October 02, 2005


The recent indictment of King Slimeball, Tom DeLay, has put many here in a merry mood. Ran a search on Google under "Tom Delay is an a**hole" and returned 450,000 responses with not a single pro-Delay entry among them.

As the Missus was out of town, neighbor Strange DeJim K. of Santa Clara dropped by to hoist a few in celebration at the Old Same Place around the corner. The bar was filled to capacity with Democrats and even a few Liberals among them. Off in the corner a miserable pair dressed in white shirts, ties and ceramic US flags pinned to their Brooks Brothers lapels sat and moped over glasses of Bud Lite, the only representatives of the Conservative Party to be found for miles.

Jim got started right away by putting out his cigar in the toupee of one of the Conservatives and ordering up a round of tequila, Red Tail and scotch shooters -- to take the edge off.

It wasn't long before Jim was singing a song about the Lady named Sadie while strumming a broken banjo -- which he does not know how to play. Fortunately, no one paid any attention. It was not until Jim got up upon a table and began dancing with the bar peanut dish upon his head for a hat that we began to get concerned. The Missus was due to return from her mother's on Sunday and she certainly would chuck a hella fit if she found out Jim had not been attending the Lutheran services religiously. Susan is quite a closet Lutheran and brooks no fancy dancing in her zone of control.

In any case, the Missus had been gone for about two weeks now and the entire house looked like a bachelor had been living there for years. The drapes were torn and smoke-damaged from the cigars, the floors were all gummy from spilled booze, the cat had been living next door with the nice lady in terror of returning and all the felt scarves had burrs in them from the romp with Crazy Horse strippers down at the Cove.

This much fun hasn't been had since the Great Confabulator died of Alzheimer's and everybody drank champagne.

Instead of cleaning up this mess, Jim was now down at the Old Same Place, whooping it up one last time before Love Comes to Town. In fact, Jim started singing that very same song in about three keys at one and two distinct octaves at the top of his lungs despite our protestations.

"Bug off you whippersnapper! I'll show you young punks how to pardee!"

Designated drivers for the two Conservatives came in the door at that moment and things began to get ugly. In desperation, we called our dear friend Paul in Marin to ask him what to do. Paul and Jim had been hippies together way back before people decided to do away with the 60's era entirely and started hunting hippies for sport, so you can see the two go back a ways.

Paul said the only thing to do was to fetch a reminder of truly terrible times, which might put Jim in such a funk that he could be packed sobbing into a car and taken home. We asked him just what kind of reminder and Paul said, "Get a refrigerator coil brush. No time to explain now. We got our own party going on up here."

Well, we got a coil brush from the barkeep. Now, a refrigerator coil brush is about three feet long and looks like a device meant to frustrate Nature or be employed by a dominatrix in a Babylon dungeon, but otherwise looked fairly harmless. But sure enough, when Jim saw that thing, he just broke down so bad that the tears snuffed out his cigar and he became so amenable we were able to shovel him into the van without too much difficulty.

And that was the end of all the fun while the Missus was away.