Ok, I’m a little emotional about this one. Yesterday I read an article in the so-called New York Times written by a certain Mr. Brit Burk. In said article, said “journalist” was lambasting me for some comments I made during a speech I gave to some firefighters at the Columbus Rotary a couple of weeks back. Mr. Burke decided that taking a few of my words out of context and reworking them to his advantage might give him a shot at a Pulitzer. Well, Brit, I hate to tell you, but the media isn’t just for journalists anymore, and I’m going to use the power of the internet to set the record straight and expose you for the unethical hack that you are.

First let me explain that what Mr. Burk was trying to suggest about me is that I don’t know what happened on 9/11. While I admit there was some confusion surrounding a couple of the questions the firefighter heroes asked me that day, to suggest that I am unaware of the greatest tragedy in Human history is absurd, to say the least. Yes, when asked about 9/11, I thought I was being asked about a tuna salad sandwich I had eaten on that day. My mistake, I’ll admit it. But here’s what Mr. Burke won’t tell you: We had just eaten a catered lunch before I took the podium, and we had been offered a selection of sandwiches, including tuna salad. So when that muscular, young firefighter asked that question, I thought we were still thinking about sandwiches. I normally expect a bit more of a segue before I talk about atrocities, sorry.

What if I said to you, “How has 3/19 changed your global outlook?” What would you say? Since you’re not a walking almanac, you might say, “I’m not sure why that day is significant.” Well, I hate to break it to you, but I’m not a walking almanac, either. I may be a politician, but I have weaknesses too. I’m terrible with dates, just ask my wife. C’mon fellas, you know what I’m talking about here. I’m terrible with birthdays, anniversaries, court dates, you name it. Of course, Anselmo keeps me briefed as best he can, but he can’t be there all the time; sometimes I just have to wing it. But just because you don’t know a fact on demand doesn’t mean you don’t know what that fact means. I know that on that September day our way of life was attacked by some liberty-hating terrorists, destroying forever the fragile innocence of our nation, and bringing down upon us a new and dangerous age of global ideological conflict. So what if I know the date? After all, we all know that the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, but do we all know the date? Of course not. It’s enough just to know it happened in June.

I think the real issue here is that I seem to be the only one who has two reasons to remember 9/11. While most people only remember the frantic news speculation and the horrifying images of people jumping hundreds of feet to certain death, I happen to also have seared into my brain images of the best tuna salad sandwich of my life. Sure, my life isn’t close to over, but I’m certain I’ll never have another to compare to it. It had walnuts in it, for Christ’s sake. And I don’t know if it was Tarragon or what, but whatever it was fit just perfectly. Not too much mayo and a couple of onion slices, all on lightly toasted pumpernickel; that is truly a sandwich I will never forget.

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.

People often say to me, Rich, you’re a goddamn millionaire, what do you drive? The answer might surprise you. I know that when a lot of people think of luxury automobiles, they think of the precisely engineered performance of German offerings, the reliable luxury of the finer Japanese brands, or even the classic appeal of the great American status-symbol: the Cadillac. Not me. Not old Rich ‘n Creamy. I only drive, have ever driven, and will only ever drive one vehicle: A Buick.

I’ve driven Buicks all my life, and I’ve never wanted to drive anything else. To me, they represent the undying optimism of the American spirit; that can-do attitude that has made Americans the most respected and envied people in the world. Loyalty, dignity, strength; all words that spring to mind when I think of these vehicles. But Buicks are more than just a philosophy. Some crave them for their high-performance muscle, some for their pretense-free elegance, still others for their bold styling. But there is one thing all Buick fans all have in common: a hatred of disappointment.

I guess I just have Buicks on the brain because last month was pretty tough. My old LeSabre died. At first I didn’t want to believe it. I just sat there in the driveway, endlessly turning the key, until Peggy got home from her Bridge game. There followed an emotional scene, but eventually she got the hard truth through to me. Cars don’t last forever, and sometimes we just have to let them go, no matter how much we love them. I mean, it was a ‘05 after all, and had nearly 30 g’s on it, but it was difficult nonetheless, especially since that was the last model year for the LeSabre, and so it was a bit of a collector’s item. That was when Peggy suggested that we hit the dealership. A glow and a grin spread across my face.

As we pulled up, the excitement became unbearable. I know a lot of people hate to deal with car salesmen, but I think that’s because they’ve never shopped for a Buick. As we got out of Peggy’s Lexus, one of them was on us. He introduced himself as Bruce, and I gave him a warm embrace. After he backed away, a salesman named Eric took me into the showroom. That was where I came face to face with the finest piece of automotive machinery to ever roll out of Detroit, and Buick’s flagship: The Two-thousand and Eight Buick Enclave CXL.

Vital Stats: Dual Electric defogs, power steering, intermittent wipers, premium leather seating appointments. You want to talk horses? How’s 275 sound? And that signature Buick front grill is bigger than ever. Cue saliva glands. Of course, it also includes GM’s proprietary On-Star system, which does everything but wipe my ass for me. It’s so useful, I can’t figure out why no other car manufacturer has even considered implementing anything similar! In short, this beast is fully loaded; so much so that I initially refused to believe Eric when he listed the features. I spit in his face, called him a liar, and pulled his blazer up over his head. Then I sucker-punched him a couple of times until he fell to the ground, and held a letter opener up against his tender, heaving throat. He suggested we take a test drive, and I released my grip on his hair. What a salesman!

The test drive, as usual, really sealed the deal. The sensation of piloting a Buick is difficult to describe. Unlike a lot of less carefully engineered vehicles, the Buick really shields you from any pesky “road feel.” It is almost like you’re not driving at all! Some people will disparage this aspect of the Buick, saying that not being able to feel the road eliminates half the fun of driving; like having sex while wearing 10 condoms at once. Well, if you’ve been to Haiti as much as I have, you learn to appreciate that feeling, let me tell you. Besides, without all of that sensory distraction, you can concentrate on the really important things, like fiddling with the controls on my 10-speaker High-Definition DVD Satelite entertainment system. Handling is equally impressive; the thing corners like it’s on sails!

After the paperwork was wrapped up, I took the long way home to get a little Rich-time with the new wheels. It was lovely. I could talk on the phone, listen to the news, drive, and watch “A Bug’s Life,” all at the same time! I know a lot of people out there pooh-pooh Buicks, but I think that those people are really just ignorant, like those Klansmen that I accidentally gave a speech to last month. If Buicks really sucked, why would Tiger Woods agree to drive one for only $40 million? Exactly, it doesn’t make sense. Maybe you’ve never sat behind the wheel of a Buick. If so, I suggest you go down to your dealership and try one of the three exceptional models on the dwindling Buick roster. Only then will you understand why, when it comes to cars, I don’t drive Buicks–Buicks drive me.

This morning, I met Anselmo for our daily campaign update slash pancake breakfast, and while the flapjacks were particularly moist and sweet, Anselmo’s countenance was troubled. Gone was the quiet and joyous sparkle that so often danced in his ebony eyes. When I asked him if he was feeling well, he told me that, in fact, something was troubling him. He said he was concerned that certain activities in my past might come back to haunt me. Apparently politicians, especially those involved in the high-stakes world of presidential electioneering, are routinely brought down when their former improprieties are brought to light. Now, Anselmo and I have been in this game a long time together, and I suppose he’s right to be a bit concerned. I mean, imagine how embarrassing it would be if it were reported in the New York Times that in college I once admitted to the emergency room with severe anal bleeding after a Frat party? Embarrassing, of course, if it was broken by the media.

You see, I suggested to Anselmo that I should simply come clean about any of the juicy tidbits that lie in my past, and thereby diffuse any potential embarrassment. After all, it’s worked in the past. Everybody went goo-goo for Dubya when they found out that he had been a lush and a raging snow-nose for all those years. And the only reason everybody was pissed at Clinton for his pot debacle was because he acted like a total puss about it. Well I inhaled, so don’t worry. Good and deep. Repeatedly as well. In fact, I constructed what was for a time the largest gravity bong (by displacement) east of the Mississippi River! The awesome bongs notwithstanding, I deeply regret the numerous times I smoked marijuana, and it is this powerful regret that makes those memories so wonderful.

Anyway, Anselmo thought that coming clean about my indiscretions was a mistake. But who cares what he thinks? When he runs for president, he can make the decisions. Besides, I’m proud of the shame I feel about these things, and I can’t wait to ask for forgiveness, so lets begin:

We’ve already covered Marijuana, right? WRONG! I used to grow it. Yeppers. I sold to everyone in my dorm at Harvard, and to several dorms at Yale. I tried to move some green at Oxford, but that came to a quick end when I was severely beaten by a “competitor.” I won’t say who it was, but let’s just say he’s running against me.

Don’t worry, the fun doesn’t stop with pot. No sir. I also experimented with hallucinogens. That was one of the most interesting and embarrassing decades of my life. It started with paper; standard white blotter. Later, I would get the gels, which were way better. Eventually, we just flew out to Cali for liquid by the vial. Buying in bulk saves, right? Just ask Sam Walton’s corpse (oh yeah, I said it). We used to go out to the woods and get loaded on the stuff. You know, light fires and hunt each other. Sometimes we mixed it with PCP, but that was only when we really needed to chill out.

Of course, Anselmo’s trying to pull me away from the keyboard now. Not now you Bastard! Can’t you see I’m trying to come to terms with my past? How can I move forward and ask people to give me the ultimate power for which I lust if they cannot trust me? No. I must do this. I must beg for forgiveness. And forgiveness can only be given through an honest reckoning of truth. Right, Anselmo? Get the hell out of here!

Where was I? Right, so this one night I was totally wigging balls and listening to Led Leppelin III. I could hear this repeating pattern in the music (”Since I been loving you” I believe) that sounded like someone whispering “you’re on fire, you’re on fire,” over and over again. Just when I was about to freak, a buddy of mine came up and pushed my chair over. I looked up at him, and he was laughing, but it looked like his face was totally melting off. It was crazy. And shameful.

Coke. Yeah, I blew some. Big whoop. And it was fun, too. If you don’t believe me, you can ask Dubya. He knows what I’m talking about. If you approve of his administration, that is. If you don’t, just forget about it; I’m not anything like that guy. As I was saying, I spent more than a few nights shoveling snow, if you know what I mean. I was like “eight balls? hells yeah.” That stuff made me paranoid, though. The last time I did it I found myself standing on my front porch holding a letter opener to a pizza man’s throat. I thought he was spying on us, and I was about to “return to sender” when my roommate came out and stopped me. Turns out he had ordered that pizza! Talk about boners! Needless to say, I don’t touch that stuff anymore. Of course I don’t touch any of it anymore because it was completely wrong and immoral to begin with. It’s in the bible, maybe.

Wow, this is fun. Catholics get to do this kind of thing all the time, right? Now, I never touched heroin, mainly because I can’t stand needles. Smokable heroin, though, yeah, guilty as charged (though not in an actual court). I’ll keep this one brief: it’s as good as they say.

Hmmm, now I know there’s more. What Wolf? Prescriptions? No, never got into those for two reasons. First, it’s way easier to get the illegal stuff. Second, I just don’t trust those drug companies. Unless they need some legislation passed, of course. In that case, I’m your man. Crack? No they didn’t have that stuff when I was growing up, or Meth either, except in prescription form, and I just explained that one.

Now, In the late eighties, I started to get into the whole zen thing and so I took some time off and traveled around Asia. I met many interesting folks along the way, and more than once shared rice and water with peasants on the straw covered floors of a dung-ridden hovel. Needless to say, I saw some things. In fact, it was here that I tried something that I am reluctant to bring up here because it is, well, unconventional. But you can’t hide things from the public, can you? Of course not. I engaged in an obscure practice known as “quỳ, quỳ xuống đá” in the original Vietnamese. This translates into something like “kneeling to the stone.” It is apparently very taboo, and it was only later that I learned how it was made, but I’ll try to explain. First, you grind up a quantity of dried testicles and a bit of honey in a stone dish. I don’t know what type of testicles they were, and I didn’t want to. Once you have a fine paste, you mix in an equal quantity of Kava powder, which is made from dried, ground leaves from some Polynesian plant. The resulting mush is then rolled into small (half inch) balls which are dried and then inserted into the anus. I know. It sounds totally crazy, but it was the best high ever. It started off with rage mixed with an intense feeling on invulnerability, then tapered off into a mellow sense of well-being and oneness with the universe. The whole thing lasted for about 30 hours. I haven’t done that one since. Who has that kind of time, anyway?

Ok, I think we’re good for now. Don’t worry, though, if I think of any more I’ll let you know.

About five minutes ago, I opened a really nice looking envelope that Pepper had put into my inbox. It was off-white, and made of lovely 100lb. textured, 40% Egyptian cotton stock. Let me cut to the chase here: It was a cease and desist letter from Rob Schneider’s lawyer. What? You don’t remember him? Well, you might know him better as Deuce Bigelow, Male Gigolo. Or perhaps as that little piece of flesh that’s always attached to the end of Adam Sandler’s schlong. Below, I have reproduced the letter verbatim (with edits):

Dear Mr. White:

It has come to my client’s attention that you have made an unauthorized use of his copyrighted title of “the Richmeister” (the “Title”) in the preparation of a work derived therefrom. My client has reserved all rights regarding this stupid-ass concept, first published in 1994, on the increasingly irrelevant NBC television production “Saturday Night Live.” Your blog entitled “My Stepdaughter’s new ‘Beau’” makes reference to the Title and clearly used the Title as its basis, as if you even knew that some moron had filed actual paperwork to protect something so seemingly inconsequential.

As you neither asked for nor received permission from my client, a twelfth-rate midget comedian, to use the Title as the basis for your accidental reference nor to make or distribute copies, including electronic copies, of same, my client believes you have willfully infringed his rights under 17 U.S.C. Section 101 et seq. and could be liable for statutory damages as high as $150,000 as set forth in Section 504(c)(2) therein.

My client demand’s that you immediately cease the use and distribution of all infringing works derived from the Title, and all copies, including electronic copies, of same, that you deliver to my client, if applicable, all unused, undistributed copies of same, or destroy such copies immediately and that you desist from this or any other infringement of client’s rights in the future. If I have not received an affirmative response from you by June 16, 2007, indicating that you have fully complied with these requirements, further action shall be taken. Possible actions might include, but would not be limited to, taking your penis into my mouth and tongue-wrestling you to a creamy dispensation.

Very truly yours,
Rob Schneider’s Total Fucking Moron Attorney and Sons LLC.

Wow. How desperate is this guy? I mean, Tiny Elvis was pretty cool, but what has he done since? Oh, I could list the embarrassments, but I’ll let the critics do that for me. $150,000 per infringement? Richmeister. Richmeister. Richmeister. Richmeister. Richmeister. Richmeister. Richmeister. Richmeister. Richmeister. Richmeister. Richmeister. Looks like a total of $1.8 million. With tip, we’ll call it a cool two-mil. I’ll leave the money on the nightstand on my way out.

Here is a personal message from me to you “Mr.” Schneider: I will infringe on your shit all day if I feel like it. I’m rich, bitch, and I’ll cut checks to your hack ass all day so long as I can expose you for the talentless whore that you know you are. Besides, I should be the one sending you letters, since your “Deuce Bigelow” franchise bears a “significant similarity” to the deuces I’ve been churning out in my bathroom for decades. I guess this can be considered an “affirmative response.” Sorry it’s a few days late.

Thanks for your continuing support, and I hope I can count on your vote in the upcoming election. Richcrest OUT!

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.

Greetings citizenry! I’m back on the road again after a rare and wonderful weekend at home with my wife Peggy, her goddamn kids, and my wonderful boys. As much as I just love to be on the road constantly pretending to be interested in the needs of every godforsaken slackjaw in this great land of ours, it sure feels good to kick back with the family once in a while and get my bonding on. We did a lot of the typical family stuff that Americans do, from taffy-pulls and may-poles. Saturday night was my favorite White family tradition: Movie night!

Now, I’m a bit of a hard-ass when it comes to movie night, as Peggy and the kids can attest to. There are only a few rules, but they are strictly enforced. First, everyone must be present. This includes Peggy, her two children from her previous marriage (whose names I only repeat when insulting them), my kids, Butch and R.J., and Consuela, our maid. I don’t invite the road crew, because this is supposed to be a vacation, after all. Whenever possible, I try to avoid having Anselmo over when Peggy is home. There is always an inexplicable tension in the air whenever they are in the same room.

The second rule is that there must be mountains of extra-buttery popcorn, and not that microwave bullshit, either. Consuela never disappoints in this department. Whenever she comes back from a visit to her homeland, she smuggles in some unbelievable stuff. Tortillas, Polenta, Hominy; those Mexicans are like little brown corn geniuses!

The third and most important rule is that the movie must be, I repeat, must be Roland Emmerich’s 1996 masterpiece Independence Day. Not only is this movie set on my birthday, but it also features Will Smith’s most compelling performance. I can’t say enough about this film. It’s got everything. Aliens, Presidents, nukes, dogfights, Jeff Goldblum, you name it! There’s no sex, though, unless you consider killing to be a type of sex (which I do). I think the thing I like best about this movie, though, is it’s dignified and heroic portrayal of the President. In fact, if I were completely honest, I would have to say that Bill Pullman’s character of President Thomas J. Whitmore is my single biggest political influence, and perhaps the reason I’m entering politics at all.

You look surprised. “What,” you might ask, “is so great about President Whitmore?” Well first, he’s slightly good looking. Second, when things get tough, he’s not afraid to jump behind the yoke of a fighter jet. Third, his wife dies, which has always been a personal dream of mine. Need more? Fourth, Whitmore’s a brilliant orator. If you didn’t cry when he made that speech right before the final air battle, you need to get some help because guess what? You’re a sociopath. The bottom line is that President Whitmore, while fictional, is better in every way than any actual President we’ve ever had.

Perhaps you are now wondering if there are any ways in which Thomas J. Whitmore and Rich White are similar? Well, let me put it this way: I don’t think it’s a coincidence that our last names are identical for the first four letters. I’ll put it another way as well: Yes, we’re similar. In fact, if elected, I pledge to bring to the White House the decency, courage, and mild good looks that Pullman’s character embodies. While I realize that, as President, I will probably not have to fight actual aliens, I choose to view the aliens as a figurative representation of the various challenges that a President must face. For instance, I would be willing to jump into the cockpit of an F-22 to fix Social Security or Education; that’s the level of commitment I’m talking about. In short, I will not go quietly into the night. I will not vanish without a fight. I will live on. I will survive. Today I celebrate our “Independence Day.”

Oh, as far as movie night is concerned, it didn’t turn out so well. Peggy’s slut daughter Bekka referred to Bill Pullman as Bill Paxton (I think she did it on purpose). Because of the searing rage that exploded within me, I am unsure of the precise course of events following the incident. I woke up the next morning on the floor, and the house was completely empty. Lots of things were broken. I called Anselmo to come pick me up, and I haven’t spoken with the family since. Don’t worry though; sooner or later one of them will call to apologize.

I used to watch a lot of porn in college, so I think it’s safe to say that I know a thing or two about women; lesbians, in particular. Unfortunately, this knowledge didn’t get me very far on my recent appearance on ABC’s “The View.” I don’t know if you’ve heard of this show or not, (I hadn’t) but apparently it is quite popular with the unemployed, and possibly the unemployable. Anyway, when I received the invite to appear, I was skeptical. I hadn’t heard of any of the women who host the program, but at Anselmo’s behest, I accepted. As the date for the appearance approached, however, I began to get nervous. Was I being set up? What should I expect? So I decided to do a little research.

I made a call to a good friend of mine who I like to call “The Donald.” He’s my lawyer Donald Siegelmann and we go way back; all the way to Princeton. He’s my Jewish friend, so he’s my go-to guy for advice on things like medicine, law, jewelry, banking, and the entertainment industry. He had some interesting things to say about the show and its hosts. Apparently, it is a talk show with a sort of “Coffee Klatch” format, hosted by four women, all of whom are lesbians. The boss lesbian is a big lady named Rosie, who has a loud mouth and sits on the left. There is also an old grandmother lesbian named Barbara. Then there is a jewish lesbian named Joy (chosen, I suspect, because of that race’s inherent adeptness at observational comedy), and finally the hot or “lipstick” lesbian, whose name I don’t care about sits on the far right. They sit around and chat about all manner of topics, from tampons to maxi pads, and they also have an interview segment where some important person comes by and they ask him questions. Pretty basic stuff, so when Anselmo dropped me off at the studio that morning, I was confident and relaxed; ready to take advantage of my first TV appearance.

Everything started out pretty nice. I was practicing the new smile that I had been working on (the Edwards) when there was a knock at the door. When I opened it, there was a big black-haired woman wearing what looked to be maternity clothing standing outside the door grimacing at me. She introduced herself as Rosie, and told me that she was very excited to meet me. I reciprocated by telling her that I too was pleased to make her acquaintance, and that I was not the least bit disgusted by her homosexuality, but that I would prefer to not shake hands. Then I excused myself and went back to the mirror for a few last minute tweaks to my technique.


When the show went live, I was hustled off to a place called the “green room,” which was pretty nice, though the only green thing in it was a puke stain in the corner that I later learned was left there by Danny DeVito. I love his work on TV and film, but his vomit was a bit of a disappointment. There was food, but since I only eat Surf ‘N’ Turf, I passed. They did provide a TV, though, which I initially thought would be a source of entertainment, but I soon found that there was no way to change the channel on it. I poked my head out the door and asked a crew member how I could get CNBC on this biatch, but he just said it was “closed circuit,” or some such nonsense. I managed to take care of that one pretty quickly, though, since to open the circuit, all you have to do is unplug the damn thing. Then I sat back and flipped through a copy of People magazine while I waited for my cue.

About 20 minutes later, the stage-hand comes in with all sorts of attitude, telling me that I missed my cue and that I need to get out there in a hurry. I told dude to chill and then walked out on the stage to some reasonable applause. The only available seat was in the middle of the four ladies, and so I sat down there and immediately felt extremely vulnerable. It is very disconcerting to be surrounded by lesbians, knowing that if you are looking at one of them, there are others that you can’t see that could be making out with each other. They welcomed me warmly, though, and started asking questions. I don’t remember precisely what they asked, mainly issues related stuff. I played it pretty cool, talking slowly so they could understand, telling them how nice their hair and outfits looked, asking them what kinds of things they would like to cook for me. You know, just being charming and conversational. I thought it was going pretty well.

Then everything went to Shitsville. Rosie asked me a question about my views on Gay Marriage. Now I had been preparing for this one, so I had my answer pretty much planned out. “Gay Marriage,” I said, “is a great idea, because by allowing them to pair off and sequester themselves, we could ensure that none of the gays could reproduce, thereby preventing the passing on to the next generation the gay-genes that make them want to do it with people of their same sex.” This was, in my opinion, a very well thought-out and irrefutably logical answer. I found out very shortly that I was wrong.

Rosie opened her mouth and I suddenly got very bored. She seemed to be saying lots of things, but I couldn’t understand any of it. Perhaps she was speaking a language I don’t know, or maybe her voice was of a pitch that my ears are not sensitive to. Either way, I eventually turned the other direction to talk with Barbara. You see, I’ve always had a thing for girls with speech impediments. I know it sounds crazy but I think everyone has a turn-on that they can’t explain. In this case, however, the explanation is known to me. I was molested by my favorite babysitter when I was young, and she had something wrong with her palate. When she talked, it always sounded like she had a tablespoon of peanut butter in the roof of her mouth. Anyway, I knew Barbara was gay, but I couldn’t resist, so I tried to lay on the charm.

I wasn’t having much luck with Barbara. She seemed distracted by something, so I looked back over my shoulder and saw Rosie, her mouth still moving furiously. I knew I could never get a word in with Barbara with Rosie doing that so finally I said “hey, could you keep quiet?” Evidently she could not, because she threw her two-quart coffee mug in my direction. Luckily, I do Pilates, so I was able to easily avoid the mug (plus, girls can’t throw, even if they think they are men), and it hit Ms. Behar in the bosom, sending scalding coffee spraying into her face.

At this point, you might say “wow, Rich, that is truly a situation that cannot be repaired.” But Rich White doesn’t give up that easily. There, amidst the chaos, I thought of faithful Anselmo. He would want me to summon every ounce of gumption available to me and salvage that interview, so that is what I resolved to do. Unfortunately at this point, recovery was no longer an option. Behar had been taken off the stage by paramedics, Barbara had given up and stomped off to her dressing room, and Rosie had savagely bitten a Security Guard’s hand and was being tazed repeatedly. Not knowing what to do, I stood up and walked out of the studio to the curb. Anselmo drove up a few minutes later, and we went and got ice cream. It was a pretty good day.

I’ve always been really into hunting. Back in Kansas when I was a boy, my father would take me out at the crack of dawn, and we would go out to the edge of the pond where everything was very still, and a light mist rose up off of the mirror-like surface of the water. Such beauty! Then we would lay out poison bait for the swans. It tasted like bread, so they seemed to really like it. Within a few hours, the last one would stop moving, and we would collect their frail bodies and burn them in the yard, taking care not to inhale the fumes from the fire. It was a lot of fun, and the golf course paid us to do it! I treasure those memories of a simpler time, when cruelty could be put into action with barely a thought, and I think those memories speak to something in all of us. Nowadays, people scold you for shooting squirrels with a pellet gun, but when I was a boy, we used to make masks out of their dried skins as a testament to our prowess. You can go to jail for sticking knitting needles into a rabbit now, but in the good old days, no one minded so long as you stuck to animals. But ours is a dynamic culture, and will continue to adapt as people’s sensibilities change.

The noble craft of hunting still thrives today, though, and last week I went on an expedition with my wife’s brother Cletus. You may have heard of him, since he owns several large conglomerates: J. Cletus Merriwether III. He’s super rich like myself, and owns a great deal of land in the Adirondacks. The trip was a lot of fun, and rekindled those old treasured memories of my boyhood roots. We woke up early on a Saturday and packed up the Jeep with a bunch of beer, guns, and pizza, then headed out to the other side of the property, which lies on the side of a mountain and provides an unmatched vista of the breathtaking Adirondack sunrise. There were several stands that had been permanently erected in some of the more strategic areas, and were difficult to see due to the large quantity of military-grade camouflage netting that covered them.

After we loaded our cache of weapons and provisions into one of the stands, we settled down into that familiar old pastime of the hunter: the waiting game. Luckily, because Cletus has several automated deer feeders about 100 yards from the stand, we didn’t have to wait long. A majestic buck entered the scene and approached the feeder, which was dropping soy pellets onto the ground beneath the boughs of a stately Silver Maple that I admired through my scope as I brought the crosshairs to bear on the buck’s grace-ridden throat. My breathing quickened as I tightened my grip on the lightweight ballistic carbon forestock on my Heckler & Koch PSG-1 semi-automatic sniper rifle. I steadied myself, and on my exhale, I slowly squeezed the trigger, sending a 7.62mm NATO round into my prey. The spray was incredible, as was the look of sheer disbelief in the eyes of this beast. For a second, we seemed to share an intimate–almost sexual–connection, that of predator and prey, but then he was dead. In this battle, I had been the victor, but next time? For that answer, we would have to wait and see.

But again, we didn’t have to wait long. The rest of the afternoon was pretty much the same way. With each kill, Cletus would radio his men to come collect the carcass, which saved us a lot of inconvenience. They even sprayed down the area so that the other deer would not smell the fresh kill on the leaves that lined the forest floor. We had pizza, beers, and some manly conversation, and in the end I got pretty lit. I don’t know how many beers I ended up having before I used that 50-cal to bring down that pregnant doe, but I can say one thing: I was feeling no pain. That was a messy one, for sure, because I was using some new ammunition that one of Cletus’ companies was developing for the U.S. Military. It was made of something called a “prestressed ceramic maniform” that pretty much explodes when it hits bone. The technology may be high-tech, but the result is something anyone can understand: A shot to hell deer. Cletus was a bit surprised to see her, since the synthetic pheromones his people spray are only supposed to attract bucks. I guess we’ll file that one under “Bonus!”

After we killed all of the animals that had been placed that morning, we packed up our things and drove on back to the lodge. There, we continued drinking and having a good time. He asked if I knew about the “most dangerous game.” I said yes, that I was well acquainted with jai-alai. People get hurt all of the time in that game, because the balls are very hard and move very quickly. He told me that he was actually talking about killing people by setting them loose in the forest without weapons and then following them and shooting them like deer. I told him that didn’t sound very dangerous, and he got frustrated and went to bed. I was tired too, so I hit the bunk as well, where I slept like a goddamn baby.

When I got back on Sunday evening, Peggy told me the she sensed a change in me. I think it must be the thousand-yard-stare. That’s the thing you get when you go to war and when you come back, you have a faraway look in your eye because you saw such cool shit. I think that the three hours I spent in a well-hidden deer stand did something special to me, like maybe I connected with some primal self that lies within all of us, but which we all keep hidden. A self that is born of the battle for survival, the tooth-and-nail struggle in which one dies so that the other may live. With the acceptance of this self came the respect for life that so often comes to those who have gotten life’s precious blood on their hands. Of course, in my case, that would be figurative blood; because Cletus’ staff keeps his weapons so tidy, my hands didn’t actually get dirty at all. Besides, there was quite a supply of moist towelettes up there in the deer stand. We were eating pizza after all, and that can be messy.

I was shocked this week when I heard John and Elizabeth Edwards’ announcement about her inoperable breast cancer. It was truly heartbreaking, and I extend my solemn condolences. In a way though, it was also very inspirational. The sheer strength that Elizabeth is demonstrating is truly breathtaking, and it really serves as a reminder of what dignity the human animal is capable of in the most dire of circumstances. I was also struck by the singular nature of the Edwards’ relationship. It is so wonderful that she would be willing to die of cancer to get her husband elected President. And I’m not trying to sell Mr. Edwards short, either. His dedication to the acquisition of power is impressive. When placed in that position, a weaker man would want to spend each fleeting remaining day with his wife. What Avarice! He will prove a formidable opponent!

Unfortunately, my wife Peggy doesn’t quite seem to have the level of dedication to my dreams that Mrs. Edwards has to her husband’s. Not only has Peggy not developed cancer in any part of her body, but she has also been unable to contract any other sort of life threatening disease. She did complain about a sore throat about a week ago, but that certainly isn’t going to earn me the pity vote with the Edwards’ out there cancering it up, and she stopped complaining about that about five days ago, so it’s probably not turning into anything. Basically, I’m starting to feel a bit like I’m not getting the support I need, so I decided to confront her about it.

I guess you could describe her reaction as “turbo-pissed,” and during our exchange, she said a few nasty things. Of course, the first tactic she tried was to turn it around and make it all about her. Typical. Then she called me an a-hole. Also typical. Then she told me that what I was saying didn’t even make sense, that a person cannot control whether or not they get sick, and that even if a person could, asking her to do that was beyond selfish. Way typical. She was menstruating though, so I’m sure she’ll apologize later after she comes down off her rag-rage (I’ll get into a more detailed menstruation discussion in another post).

In the meantime, I thought I would at least get some plans together so that when she’s more receptive, we’ll have an actionable plan. I didn’t even consider cancer, since it’s been done, so I started thinking about other, more dramatic afflictions, and narrowed it down to four: 1. Parkinson’s. This one has done wonders for Michael J. Fox and so I think it will work for Peggy too. It has the advantage of being embarrassingly visible, and will therefore make everyone exceedingly uncomfortable. 2. Alzheimer’s. Everyone agrees that this one is really sad (sad=votes), and it has the added benefit of a very public “Where’s Peggy” crisis event. You know, we drop her off somewhere, pretend she wandered off, wait a week or so until someone finds her. We could even give him (or her) a prize or something; maybe one of those coupon books that high school football teams give out. 3. Tourette’s. This one is also very obvious, and it is possible that I could have her blurt out attacks on my opponents without my having to take responsibility for them. The drawback is that this affliction is sometimes more funny than it is sad, and I’m not sure if the comedy vote will completely offset the pity vote. 4. Rectovaginal Fistula. I can’t describe this one without vomiting, so look it up. It’s pretty bad, and would definitely get attention. The only concern is that I could open myself up to accidentally committing sodomy.

I’ve also considered that she may not reconsider her initial refusal to help my career through personal sacrifice. In this case, I’ve considered some other options. I could have Wolf t-bone her car while she drives to the store one day; try to quad her out or something. I’d have to make sure she is driving her Lexus at the time, though, because if she took my Buick, she’d probably be completely unhurt. That’s just the nature of the brand.

I also have to consider the fact that she is, perhaps, right. Maybe I am being selfish, trying to find a way to maim or kill her simply to get people to vote for me. Perhaps I ought to rely on my principles, personality, limber rhetoric, and intense wealth to get elected rather than cheap gimmicks. We’ll see what Peggy says after her uterus chills out a bit. But if I turn on the news tomorrow, and Mitt Romney’s wife has the female genitalia on her face, the gloves are going to come off, son. Mark my words.