering curtain of yellow hair framed an elegantly carved face, wrought of purest alabaster. The magnetism and warmth that filled the air was unmistakable; Ann Coulter had arrived, and her grace and poise were even more intoxicating in person than they are in her television appearances and books. She glanced my way, her eyes lingering for an instant, and then she moved off into the throng of adoration.

I thought nothing of it. There are always a lot of beautiful people at these things, so I quickly put the near-encounter out of my mind and continued talking with Anselmo about this thing that recently appeared on my balls. After a while, though, it came time to take our seats for dinner, and I frantically searched the forest of tables to find the place card with my name on it. When I finally found it, I was chagrined to discover that Anselmo was seated elsewhere, and we said our goodbyes. I was the first to sit down at the table, so I took out my Blackberry and pretended to use it. I was deeply engrossed in my wallpaper when I heard a sweet, carefree voice behind me whisper “pardon me, you filthy asshole.” I turned and looked into the sparkling eyes of a face I recognized: it was Ann. She looked away, coyly. “It’s just… that’s my chair.”

I looked at the place card to my right, noticing her name in pearlescent lavender script. “Of course,” I stammered, feeling my cheeks redden as I moved my chair to let her by. She sat down calmly and arranged her things. It felt as if the temperature of the ballroom had increased by a good ten degrees, but after an endless minute or two a few other people showed up to fill up the empty spots at the table. Introductions went around, and by the time service began, we had begun to converse as friends.

It quickly became clear that Ann was the shining star of the table. Everyone within earshot hung on her every word, and the men blushed beneath her gaze. Her raw charisma was impressive, a charming mix of bubbly vivaciousness and sly wit. She could go on about almost any subject, from Liberal Bedwetters to Godless Pinkos, and when she referred to the 9/11 widows as “dead-husband skank-hookers,” our raucous laughter brought more than a few envious glances from the surrounding tables. I don’t know if it was the wine or the throaty anti-Semitism that danced from Ann’s lips, but an unmistakable feeling of good cheer had taken hold of all of us.

When entree service came, things got exciting. While placing Ann’s fish in front of her, the waiter (probably distracted by her radiance) accidentally knocked her water glass over with the plate, spilling a few ice cubes onto the tablecloth. Ann handled the situation with her characteristic aplomb and without missing a beat. She leaned over to the waiter, smiled sweetly, and spit a greasy wad of mucus into his terrified face. She reached one slender hand up, gently crushed his testicles and hissed: “What do you think you’re doing you terrorist son of a bitch.”

The waiter, who was wearing a red turban, stammered, “but ma’am, I’m no terrorist. I’m a Sikh.”

“Well go seek me some fucking tartar sauce then,” she purred, her teeth bared in a girlish rictus. We couldn’t help but giggle, the potentially awkward situation being so adroitly defused.

After dessert, Ann rose abruptly, casting a casual glance over her shoulder at me before disappearing into the crowd. In a way I was relieved, as I had begun to notice the other men at the table smiling at her, and had begun to feel strangely jealous of this attention. I waited a few minutes before I excused myself and hurried to catch her. I found her on the Terrace, looking out over the city. She was shivering, so I approached and placed my jacket over he shoulders. She turned towards me, and looked into my eyes, and for the first time I sensed a vulnerability in her. Vulnerability gives me a huge boner, so I moved in. As my arms encircled her, she broke free and turned her back to me. “I can’t,” she said, “no matter how much I might want to.”

I was confused. “Why must we fight these feelings?” I pleaded.

“My first love is Jesus,” she said, “and I must remain ever faithful to him.” An unbreakable resolve was clearly building within her. I should have figured that she was so into Christ. After all, she acts just like him. I began to get desperate.

“But Ann; these desires, they’re natural. We’re just animals, after all.” Then I quoted a few lines from that Bloodhound Gang song. Wrong move number one. Her tone uncharacteristically icy, she explained to me that God had created the world in 7 days and then had made man on the 7th day and woman from his rib. The Earth it seems, is only 6,000 or so years old.

Needless to say, I was a bit taken aback by these assertions. “Are you some kind of dingbat?” I asked, “what about the dinosaurs?” Wrong move number two. A foot long jet of blue fire sprayed from her eyes, and blood began to leak from her ears. She issued forth a great shriek, causing the windows facing us to disintegrate. She began clawing furiously at my face, trying to get my eyes. I curled up into a ball at her feet, hoping help would arrive before I succumbed to her assault. Suddenly, with a great whooshing sound, the Hot Air Express descended from nowhere with Anselmo at the helm. Wolf dropped from the basket onto the terrace at Ann’s back. As she whirled to confront him, I took advantage of the distraction to climb up the rope to safety.

Once in the basket, Anselmo applied full throttle to the balloon, and we shot into the sky. “But what about Wolf?” I asked, slightly concerned.

“He is brave and strong,” replied Anselmo, “he will survive.” As we rose into the night we gradually lost sight of the bright green flashes of light that marked the battle on the terrace, and Anselmo tenderly cleaned and dressed my wounds. I was floored by Ann’s behavior. Who could have guessed that she was capable of such a severe personality change. I thought cheating on my wife would be easier than this.

Last Tuesday came like any other. I was in Bowling Green, lost in the middle of a week long gauntlet of two-a-days. Between podiums, there seemed to be little room for anything but a four hour power-nap on the bus (the balloon was in the shop) and a thousand anonymous handshakes.

And then there was Tuesday.

The first event had gone well, a brief speech in front of the local chapter of the AAQV. At first I was a bit worried about the almost nonexistent applause, but then Anselmo explained that AAQV stood for the American Association of Quadriplegic Veterans, which made me feel loads better. Then I was back on the bus with plenty of time to spare before another gig across town. Anselmo briefed me, as usual, on who my audience would be and what they wanted to hear. No problem. Pepper arrived with a fresh suit, I drank half a cup of coffee, and was out the door. I put on my game face and strode to the podium, the waning Kentucky sun at my back. Before me stood 250 members of the Warren County PTA. I cleared my throat, but before I could speak, I saw her.

Now, love always seems to come around when we’re not looking for it, doesn’t it? I am happily married, after all. But it was just one of those days, I guess. And yeah, I looked good. My tie was unbelievable, and nothing can mitigate the raw confidence that emanates from a man when he’s wearing an unbelievable tie. My suit looked great, and those bleaching trays are really starting to work, so I guess we can’t totally chalk it up to luck. So there I was, standing on stage with my mouth hanging open, like some moron. I looked back at the crowd and realized that they were waiting for me to say something. I sipped some water to buy time, and then launched into the speech Anselmo had prepared for me. I dared not look at her again lest I lose my cool once more.

Once I got rolling and found my groove, everything really came together. There was some indefinable energy in play, and the crowd was feeling it too. I went mobile, plucking the mic off the stand and prowling back and forth across the stage, pointing and gesticulating to punctuate the awesome truths I was revealing. I even took my coat off and rolled up my sleeves (although I wasn’t trying to pull a Howard Dean or anything.; I kept my awkward shrieks to myself). As I marched back and forth, hurling truth at those people, I stole a glance or two at my girl, but she seemed uninterested. She didn’t even seem to be looking in my direction, rather she looked off emptily in random directions. I have to admit that, though I wrapped up my speech to applause that can only be described as thunderous, my confidence began to wither slightly. I hustled off to Anselmo who gave a quizzical look. He wiped my forehead tenderly with his handkerchief and straightened my tie. I sometimes think he knows me better than I know myself.

As I moved out into the crowd to shake a few hands, usually my favorite part of those gigs, I felt my nerves getting the best of me. I found myself glancing nervously about, both fearing and hoping that I might catch her eye. I steered myself toward where I knew she had been, all the while murmuring thank-yous to my adoring fans. And then I saw her, and she was close. I could feel a lightheadedness rear up within me as I approached, until finally, there was only one hand left to shake.

She was younger than she had looked from afar, and a bit shabbily dressed. A pink sort of one-piece type of thing. Her hair was short, little more than a wispy fluff on top of her head. But still, her small black eyes locked with mine and a queer sensation, much like falling overtook me. I had not noticed before, but she was already playing arm candy to some schmo, a man grinning dully at me with his had stuck out. I grasped it and shook, hating the man attached to it with the recklessness that so often infects the soul of the passionate. He mumbled how wonderful it was to have seen me speak, but I wasn’t listening; I couldn’t take my eyes off of the beautiful creature on his arm. He seemed to notice and said “Maya, say hello to Mr. White.” She just gave me a watery sort of look and then glanced away. Suddenly I realized that the man whose hand I had shaken must have been her father, and my heart soared. “May I?” I said, and he nodded.

I reached out and gently took Maya off of his shoulder and into my arms. Some of the spit-up that was on her bib was transferred to my suit, and I smiled. She smiled back. Maya, sweet Maya. I drew in her scent and our eyes met for what seemed an eternity. I had kissed thousands of babies in thousands of towns, but this was unlike anything I had ever felt before. There was an unmistakable electricity. I knew she wanted it too, so I closed my eyes and moved in, my hungry tongue darting out from between my lips.

Then things got a bit blurry.

There was a lot of sudden pushing, and my beautiful Maya was gone, whisked back into the crowd. The last thing I saw was her figure receding from me, hands outstretched, pain in her eyes, while Anselmo and Wolf began firing negro-grade pepper spray into the surging crowd. Before I knew it we were on the bus and heading out of town. Anselmo stood over me, saying something, but I couldn’t hear him. I waved him out of the room and lay in the dark clutching the crust of spit-up on my lapel.

Yes, folks, passion can be a powerful thing. Now that I’m out of it’s clutches, I’m even more determined to channel that passion into my love for my country, and the opportunity for power that it provides. Don’t worry about me though, I’m ok. I’ve watched Romeo + Juliet (the Claire Danes one) on my VHS three times in as many days, so I’m starting to get my heal on. And there’s really something to that story; sometimes, no matter how much you want something, it just can’t work. I think maybe I knew that from the first moment I saw her.

Now, as I’ve made clear in the past, I don’t care a lick for the two daughters my wife Peggy has from her previous marriage. Unfortunately, since her ex-husband is in prison, she has sole custody, and so her children live in MY house with ME. Now, while I don’t accept Bekka and Taryn as my own, and I in fact regard them with a contempt seemingly without limit, I sometimes feel compelled to step in and play the role of father figure to them. I guess a part of me feels pity for them, since their dad “Ken” wasn’t really there while they were growing up. When he wasn’t buggering children in the back of his Aerostar or shooting himself up with paint thinner, he was burgling whorehouses or gambling on clandestine bobcat fights. In short, these girls need a strong positive male role model in their lives, and the Richmeister is just the one to step up and do it once in a while, when it’s convenient for him.

I know a lot of men with daughters will understand the situation I’m about to address. Maybe you’ll even vote for me after you see how adroitly I have handled things. You see, Bekka brought home a new boyfriend last night. I use the italics to show my doubt as to the applicability of this word. I think she’s just screwing this dude. Bekka is like her mother in that way (kinda slutty). Anyway, his name is Jay Lafray, and according to his myspace page he is a model, entrepreneur, and songwriter, which, in myspeak, pretty much means he is a loafing mooch. He’s a dead ringer for Brandon Lee (that guy from “The Crow”). When she brought him through my front door, it smelled like somebody had just 9/11′d the first floor at Macy’s. My foyer still smells like Drakkar Noir. I invited them into one of my studies to have a nightcap, since I wanted to give him the once-over and some alcohol before he drove my stepdaughter home to bang her.

I offered him some cheap scotch, since I knew he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, and we sat and talked a while. He had been a Sergeant in the Marine Corps a couple of years back and had served in Iraq. At first, I was impressed, but when I asked how many civilians he had mutilated, he clammed up pretty good, which cost him a few points. He was definitely well dressed; an exquisitely tailored pinstripe suit covering a black silk shirt with just a few buttons casually opened. His trousers were pleat-free, and I could almost see his penis straining through the crotch, which I didn’t like at all. He sensed that I was becoming aggressive, and tried to placate me by explaining his personal philosophy.

When he told me he had a creed, my curiosity was piqued. I find that a person who has a creed, motto, tenets, or even a credo or weltanschauung is generally someone to be respected. I was dismayed, however, when it took him almost four minutes to recite it. It was pretty abstract and didn’t make much sense, and I was confused later because when I was looking for the exact text of the creed on his myspace page, I saw a bunch of other creed-like “sayings.” While he does not seem to be technically “retarded,” he definitely has some glaring cognitive deficiencies and deserves our unfettered pity.

And yet he seemed confident, self-assured. He had a certain magnetism generally found in those who have accomplished great things. I had to know more. I probed him with my throbbing question muscle, and found out some mildy interesting bits: He and his friend are trying to start a magazine that may or may not come out later this year. He has some pictures of himself on the internet, sort of like everyone else. He’s a Capricorn. And yet, none of these things was the crucial piece, the keystone of his character that made him so compelling. And then he let it slip: He used to nail that girl Jenn from “Real World Denver.” You might remember her. She’s the one that might seem hot if you were wasted and hadn’t been laid in a while.

I was blown away. I mean, here I was, sitting in a room with something almost close to a virtual superstar. My first instinct was to stand up, rush forward, and ask for his autograph, but I managed to keep my cool. I felt awkward talking from that point forward, so the conversation sort of just died. They got up a few minutes later, said their goodbyes, and left. I sat for several minutes before I could compose myself enough to call for Consuela to come clean up the glasses. But before she collected his, I stopped her. While he had not touched his scotch, he had left a piece of vigorously chewed Orbitz Mint Mojito at the bottom. I giddily plucked it from the glass, and walked around my mansion for a few minutes, trying to decide where to put it. Eventually I went to my valet and pulled from it a very old locket that had been given to me by my mother on her deathbed. I looked into the sad gray eyes of the woman whose photo lay inside, before pulling the picture out and dropping it into the wastebasket. I gingerly placed the gray-green blob into the locket and stashed it in the farthest reaches of my most secret safe at the bottom of the most secure strong-box at the back of the clandestinest vault I own.

Drifting off to sleep that night, the words of one of Jay’s less rambling creeds echoed endlessly through my head: “Fame is vapor, popularity and accident, riches take wings. Only one thing endures and that is character. That’s why they call me Jay LaFray.” Truly as beautiful as it is sensical.