S.A.A.F.J. by Ora Shay
 On a cold January night in that fateful year, 2001, my
husband Dobson Shay and I were, thanks to a generous contribution he'd made to the
little-known but highly effective "Win One for the Nipper" PAC during the
previous fall's controversial and ill-fought presidential campaign (for National Security
reasons I cannot tell you the amount but let's just say that "generous" is
definitely an under-exaggeration, if you get my drift), attending the Number One Inaugral
Ball--that's the one where the new First Couple not only appears but actually dances
cheek-to-cheek, and then mingles friendlily with a carefully selected group of
well-wishers that had been screened by the Secret Service while we were all sitting around
sipping our long-neck Lone Stars (which seemed to have gone just a bit off on the long
haul from San Antone to D.C.), when who should appear schmoozing at our table of really,
really high-rollers but none other that the Leading Statesman of Our Time, H. Kissinger.
(Before I move the narrative any further along, I have to tell you that the divine Dr. K., who always sounds so poorly--that glottal-stopped Voice of Doom, don't you know--on the TV, looks, sad to say, just as poorly in person as he sounds on the TV. Poor man, his demanding life of Responsibility and Global Decision-making has taken its toll. For starters--and there's no polite way to put this--he's very s-h-o-r-t, what my mama in Abilene used to call "knee-high to a doorstop," and non-proportionately--again there's not polite way around this--broad-beamed through the hips and mid-area generally. In a woman of a certain age, we would immediately sense a severe water-retention problem, and though Dr. Kissinger is clearly stuffed full of something from the stomach downwards, I as a Belle of Midland, really have no idea what it could be. And, let me be the first to confirm that, contrary to those despicable rumors put about by the Democrats, Dr. K. does NOT, when he goes out at night, travel with two muscular companions lugging a life-size rectangular container filled with soil from Transylvania; or at least, if he does, I didn't spot them anywhere near our table when he dropped by. [To any non-Republicans who for some reason are reading this: That's a joke.] Back to my point: for all those physical short-comings, you hardly notice because suddenly there's That Voice, and Those Eyes, and Those Jittery Jowls just inches away from one, and all that Power and Access to Power for decades, and you don't even mind that his nails well leave a little to be desired length- and manicure-wise, or that he's speaking at a rate of about 2.7 words a minute. A girl is just overwhelmed by the close, close presence of all that Charisma and surely can't be held responsible for the rapidly dampening condition of her panties, can she?) So there we were, our cozy little table of twelve who collectively had contributed more to "Win One for the Nipper" than the Gross National Products of most of your African, Caribbean, and Micronesian countries combined, ogling The Big K up-close and personal. I eyebrowed my husband Dobson Shay who got the message and stole a chair from an adjoining table, clapped Dr. K. on the back like he was just another member of the Permian Basin Golf, Skeet-shooting, and Country Club, and invited him to join us for a spell. Which. He. Did. <sigh> Scooching in between me and this floozy from Dallas who'd been going on all night about how she could never drag her spouse away from www.freerepublic.com, Dr. K. for a good ten, fifteen minutes regaled us with tales of diplomatic derring-do from the days when he was making Chile, Colombia, Cambodia and other such desolate outposts on the fringes of Western Civ safe for Democracy and winning the Nobel Peace Prize for his efforts. You can imagine what a state of extreme moistness my panties were in as his gripping stories continued right by my elbow, especially what with him occasionally making actual eye-contact with me from 12 inches away and twice even allowing his nail-challenged little hand to brush mine as he made this or that global-balance-of-power point. If this is what they call "Realpolitik," I want more, more, more! As he was clearly winding up his appearance at our table by thanking us profusely for what he knew was our unwavering support for his pursuit of Truth, Goodness, and equal access to the American Way for all down-trodden people of the world, I was struck by an inspiration. Which, in case you are wondering, gets us to the point of my story. Tucked away in my Texas-scale diamond-studded clutch that Dobson had had Neiman's run of one of for me the year before to celebrate our 20th, I had brought a small gift that I had planned to present to Laura and His Nibs when they finally put in an appearance: a specially prepared, one-off version of my famous "Ora Shay Midland Memorial Portable Fly Swatter with the Tri-fold Miracle Handle." (See illustration above.) I had first come up with this wondrous device as a homecrafts project some years back when my daughters were Campfire Girls. The gadget, to which I must admit my Dobson contributed some design tips from his years of expertise gained while putting two-mile long sections of pipe straight down in the ground to bring to us that precious black gold on which our beloved country so much depends. Anyway, the OSMMPFSTMH (see illustration above) was the hit of the Girl Scout Fair that year, and demand was such that I hired a few underprivileged Spanish speakers from the outskirts of Midland and started turning them out in some numbers. The standard model OSMMPFSTMH is plain black plastic with no decor to speak of. What you see in the illus. above is the one-off that I hand-created my own self as a special White-House warming gift for the Bushes. Coated in Sears Best Mauve Acrylic, the gift item sports an authentice reproduction of the Welcome sign that visitors to Midland see wherever a highway enters our city, whose motto is, you will note, "The Sky's the Limit!" because unlike Montana which brags about its "big sky", in Midland we have a really, really BIG sky because we don't have any mountains to get in the way! You will note that for the Bushes I also hand-lettered a private little motto along the handle: S.A.A.F.J. The motto worried me a little as I sat there that auspicious night and the idea came over me that an OSMMPFSTMH would be a really nice gesture of appreciation to Dr. K. for all he's done for us over the years. Why was I worried? Because, my dears, when I painted those letters on the handle, to me they meant: "Swat an Arab for Jesus." But I was, as no doubt you are too, aware that Dr. K. is, well, not exactly of the Christian persuasion, bless his well-intentioned little heart. What to do? Then, inspiration struck. I realized that if he asked, I could explain that my little private motto meant: "Swat an Arab for Judaism." Isn't it funny how necessity truly is the mother of invention. To bring this long but I hope entertaining story to close, as Mr. K. got up from our table, I drew the OSMMPFSTMH (see illustration above) from my clutch and, with more than one tear in my eye, presented it to him. He accepted gracriously, glanced at it, asked about the private motto, and I was, PTL, ready with my explanation. Need I point out to you how comforting it is to know that, in his new, burdensome endeavor as head of the commission to investigate 9-11, lying somewhere nearby in his office or perhaps in a cabinet of treasured gifts in his home, he has my modest token of esteem to carry him through whatever dark hours lie ahead.
Ora's Other Output:
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128 pages of the best satire
from 6 years of Magellan's Log. Well beyond chortles, Is It
Empire Yet? verges on the downright hilarious. "Swiftian," says
one reader. "Rib-splitting," says another. "Brilliantly, uproariously
offensive to all right-thinking Republicans," says yet another. 128 pp. Paperback.
8.5" x 11". ISBN 0-9767821-3-8. $21.95:
Magellan's Log Copyright ©
2002 Texas Chapbook Press
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