Senator apologizes to ex-aide’s ex-wives

I’m sorry for the things I’ve done. I know that I’m the guilty one. But what more can I do, than say to you… I’m sorry.

And thank you to the Platters.

Actually, I’m now an ex-Senator. I’ve joined the ex club.

Look, yes, maybe I knew he was beating you all regularly, but he was beating me regularly too. It started out as a fun thing, but it turned ugly early on. Were your marriages like that? Thank goodness my marriage wasn’t. I would come home from the Senatorial office Friday night and my spouse would throw a blanket and saddle over my back and ride me till Monday morning.

How am I supposed to look after my aide’s wives? I never met any of you. How was I to know the guy had more than one or two of you? Sure we’re from Utah, but this is the twenty-first century. Big Love was a hit and that guy (RIP) only had three.

So put your ex in the rear-view mirror, ex-wives, unless a civil suit might extract a few more dollars from him. Get on with your lives. I know he has, with a whole new lineup.

 

 

Foot Binding

Eight-hour filibuster. Four-inch heels.
Three hours to go. Why did I do this?
I felt regal at first. A goddamned queen.
I could see over the lectern. Make eye contact.
Would they respect me in flats?

The short congressmen. They stand on a box.
I blame Frank for this. Frank and his shoes.
Frank and his feet. He’ll rub these feet with warm oil into the night.
And no shoes tomorrow. Maybe the fluffy pink slippers.
The tailor’s bunion. Must get it treated.

These stilettos are shrinking. My toes overlap.
Should have brought a second pair. One size larger.
Two sizes larger. An inch shorter.
After five hours no one cares. I could stand eye to eye with Dinklage.
Look at him. He’s a king or something.

Wendy Davis went thirteen hours. Wendy Davis isn’t seventy-eight.
Wendy Davis wore pink tennis shoes. Then high heels for her Vogue shoot.
Must stop saying “I won’t stand for it.” Must quit calling Republicans “heels.”
Now it’s time for the man with no shoes. Draw it out.
When it’s time for the man with no feet… let out a little sob.

 

…for Poets United Midweek Motif – Shoes

The Budget Will Pass Before Midnight

Boy we’ve had our troubles passing our annual budget this year.

Times are tight. Al wants this and that. I want the other.

So far we’ve kept our tempers, but it seems neither of us wants to compromise.

We’re sworn to settle this. To write a budget and sign it before the sun comes up.

Deadlock.

The kids are over at Grandma Jane’s, out of the way.

Then Bob comes by and asks Al if he wants to walk down to the VFW for a beer. Go on, I say, it’ll do you good. Order yourself a shot and let the beer chase it, I say, and they’re off.

Now I sit down and open the spreadsheet on the Mac. I’m alone and suddenly I’m in the mood to compromise. I give Al some of what he wants. Why not? We’re a team, aren’t we? Married thirty-five years. I give myself some of what I want.

Time passes and the budget is finished. I print it out. When Al walks in, he’ll be three sheets to the wind but that’s ok because Al is a pleasant drunk. I’ll sit him down and rub his shoulders and give him a cup of coffee and a piece of coffee cake and he’ll sign and I’ll sign and we’ll turn in.

Our version of the government.

Diary: Defense or Domestic Spending?

12 Dec – Had budget summit with hubby. Predictably, he wants to spend our discretionary surplus on defense. I want to spend it on something useful. We agreed to meet again.

13 Dec – Hubby wants 24/7 video surveillance system. He’s nuts. Neighborhood is safe. I say, let’s spend the money getting those feral cats neutered. They’re multiplying. Hubby turns ugly. We’ll meet again.

14 Dec – Hubby semi-drunk and truculent. Lays out all the specs on the surveil system he wants. Bonkers.

15 Dec – I come home from work today to find the surveil system installed. Hubby happy again, at least.

16 Dec – Hubby spends a lot of time reviewing the surveil tapes. Shows me some. The feral cats have been eating Mopsey’s rabbit food. Nothing else to report.

17 Dec – Hubby reports the feral cats set off the surveil alarm today. Pressure sensors in our grass. Also, the cats have been pooping in our herb beds.

18 Dec – Feral cats left remains of several rats on our porch swing last night.

19 Dec – Hubby has compiled instances of the feral cats mating on the surveil tapes. Seems delighted at the data the system is producing.

20 Dec – Cats caught our favorite mockingbird. Hubby says he hated that bird.

21 Dec – Came home tonight to discover the surveil system has been stolen. I suspect John Hughes next door did it. He blames us for the feral cat explosion, just because the original pair of them belonged to us before they ran off.

Memo Released to Public

I am releasing this memo to the Congressional Grammar School in Washington, D.C. because it shows that my daughter, Sue, favors my husband over me. She should be ashamed. Let the teachers and students at CGS make their feelings known to her! As for my boys, Bob and Fred, they’re ok but they could show a little backbone once in a while.

Memo

From: Sue

To: Bob and Fred

Security: Classified!

Mom is a real jerk! A boob! I like Dad a lot more.

Dad lets us do what we want, as long as we make a few bucks and don’t bug him for $$. We can litter, he don’t care. A little weed. Whatever. Let him watch TV and play golf and that’s all he needs.

Mom cares more about the poor kids next door than she does about us. She’s always out demonstrating or “organizing.” And she’s low energy. Why doesn’t she organize Dad’s sock drawer if she cares so much?

I know you guys are “older and wiser” but jeez, I’m five years old. I got my rights!

QUIK POLL #478

I asked the following question to the first 100 people I met on the street. Demographic info filed separately.

Who is the most famous Roman emperor?

  • Nero (67%)
  • Caesar (21%)
  • The Pope (12%)

Who is the most famous U.S. president?

  • Trump (79%)
  • Washington (12%)
  • Lincoln (9%)

Crumbling Infrastructure

It’s crumbling, the Infrastructure.

I was driving on the I57 and hit potholes. The crumbling highway, but Holy Cow those potholes shook up the old Firebird’s chassis. The edges of those holes need to be a little more crumbly than they are.

I’m bumbling and grumbling and fumbling and it’s humbling and i’m jumbling things in my head and tumbling and mumbling and my innards are rumbling and i’m stumbling, but by God I’m not crumbling, not yet.

Ever see a bridge crumble? Just sort of melts into the river.

Ever see a structure crumble, whether infra or outfra? The outlines go soft. The thing draws scorn. Fresh scorn. You can’t fix it. Got to tear it down.

I knew a Mongolian kid named Jumble. Never checked the spelling. In English I mean.

Finally, the good news: A crumble is a dish of British origin that can be made in a sweet or savoury version, although the sweet version is much more common. A sweet variety usually contains stewed fruit topped with a crumbly mixture of fat, flour, and sugar. (Wikipedia)

But a crumble doesn’t crumble when it gets old. It petrifies.