April 15, 1773
CCC: (In hushed tones -- think golf announcers after another Mickelson muff.)
Responding to His Master's Voice, loping into the city from the Western boonies, reverse-tracking Paul Revere who is yet to ride (but not stopping off at any of the pubs along the way like that sot), I have infiltrated the Republico-Liberto-Anarcho-Syndicalist meeting heah in Boston Hahbah.
Psst, Zerry, I know how much you looove to have YouTube ready video clips of these
poops scoops of breaking news events. But they would have had my nads (figuratively speaking; for, of course, I am nad-less) if I tried to sneak in a video camera. So perforce I have to use text (know how much you looove to read), and I did get some pretty pictures.
4:13 PM: The vast meeting hall is almost empty. Since there are only three known Republicans in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts this is not too surprising. They had invited some loony Libertarians from neighboring New Hampshire to swell the ranks. But they apparently stopped at the only feature
of interest in that entire benighted state, partook of their purchases liberally en route and were apprehended and detained by Massachusetts State Troopers south of Pheasant Tree Mall on Route 3 at Tyngsboro.
They are charged with singing "Live Free or Die" (badly, to the tune of "Ode to Joy") south of the border of insanity and with what is a felony in Massachusetts: DWR-D/
S (Driving While Republican-Drunk, which is not that much better than S-sober).
4:27 PM Still nobody here but us chickens. By that I mean a couple of security goons in Brown Shirts and a buncha competition: live bloggers from Huffpo, Slate, WingnutStreetJournal, PatDobsonPosse and the like. We are getting thirsty.
4:35 PM Finally. Here come some party members. But WTF? Why are they all wearing masks? Delegate: Hey, I may be Republican, but I ain't crazy. You think I want my wife to find out?
4:37 PM Daddy Warbucks ascends podium.He's sloshed.
Warbucks: (Hic) My friends. My name is Grover Numbnuts (Harvard AB'79 Government. MBA'81). I'm from Weston, Mass. so I understand the problems of the little guy. I would like to flush government down the toilet. That is why I have been sucking at its teat inside the Beltway for the last 28 years.
(Burp) Ronald Reagan was the greatest. Kicking off his campaign in Philadelphia, Miss. (hahaha, the greatest thespian of them all; so they killed a N***** and a coupla J**s nearby, we all gotta die some time). Welfare queens. Hahaha, ask not who the taxes come from, ask who they go to. Nudge Nudge Wink Wink. (BAAAARRRRFFF.)
4:55 PM Sarah Palin kicks the unconscious Numbnuts a couple of times to try to revive him, then steps to the mike.
Palin: My friends. Let us pray. Pastor Muthee, who laid hands on me and filled me with the spirit, told me not to come to this Barney Frank-land, this haven for homos and heathens. But I came. I came.
My friends, I come from a hard-working, middle-class family. I was leading a miserable little life, married to an Eskimo snowmobiler in A-effing-laska for Chrissake -- no, they don't have thirty goddamn words for snow, now shut up and listen -- but, nevertheless, overcame great odds to live the American Dream:
$150,000 worth of designer dresses, cosmetics, purses, hats (eat your heart out Sloan, baby) shoes, shoes, shoes.....
And now they want me to pay TAXES on it. No fuckin' way. (Stomps off the stage, grinding her Manolo Blahnik heels into Grover's numb nuts for good measure).
5:20 PM: McCain steps on stage gazing longingly at Palin's retreating figure. He's obviously had a coupla snorts.
McCain: DRILL, BABY, DRILL. Haha, my friends. Where was I? Wrong script. Hey, where the hell is Punjab?
(Hic) We need some damn Indians to be the fall guys in throwin' all them tea bags off them ships.
(Punjab, bejeweled and berobed, dutifully appears.)
(Burp) There you are, Poonjie. How about a goddamn refill? Throat's dry. And double time. Chop chop.
(Hic. Burp. Snort. He's feelin' it now.) One if by land, two if by sea. Never did understand what the fuck that meant, my friends. Oh shit, wrong script again.
OK, who's supposed to give the signal then? Sam Adams? SAM ADAAAMS.
5:37 PM Punjab miraculously re-appears with a coupla cases of, you guessed it:
HuffPO, WSJ, Slate, the loonies in masks, and yes, your intrepid reporter, all in a mad scramble. A veritable melee.
6:10 PM A rollicking McCain addresses the Tea Partiers. Grover's still unconscious. Palin's gone off to Filene's.
McCain: "Ho ho ho! And a bottle of rum. Sixteen men on a dead man's chest....."
My friends, you all know what has to be done. We Republicans don't give a shit about the environment. Who gives a damn about 5 cents for the returnables. Homeless Harry ain't here to dig through the garbage. Let's all take them empties and throw 'em into Boston Harbor. Hey, Poonjie, you take the lead.
And so we all danced off to the waterside in a broken conga line and dumped the empties into the Harbor. Cheers, Zerr.
6:30 PM The Society of Patriotic Ladies reclaimed their positions for their regular cuppa.