Wednesday, June 29, 2011

You Can Count on Me, Rick Perry!

Governor Rick Perry of the Great State of Texas and I were attending the Bat Mitzvah of our dear friend Chai Feldblum's daughter, Hadassah.  Chai is Obama's Equal Opportunity Commissioner.  She and her long-time companion, Regina, have several children, all of them conceived through in vitro fertilization using the much sought-after sperm of Austan Goolsbee.

The formalities were over and we were all settling into a right nice evening of pastrami, Manischewitz and “Better Than Ezra” covers in the Enron Ballroom at the Dallas/Fort Worth Hyatt.  Cowboy Poet, Baxter Black, was there and thrilled us all with a number of knee-slappin' tales of his days as a big animal veterinarian in southern Arizona.  Ol’ Baxter was telling the audience about the time he had to deliver a Gelbvieh calf stricken with spina bifida by inserting his entire arm in the mother cow’s vagina up to his shoulder, sans protective latex sleeve, when Rick cleared his throat and nudged me with his elbow.

He leaned over to me and whispered in my ear with his warm, beer-soaked breath that he was in need of some fresh air and would I come with.  Baxter’s story had reminded Rick of something very important he needed to share with me.  I nodded my head and the two of us arose from the table, begging the pardon of Chai and Regina as we ambled out to the parking lot for a chat and a squirt.

Once outside, Rick motioned for me to follow him over to his Silverado crew cab where he dropped the tailgate and bade me join him for a heartfelt discussion.  The both of us sat there, legs-a-danglin’ off his tailgate like a couple of kids waiting our turn for barrel races at the county rodeo.  Rick was fidgety and had the look of a boy who was dreading the lick of his daddy’s belt for letting the goats out of their pen.  He jumped down off the tailgate, unzipped his fly and began to piss on the tire of the black Malibu next to his Silverado while looking over his shoulders for any Looky Loos.  I joined him and the two of us let loose of the few beers we had already had that evening while he related to me his big news.

Knowing he could trust me not to tip off the press right out of the gate, he said he was considering a run for el Presidente on a Socialist ticket with Senator Bernie Sanders, Independent from Vermont.  He said it might just be surrealistic enough for your average gringo to jump on board for the sheer electoral novelty of it all.  I reminded him of his Tea Party minions and that they might not cop too well to the idea, but Rick assured me they would fall in line nicely so long as he substituted the word “Socialist” with “Patriot” and stayed on the singular talking points of keeping the Mexicans in Mexico and bringing back compulsory school prayer.

I was having serious doubts about the man’s sanity for the first time in my life when he grabbed my head in his ample, ruddy hand, looked me straight in the eye and said, “I’ve got to bust out, Bill.”

“Bust outta what, Rick?” I inquired with a distinctly concerned tone.  “Outta the lie.” He said.

Seems Rick had grown weary of the dried up old cow flop on which he had cut his political teeth over the past twenty years.  He said he knew he was destined for bigger than Governor of Texas and had read many a pedantic tome on Hitler, Goebbels, Himmler and Hoess and their systematic approach to getting the “buy-in” of an entire nation.  He was convinced that the right brand of "Socialism" was just what the country needed at this historical juncture and that Senator Sanders was to be his Goebbels.  He described Macchiavelian plans to provide cradle to grave health care and full unemployment and child care benefits to all citizens in a brave new utopian imagining of American Exceptionalism.

I told Rick he needed to stick with Secession if he wanted to follow through on a good idea and stop taking political advice from Karl Rove.  That, and, I didn't think Bernie Sanders was the kind of "Socialist" he was lookin' for.

By that time we were both shaking the dew off our lilies when I noticed the reflection of Rick’s pecker in the black lacquered side panel of the Malibu we had pissed on.  One could reasonably call it a schlong.  It was thick and heavy with a foreskin like a wizard’s sleeve and it hung down to the middle of his thigh.  Rick saw that I had noticed and began to massage himself into an erect state.  He turned to face me and the both of us raced toward some imaginary masturbatory finish line, spilling our seed onto the asphalt of the parking lot like something straight of "Behind the Green Door," starring the inimitable Marilyn Chambers.  Rick shook his messy left hand twice and wiped the rest on the window of the black Malibu.

We packed it away and zipped up, gingerly adjusting ourselves as we sauntered back into the hotel, my arm around his shoulder.  On the way in Rick asked me if he could count on my discretion.  I asked, “About what, your dreams for a new America?”  “Nahhh,” he replied.  “About the gay stuff.”

“I don’t give a shit who finds out about my political ambitions.  LET THEM FEAR ME!" he laughed.  "I am from Texas, after all.”

“Once I’m President, I’ll be able to fuck whomever I please.  What are they gonna do, impeach me?”

The two of us burst into raucous chortles as we walked back into the Enron Ballroom and joined in dancing the Hava Nagila.  “Don’t worry, Governor!”  I yelled.  “You can count on me!”

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