Last week was the GOP presidential debate from New Hampshire. Since I live with a big ass bear in the forest and have neglected to pay taxes since 1988 I was obviously tuned into this. Or, I would have been, if the bear subscribed to cable.
I think 'informed' individuals watch this sort of thing wondering which candidate has the soundest theory on how to stimulate the economy or which one has a consistent voting history regarding the war effort or taxes. Being neither 'informed' nor 'motivated' unless I am in the middle of a pie-eating contest--in which case I am all-state--I watch with wide doe-eyes wondering which one of these fuckers is going to get to pull the trigger on me and my hibernating-husband.
"We aren't exactly their people," laments the bear, who response to me when I call him Sherman the way I respond to him when he calls me Roar. By running the other fucking way.
"You aren't even a person," I say. "At least I stand a fucking chance." I look into Sherman's eyes. There is a tear. It's funny. You think you know someone and how much of your bull shit they can take, only to realize you don't know anything at all.
"I'm sorry Sherman. People are just stupid and slow to come around. Their problem. Not ours," I say as I hug him. What I am really trying to do is hide from the dear fly hovering over us, but don't tell Sherman this. Of course, it is our problem. Just like that delightful little monster in the Frankenstein fable, the community with pitch-forks doesn't go after themselves. They come after us. And they're not exactly on their way to a Mensa meeting either.
Fortunately, the bear is not psychic, which makes him both different than that lunatic Sylvia Brown and an easy mark for my affections. It also means he only hears the 'I'm sorry' part of my diatribe. Like I said, people are stupid and slow. I don't exclude myself from that label. I just choose to keep Sherman in the dark about the fact that I am utterly nuts.
"The fact that we agree on that is what makes us so compatible," the bear says, smiling. He rustles off down toward the brook that runs by my dilapidated Hyundai. The one that I often confuse for a Saturn because it is such a piece of shit. When he returns he has a fish for himself and one for my cat.
"Thanks for taking such good care of mini-Roar," I say with genuine affection. My cat's name used to be Richard Hatch because she is fat, lazy and likes to bitch people out while not paying her taxes or wearing clothes, but since Sherman can only say roar, mini-Roar it is. Plus, since this cat started responding exclusively to the call of Richard Hatch upon her eighth birthday, you can agree that her mental state is as fucked as mine is.
"I take care of Richard Hatch because I love you," Sherman says. "That's what you do for the people you love."
This, of course, makes me want to puke a little bit, but since making sacrifices is apparently what one does for the people you love, I keep my dry-heaving to myself. "Let's do that thing that always cheers you up," I suggest.
I had meant go and find some fucking honey in the forest like Winnie the Pooh would have. Since I don't eat fish I am still starving my ass off. But Sherman thinks I mean that other thing he loves to do--pretend that he is James Lipton and he is interviewing people from inside the Actor's Studio.
Usually we cover some idiot celebrity like Mel Gibson because let's be honest, even the stupid and slow people like myself knew that The Beaver was really called Fuck You World, Sincerely Mel Gibson and Jodie Foster. Today, however, Sherman wants to get out some of his agressions toward the GOP candidates.
"Okay," I agree. "I suppose the honey can wait."
"Good," Sherman smiles, before getting his glasses and striking a pose that makes him look somewhat like James Lipton, only, more debonaire, and surprisingly, not as hairy.
"So, Rick Santorum, isn't it true that you went through the entire debate ignoring the questions posed and sticking to your own agenda...not unlike Sarah Palin during the 2008 VP debates?" Sherman begins.
Shit, I barely know who Rick Santorum is, how does Sherman know so fucking much about all of this political mumbo-jumbo? Whatever. I'll play along. Of course, such devil-may-care attitude led to my first illegal wedding being video-recorded at the tender age of eight.
"I wouldn't say I am as crazy as Sarah Palin," I reply [as Rick Santorum-if I was replying as myself I would not have said this]. "I do know what magazines I read."
"Yes, but I didn't ask that," responds Sherman. "Did you know that Tim Pawlenty not only grew up in a meat-packing town and understands manufacturing but is also not for 'being stupid' or 'being a chump'?"
Having not paid attention during the debate I stare blankly. Much like I remember Ron Paul doing when he wasn't getting passionate about drug reform.
"That's what I thought," roars Sherman. "Next question. This one is for you Mr. Romney. Since you are the only legitimate candidate coming out of last week's debate, please tell me, where do you stand on same-sex marriage?"
"I like where you are going with that," I say, clearly speaking as Romney. The only one I would want to run is Donald Trump. And even that would only be so he wouldn't have time to film that piece-of-shit show, The Apprentice, anymore. "Santorum ate it. I mean, he said he would watch Leno over Conan O'Brien--what a douche!"
"True that," replies Sherman. "But, at least he was decisive. Buchmann couldn't decide whether she would pick Elvis or Johnny Cash. How will she ever make a decision when it comes to something serious...like what to wear to the White House Corespondents' Dinner?"
"I know, right!" I holler, completely forgetting my character. I am not very good at this. "And what's with Newt Gingrich? He's such a poser. All that nonesense about the Space program, and to cap it all off, he would choose American Idol over Dancing with the Stars? Not since Paula Abdul, Snooty Newty. Not since Paula."
The bear just stares at me. I think he is beginning to realize just how wittless I am.
"Now, getting back to my question," he says, shaking his head.
"Oh, right," I stumble, trying to remember which tea-bagger, I mean, tea-partier, I was pretending to be. "Let's just run them up to Canada--they can be happy there and we won't have to deal with them."
"Right. I feel sorry for you," the bear says, shaking his head. "And the final question is for you Mr. Herman Cain, when you said you would not be comfortable with a Muslim in your administration because you have peaceful Muslims and militant Muslims, do you think there are not militant Christians, or, even, militant bears?"
Trying to recall what this candidate said, I reply, "No, you are restating something that I did not say."
"That doesn't make any sense," says Sherman. It didn't when Cain said it and it doesn't now.
I role my eyes. "Sherman, this is so stupid. Nothing any of these douche-bags said made any sense."
"You're right," he says, squeezing my hand in his paw. "None of them is Sigmund Freud."
"Sigmund Freud?"
"Sigmund Freud said 'love and work are the cornerstones of our human-ness,'" Sherman reminds me. I go to remind him that he is not human, but instead, I curl up into his arms. I love him. Even if he is something that that grade-A bitch Michele Bachmann would drive a pitch-form through or Sarah Palin would try and shoot from the sky-Gotcha style.
I notice a newt crawling across the blanket of our sleeping bag until Richard Hatch charges it. Ending it's reign of terror. Richard, like myself, had confused the newt for Newt Gingrich.
"Good job Richard Hatch. Your cheque is in the mail. And good night Sherman."
"Good night."
PS-I might have gone to bed without the fucking honey, but I am with Cain on the deep-dish pizza. Thin crust is for suckers.
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