Why Dubya
Can't Lose
One of the persons was a fiftyish tweed sort (there is NO season among the Midland gentry when tweed is not in—and just knew that the goods in her overflowing cart were headed for a spotless Land Rover out in the parking lot). The other person was a thirtyish, soccer-mom that might as well have had Pi Kappa Alpha tattooed all over her to augment the rather garish purple and white Texas Christian University polyester sweats she was affecting but couldn’t really carry off as a kind of T.G.I.M. (Thank God it’s Monday) statement re having got through another weekend with hubby and kids at home. I of course knew both of these people (in Midland all of the right people know each other) though neither is part of my cercle intime if you get my drift, but so engrossed were they in their conversation that neither noticed my arrival in line. As your faithful reporter, allow me to reproduce what I heard. OM = Older (tweedy) Matron. YN = Younger (polyester) Matron. OM: So what’s the big deal, sweetie? I mean, my Jack is hung like quarter-horse and what has it done for me besides make me realize that there ARE some things in the world that go off faster than a two-minute egg-timer? YM: But, hon, don’t you realize that when Dubya walked across that flight deck with those parachute straps pulling his equipment up and out and putting it on display for the whole world to see and appreciate, that every two-bit tin-horn left-leaning politico in the world saw the massive outline of our guy’s equipment and knew that here was a Real Man that they better not mess around with. OM: I’m afraid you just haven’t been around the block often enough yet, darling, if you still think size matters. YM [eying OM suspiciously]: Don’t tell me you’re turning democrat in your [smiling sweetly] prime years, love? OM [leafing through the current Star]: Democrat, shemocrat. That’s got nothing to do with it. We all know that Dubya’s daddy’s friends are running the show they way God meant for them to and that’s all that matters. YM: But you have to think ahead. I’m already looking forward to seeing clips of him in that show-all flight suit in the campaign commercials, aren’t you? I mean, [whispering] just the thought makes me wet. OM [smiling bitterly]: If you knew my Jack like I know my Jack… YM [trying to hide a big smirk, clears throat, reaches quickly for the nearest magazine which happens to be Reader’s Digest with a 72-point cover headline "Better Bed Manners"]: As a matter of fact… OM [sighing]: Not to fret, sweetums, I know all about Jack’s dalliances, including that one-timer when he ran into you in the Molvado aisle at Neiman’s in Dallas. I’ll give them that, all these guys who think their weenie makes them cocks of the walk. First time out they can be O.K. Not great, mind you, but at least passable, but wait’ll you get to the hundredth time. YM [blushing]: It was… OM: No need to apologize. My point is anybody fixated on how big it is—or isn’t—deserves the little corner of hell they’re creating for themselves. Personally I don’t give a hoot what Dubya and all his daddy’s guys get up to in the rest of the world or how often they get off to going around like a bunch of school yard bullies as long as they keep the Permian Basin petro-dollars flowing our way. YM [nervously replacing the Star in the magazine rack]: I have to say I’m shocked, shocked. But I’m consoled to know that you’ll keep on voting the right way. OM: Sweetheart, sweetheart. For people like us there is no RIGHT way. There’s only the Republican way.
At this point they both noticed me and their revealing little tête-à-tête came to a close. It was only later as I was driving home in my grocery-laden 500SE that I realized that their embarrassing revelations (which surely made this writer’s ears burn) actually contained the seeds of inevitable voting victory for our George. Think about it. He’s got everybody behind him (so to speak): the men, of course, who recognize a REAL man when they see one, and now he’s got ALL the women, both the hormonally over-the-hill ones who just want to keep the lifestyle they’ve become accustomed to AND the younger, still-active ones who ALSO recognize and appreciate a REAL man when they see one strutting his prominently displayed stuff across the flight deck of an aircraft carrier big enough to scare the be-Jesus out of anybody who doesn’t have our best American interests at heart. Which means you can sleep well, dear reader. No need even to follow the news. Dubya’s re-election is a sure, big, firm thing.
Ora's Other
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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:
Midland, Tex. I was standing in line at the
Piggly-Wiggly (yes, we still have a Piggly-Wiggly out here in Midland—when Ms. Laura
was a mere first lady of a state, she made it one of her top-priority projects to see that
the Midland Piggly-Wiggly was preserved in perpetuity because of her husband’s having
been so fond of the store during his boyhood days, so now the store, restored to its
pristine state of 1940s newness is kept open and functioning by the specially formed GWBMRGSF
[George W. Bush Memorial Retro Grocery Shopping Foundation], one of Midland's
most prominent and well-supported charities, and even comes with its own Texas State
Historical Marker planted in the pristine black asphalt out front which regales the
passer-by with authentic tales of the young Dubya strolling these very aisles
way-back-when, when his glory days as leader of the free, non-terrorists world were not
even a twinkle in his eye yet) the other day admiring the beauties of the store which is
in fact a wondrous functional museum of American Civilization at Its Best, i.e.,
mid-1950s, and once again thanking my lucky stars that the Lord had seen fit to let me
live out my unprepossessing little life in such a country, when I became aware of a
conversation between two persons in line ahead of me.
Magellan's Log Copyright ©
2002 Texas Chapbook Press
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