Dearest Elfie...

Less than a few hours into my new gig at After Therapy, I get this bullshit in my inbox:

In my worldwide search for the perfect husband, I have come up empty. Please help!

Signed,

Hopeless romantic

Dear Hopeless in Hell's Kitchen,

Let Elfie break it down for you - old school. First of all, if you got enough scratch to be going around the world looking for dick, Elfie has some news for you: You are already better off than the rest of us. We've been going around town looking for a 4" grinder attachment to some Craftsman tool that our father-in-law "needs" for Christmas. At $2.69 a gallon, this is already not worth the effort. But "WORLDWIDE"? Child, you are committed if nothing else.

And apparently richer than a whore with two vaginae. Kwitcherbitchin'.

Second, you're looking for the "perfect husband"? Girl, please. The perfect husband is what we call a "late" husband who had a healthy estate and left it all to us. You do not need to search the world over for that kind of husband. You just have to be nice to old men. And by "nice" we mean "putting out". If you don't have scarring mental images of the things you've done for a spot in the Last Will and Testament, you're not really working very hard at it. Put elsewise, as our editor would say, if you're looking for a LIVING perfect husband, you are looking amiss.

Come up empty? EMPTY? You went around the world and consider that you came up empty? Honey, if Elfie can get a man to lick her around the world, she feels fulfilled. You need to lower your standards. A man of your means needs to stay a little closer to home, shop at a different store, and learn to be happy with what life sends your way. If all that money is bringin' you down, you can send it to Elfie c/o After Therapy, Inc. I have sent you the full address in a private e-mail.

Best of luck on your worldwide travels, but while you're in Rome next time, try spending less time man-hunting and more time shopping. You may have found some imperfect men, but there is no such thing as the imperfect cashmere sweater.

We simply need to recognize perfection where we find it.

Air Kisses,

Elfie

Taking A Partner

We've toiled alone for lo these many years at After Therapy and finally admit that we are too damned lazy to do it alone anymore. So we're branching out. Hell, even Arianna Huffington can't man her own post full time.

We introduce you to our newest (and only) contributor, Elphabah Hermberg. She initially thought it would be cute to go by "'Bah Hermberg", but we nixed that on account of our respect for Christmas and our office's location in the Bible Belt. You piss these people off and they shoot you in your kitchen or blow up your clinic office.

We'll keep it simple: "Dearest Elfie..." Think of her as Dear Abby without the class. Ann Landers with a more pronounced lisp. Heloise - only not nearly as helpful. She's a social expert, of sorts. She'll take your societal dilemmas and spin them into bytes of advice that you could never repeat to your mother.

We'll add a picture of her as soon as we can convince her that eyeliner is not of the devil and that a little foundation covers a multitude of sins.

Until then... Watch this space for her occasional contributions.

Elfie can be contacted at DearestElfie@aol.com

Soviet Bitch

Received a rambling email - complete with photography - from the Hell's Kitchen Agent just the other night. It was a picture of him with a low-level employee of some magazine or another - complete with empty implied promises of shilling my promising work to another publication. Good thing I have his ass on commission or I'd be broke from paying for all the empty promises.

I now truly believe he goes to these things solely for the booze and toast points.

The email concluded with the threat of a drunk dial before 10 p.m. I hastened to the answering machine to turn it off and instead recorded this:

"This machine has been installed with an alcohol detection device. You are over the legal limit. Please call back after a cup of coffee."

True to his threat, the phone rang minutes later and the message sounded like Portuguese, which sounds like Spanish with marbles in your mouth - only mixed with copious amounts of very dry martinis. The only part I thought I picked up was the name-calling. I could swear he'd called me a "Soviet Bitch". I replayed it twice because I have one very bad ear and thought it must surely have been "Sonofabitch". But I clearly heard an extra "t".

It was "Soviet Bitch". I couldn't fathom such a thing. Did this make me the kind of bitch who would stand in line for toilet paper? I admit that in a crisis I could do such a thing. Or did it make me the kind of bitch who would crush small Balkan states in the interest of world domination? That, too, sounded in character for me. I concluded that some truth does, in fact, come through the haze of alcohol and horrendous taste in men. I am a Soviet Bitch.

I rushed down to the t-shirt shop to have one made in my new size. I bought a custom bumper sticker and had 2 dozen generic Christmas balls stamped "Soviet Bitch" for the tree. Who needs a New Year's resolution when you have a new name? And one NOBODY else can claim at that!!

So from our bitchy Soviet house to yours.... Happy Holidays and power to the proletariat.

These Things Never Happen To Us

"Nude New Zealander Arrested After Responding to Fake Sexy Text Message" - This is a real headline. Seems two broads duped an anxious chap into disrobing and showing up for a romp - at the wrong address. All were charged, none were prosecuted. We resist the urge to cite "lack of evidence" against the gentleman.

We also note that in 43 years of opening doors - never once has there been a naked man there.

"I'm making up this song, it was a dream I had, What do you think:

'I hope you're happy. I hope you're happy now.

I hope you're happy how you hurt your cause forever.

I hope you think you're clever. I hope YOU'RE happy.

I hope you're happy too.

I hope you're proud how you would grovel in submission, to feed your own ambition.

Somehow I can't imagine how.

I hope you're happy right now. ... '"

We think somebody's not happy! We also think this is how you know that your Hell's Kitchen Agent/Architect/Elder Chaser/Songwriter has run out of vodka and Aqua Velva. Calling Kitty Dukakis!

"In Germany, the last ornament that is put on the tree is a glass pickle, which is hidden in the branches. On Christmas morning, the first child who finds the pickle ornament receives an extra present."

Funny. We never got to play Hide The Pickle at our house on any of the good holidays. Leave it to the Nazis to think of the fun stuff.

Eenie Meenie Miney Mo

Yes, I realize that rhyme will get you kicked off a Southwest flight. But you know full well I'm not talkin' about black folks. Well, not exclusively....

I was a -ponderin' today about who I'd vote for if I were to go a-caucasin' with the folks in Iowa, where once I lived. The last time, I happily moved to the corner of the high school classroom in Council Bluffs that indicated my preference for Clinton - the male version. Since I'm a hair talkative, I also got elected by my little room to go to the State Democratic Convention and cast my vote for the man. They confirmed me in the auditorium later that day after I'd excoriated a Democratic State Representative over lunch for voting against gay rights to save her ample ass in the upcoming election.

Back to the future.... I admit to being in a quandary still. I pledged my undying love to John Edwards 4 years ago. He touched my hand. With his sweaty hand. I almost fainted. He has amazingly attractive secret service people - right out of the International Male Catalogue. He just isn't turning my head this time, though. Maybe it's his insistence on heterosexuality or my short attention span.

Hillary has always seemed like the Good Democratic Thing To Do. I also believe she could singlehandedly castrate any Republican she wanted. And by singlehandedly, I mean with one hand. By castrate, I mean cut their balls off. Then again, Barack Obama has never said anything to make me doubt that he'd be a perfectly delightful man to turn the White House a little more beige. I have a feeling Mama Obama could have some throw-down state dinners, too. I know she's a refined, educated woman, but wouldn't it be wonderful to have a first-lady capable of pulling "Oh no you di-in't" out of her repertoire when Ahmadinejad utters one of his unspeakables?

The only candidate who has promised to "let" me get married is Dennis Kucinich, who is, ironically, the only candidate I wouldn't invite to my wedding. (Vegetarians: Don't get me started. They fart like a cow with colitis.)

So to all my Iowa friends - both of you. I say, "Vote your conscience. And remember - nobody will remember what you did after South Carolina, so don't take it too seriously."

(Next time: Why the "H" in Jesus H. Christ just may stand for Huckabee.)

Love your hair, hope you win....

First Snow!

Ahhhh.... The little house on the prairie has its first snow of the season today. Those of us who practice denial like a religion appreciate the symbolism most. Covering over the things you don't like until the heat comes in and reveals your crap is a beautiful respite from reality.

And speaking of reality....

Our Hell's Kitchen Agent reports that in a haze of vodka and house music, he fell in love with a much younger version of himself. Our agent is in his late-mid-40's. That's gay-speak for damn-near 50. Upon further investigation, the much younger man was revealed to be in his mid-50's. Yours truly has teeth marks in his tongue from not noting the obvious: When the nearly-60 crowd starts to look like chicken....

The little dancing boy who is knocking on Social Security's door is also a Buddhist. Nee Rosenberg. That's right. Our Buddhist is a Jewddhist. Not that there's anything wrong with that. In fact, we're a little giddy at the prospect that our chicken-chasing agent has fallen head over gefiltefish for an aged Hebrew with a penchant for chanting to fat guys. During Channukah. Tell me that won't get you through a cold winter's worth of writing.

We went on a pseudo-date with an old friend (though, to be clear, not as old as our agent's date - by a decade-plus). We saw the Kansas City Plaza Lights display and ate at what we believed to be George Brett's restaurant. It said "George Brett" on the outside. The walls were display cases with his baseball memorabilia from the 70's and 80's. The staff wore shirts that said "George Brett". The menu said "Brett's". The featured beer stuck in the salt and pepper caddy said "George's Ale". Our waitress took our drink order and I asked - in my star-struck way - "Is Mr. Brett in the building?" She curled her 19 year-old lip into a sneer and snarled "He's no longer involved with the restaurant. It's called '210' now."

"Somebody should tell your shirt," my pseudo-date said. This is a man I could love. We've been wondering around the office if it's telling that he's called twice since Saturday night. Once was today to inform me that it's snowing in my yard - 70 miles from his yard. Never having fallen for a nice guy, we wonder if this is how such things go.

Time will tell if it's a happy accident.

Or a simple snow-job.

You're So Far Away...

Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore? OY! After 3 months of bacterial assault (most of which is not fit for printing - but we're gonna...), we have returned to the little black keys to resume our on-again, off-again documentary exhibitionism to the delight of literally dozens.



Au moment, we seem to have pneumonia. C'est vrai, PNEUMONIA! Trouble breathing? Nope. Odd-colored sputum? Nope. Raspy chest sounds? Nope.



In fact, today is day 101 of Not Smoking! (Not even a cheater puff here or there.)



Some weeks ago, we were carted off to the Nephrologist (read: Kidney Doctor) for a battery of procedures. This included storing our urine in the refrigerator next to the milk for 24 hours. One morning, we awoke to see a note taped to the outside of the fridge:



"Dear Editor,



The new neighbors are pure filth.

I think they peed on something.

Evict them or I'm outta here.



Respectfully,

Milk"



It is a fact of the universe that if you must collect urine to be stored near your food, your urine will instantly become 12 times more pungent than usual. We had a Doppler Scan and discovered we have no approaching thunder storms in our midsection. We had a Sonogram and discovered that we are not with-child. And we provided a urine "chaser" at the doc's office for a culture.



In the end, all came back normal except for the culture which showed we had been invaded by an insidious organism called "Blahdiblahdiblah PNEUMONIAE". Google ran right out and got us a definition with which we could work and - sure enough - we had the big P. Curiously enough, we did not have the lung version of pneumonia. We had a urinary tract pneumonia.

Which explains why we haven't been breathing very well through the penis.

The months away from you, my lovelings, have been due to all manner of upheaval and an artistic recharging of the batteries. The Editor-in-Chief accidentally deleted the entire blog in a fit of Klonopin, Vicodin and marijuana Dr. Pepper. Now, it has miraculously reappeared in all its maudlin, lower-level glory.

As our penis recovers from its breathing problems, we commit to posting as often as the spirit moves us. You should know that the down-time allowed for a complete remodel of the loo at our headquarters and the installation of some nouvelle lighting in the kitchen, as well.

We also took a little time off to nurture a teen-age crush on a man young enough to be our.... neighbor. (See above photo) The music may be a little hard on our nerves, but the young man is perfectly edible: Pierre Bouvier of the kiddy band "Simple Plan". It's a fixation of inappropriate intensity. But there you go.

Until next time, porkie pies!

And Now For Something Completely Different...

Drew Carey will be the new host of the Price Is Right. We're fairly certain that this was precisely the career move Carey had in mind when he filmed the documentary "Fuck" recently. Coupled with his astonishingly crude turn in the documentary "The Aristocrats", which celebrates a joke laden with sodomy, incest, and every illegal sex act imaginable, Carey must have been atop the list of Bob Barker replacements.

We are currently interviewing flies on the wall of the ladies' dressing rooms at The Price Is Right to see if Barker's Beauties are contemplating becoming Carey's Coozes. Our guess is that they're drawing up lawsuits and restraining orders for sexual harassment to save time later on. Carey is well known for his cavorting in public with hookers, exotic dancers and women of extraordinary disrepute. Our friend in Chicago who ran the restaurant across from Oprah's studio recounts several descents into debauchery by Mr. Carey and his cabal of well-paid groupies. Chalk one up for fat guys with glasses.

We wonder how long Mr. Carey's ironic jabs at the common man will play on the beloved game show before the core audience realizes that they're the butt of a running joke. Replacing Barker's daily appeal for spaying and neutering house pets will likely be an appeal by the Beauties to have Carey undergo similar alteration. CBS turned up its nose at a number of has-beens, will-be's, and might-have-beens to select Carey as the face of the venerable home of Plinko and other pricing games. Drew Carey and the price of Rice-a-Roni just don't seem like a match made in Studio City heaven. Time will tell.

Can Carey continue delivering dick jokes and hooker riffs at comedy clubs while filming The Price Is Right? Can he stay out of the bar with his entourage of women who disrobe for a living? We think probably not. Neither do we believe that Carey can re-create the rapport Barker has with the critical 60-plus demographic for the show. His teen-age boy sense of humor coupled with his Gentlemen's Club values seem antithetical to the show Barker raised to the heights of TV history.

Where Barker fended off sexual impropriety claims by virtue of his charm, age, and public perception, Carey seems unlikely to survive similar circumstances - or avoid them. Take away his adult vocabulary and Drew is just a nerdy guy with glasses and a few good lines which should wear thin over five shows a week. An over-the-hill star would have been a far better fit for the over-the-hill show that appeals to over-the-hill viewers who really, really know how much a Lane recliner costs and whether toothpaste costs more than shampoo. It would have been a fitting farewell for George Hamilton, a permanent pre-retirement gig for Donny Osmond, and a decent rehab-gig for Rosie O'Donnell.

Instead, we'll watch the snarky, condescending and not-just-a-little lecherous Carey try to fill Barker's shoes with something other than Gin. We predict this experiment has two seasons before everyone tries to save face - and the venerable show.

Vegas Blue is a fitting hair color for the Price Is Right constituency. It's not a fitting comedy style. Chalk this up to another CBS disaster.

Once More...With A Twist

Tammy Faye made it back to church one last time at the end. She may have been only as much ash as 65 pounds of woman can make, but true to form, she handled the accessories as only she could.

At Tammy Faye's request, the service was conducted by the pastor of a gay church in Arkansas (one we are now committed to finding). Pastor Randy McCain, of Open Door Church in Sherwood, Arkansas did the honors. It seems that the original religious programmer didn't miss one last chance to produce a show with a message. "My friend, Randy McCain", she said in her final instructions concerning her burial. We wonder if the public memorial will be produced with an eye to the masses who would shrink from such an overt embrace of gay Christians. If so, we expect Tammy will be spinning in her urn somewhere.

It's said the smallest acts of kindness are the ones that change the world - if not on a grand scale, then for someone. As a gay person, it is humbling that Tammy Faye thought about me in some abstract way as she choreographed her final moments on life's stage. It's a gesture like this that can end up being a defining moment in a culture shift. It's not up there with the Freedom Riders or the Stonewall Riots or the Garbage Worker Strikes, but it's of note. And we thank Tammy's children for staying true to their mama's wishes. They didn't have to do that.

We've long maintained that if circumstances alter your theology, you probably need a new theology. Tammy Faye confirmed for us that there is a right and wrong way to embrace religious faith. The wrong use of it was as a bludgeon, she demonstrated. The right way was as a self-directing force that didn't waiver as the road became rocky - or perilous - or clearly ending in cruel demise. "God on the mountain...God in the valley", an old song says. All in or all out. Go big or go home.

They could have scrubbed Mama's legacy clean by picking any one of dozens of big-name, mainstream preachers to honor the original Queen of Christian TV. Tammy, herself, could have phoned in a final interview that was only hours before her death, given her appearance and physical pain. It seems she passed on some values of integrity, compassion, and steadfastness to her kids who have reason to hold their heads high when the mourning is over.

We note for contrast that the Very Dead Rev. Falwell was associated even at his funeral with the demonizing of Gay and Lesbian people - and anyone who disagreed with his theopolitical posture. Grace is something you just can't teach, we conclude. You've either received it and have it to give. Or you don't.

We're a little less without the laughing that she inspired. We're a little heavier without the optimism that she took with her. And we wonder if we'll have another prominent Christian who will hug HIV-positive people at Gay Bingo Night any time soon. Regardless, we look forward to shaking her tiny hand at the big Y'all Come in the sky someday.

Just to say, "Thanks!", if nothing else.

Getting Ahead Of The Story

Confession: Once a Pentecostal, always a Pentecostal. You can become a boozehound, a hooker, an axe murderer or John Ashcroft, but when le jeu s'en fait, you'll be a Pentecostal first. Because of this, we have an enduring soft spot for that spectacle di tutti spectacles: Tammy Faye.

As a child, we were transfixed by her heart-rending daily appeals on TV. We knew ladies who cried in church at the drop of a hat, so watching Tammy's makeup run down her face was not unusual. That's what ladies did. Sure, she was a lot more tarted up than Grandma would have recommended, but her theology was spot-on where we were concerned. Her singing was an acquired taste - but her enthusiasm and sincerity were unmistakable. Tammy Faye was O.K.

When everything went south, it was her weaselly husband we blamed. Tammy Faye was as much a victim as everybody else when PTL became SOL. We winced when she divorced the bum, because we just don't do things like that. Then again, we like to think we don't embezzle and commit wire fraud or whatever the hell else he did. We also like to think our husbands wouldn't do Jessica Hahn. Apocalyptic leanings notwithstanding, we tend to be an optimistic lot.

We watched as Tammy Faye started over with Roe Messner, a builder from our own backyard (almost literally). We whispered about whether there was something afoot before it became official, but nobody could bring himself to say aloud that they thought Tammy Faye might have had her eye on another option pre-divorce. We bought a t-shirt splotched with colors in an abstract smiley face design: "I Ran Into Tammy Faye At The Mall." We wore it only a few times, guiltily, and retired it. Taking a swing at Tammy Faye was like running over kittens with a lawnmower. You could do it. It just wasn't very satisfying and she really hadn't earned it.

Years later, we thrilled to the documentary "The Eyes Of Tammy Faye", when she defied convention and embraced gay folks for who they are - theology be damned. Without giving away who she was and what she believed, Tammy threw the door wide open for us to join her in faith. She put a heavily pancaked face on "Judge Not Lest Ye Be Judged". She made it OK to be nice to gay and lesbian people if you identified as a Christian. And she made it OK to identify as a Christian if you were gay. For this, we will always be grateful to Tammy Faye. And we won't speak ill of her in life or her death - God forbid.

We watched her on Larry King and thought that she must have given a lot of thought to going on camera. Here was a woman who had made her name on her appearance - whether you liked it or not. When she had tipped her hat to ridicule, she still refused to soften the eyeliner, take off the lashes, or lighten the rouge. Now, at 65 pounds and only barely alive, she painted what was left and held herself remarkably upright to reveal the most intimate details of her demise. We thought her to be a woman of incredible integrity: Having made her bones and her money in front of the camera, she wouldn't retreat from it at the end. Live by the pixel, die by the pixel.

It would be a wonderful affirmation of everything we, as Pentecostals, believe if Tammy Faye were to be "raised up" from her bed of affliction and kick cancer. If she isn't raised up, we'll be among the legions who remember her fondly. We hope to be as gracious at our own end as she is in hers. Here is this excerpt from her Web site's front page:

"Dear Friends,

It has been such a long time since I've written and I am so sorry for the long delay. I have been in bed for almost a year now. I have times when I feel good and times when I feel really bad. But, I have learned one thing about feelings. They have NOTHING TO DO WITH FAITH IN GOD!! He is the same yesterday, today and forever. He NEVER changes. That is what the Bible says and God's word does not lie EVER!

...I ask in great humbleness that you pray that I will be able to eat without it coming back up. I crave hamburgers and french fries with LOTS of ketchup! When I can eat that again, it will be a day of victory!

In closing, I want you to know that I am praying for you and your loved ones and I am believing God for complete healing. God is a healer of EVERYTHING!

I will let you know when I get to eat my hamburger! HA!

Love,
Tammy Faye"

God Bless. 'Nuff said.

The Case For Gay Parenting

"Social science on this matter is conclusive: Children need both a
mom and a dad. Study after study has shown that children do best in a home with
a married, biological mother and father." -- Sen. Sam Brownback (R-KS),
Presidential Candidate, "Defining Marriage Down", 7/9/04, National Review Online

"A judge on Wednesday ordered seven young children removed from their home after authorities discovered it was infested with rats and filled with garbage, including stacks of dirty diapers nearly 4 feet high in closets.

"Authorities went to the dilapidated house after Gloria Ramirez called a funeral home seeking a casket for the stillborn, 4-month-old fetus she had delivered in the bathtub with help from her oldest child, a 9-year-old girl. The fetus was found in a baby wipe box in the refrigerator, according to court documents.

"...Anthony Moya, the 40-year-old father of the six younger children, has been charged with seven counts of child endangerment, and the same charges were expected to be filed against Ramirez next week...- 7/19/07(AP) Betsy Blaine, Lubbock, TX"

"And I believe children can receive love from gay couples, but the ideal is -- and studies have shown that the ideal is where a child is raised in a married family with a man and a woman. - George W. Bush"

"Plattsmouth (Nebraska) Police Chief Brian Paulsen said that James Cook, 6, died Monday night while playing a game of hide-and-seek with his 9-year-old sister. The boy crawled into an old microwave and suffocated to death when he couldn't get out, the chief said.

"Cook's family members told Omaha, Neb., TV station KETV that they had piled a pickup truck full of items they planned to take to the dump on Saturday..."

"I supported the federal effort for traditional marriage, defining marriage as a relationship between a man and woman,'' because "one of the major purposes of marriage is the nurturing and development of children. -- Mitt Romney, Republican Presidential Candidate (S.F. Chronicle, Carla Marinucci, 3/17/07''

"(AP) Rochester, Minn. A Mankato, Minn. couple was accused Wednesday of abusing their 4-month-old son, one of two conjoined twins who underwent separation surgery last fall at the Mayo Clinic." -- 3/8/07

Write these down. They'll come in handy when the fur starts to fly in January.

Still Waiting...

We figured that Wendy Vitter (wife to disgraced Republican Senator David Vitter - he of the whorehouses) would do the right thing. We were wrong. Come to think of it, whenever we've expected Republicans to do the right thing, we've found ourselves whomper-jawed at the result.

When we heard from the Right Righteous (And Not Just A Little Scary) Mrs. Vitter a week ago, she was remarkably silent on her husband's brothel fixation. Since then, two more whores with houses have revealed that they serviced the Senator. Mrs. and Mr. Vitter went into "seclusion", which means they weren't talking.

Fair enough.

The Mister had nothing to say beyond, "I did 'em. " And we know how likely that was to happen. After all, the Mister was one of the primary sponsors of the "Federal Marriage Amendment" to the U.S. Constitution. He was a regular screecher about the Sanctity of Marriage and the need to keep Gay and Lesbian folks from mucking it up. We understand his desire to hide. And the less he says, the better, most likely. We will refrain from repeating the scandalous assertions that he enjoyed some of his whoring whilst wearing diapers. That would just be beneath us. Almost.

But Mrs. Vitter... We believe she has a few IOU's to make good. Back in the 90's, when then-First Lady Hillary Clinton was forgiving her husband for extra-marital dalliances and smiling tautly while little old ladies in Idaho discussed the state of her marriage, Mrs. Vitter was compelled to speak. As we wrote in a previous post, Mrs. Vitter looked down her powdered nose at Senator Clinton and remarked that she would never just stand by her man if he done her wrong. She'd cut his dick off. That's what she said. The obvious implication was that Hillary Clinton didn't have the balls to leave - and was a lesser woman for staying and forgiving.

Yesterday, Mrs. Vitter announced her own forgiveness campaign. Seems she's giving up her Lorena Bobbitt identity for one that mirrors exactly how Senator Clinton comported herself a decade ago. One expects that after badmouthing Sen. Clinton, Mrs. Vitter would have something even mildly apologetic to speak to the Senator she dissed so publicly. Elsewise, we're compelled to call Wendy Vitter a hypocritical, vicious cunt who seems to be a better expert on others' marriages than her own.

We're happy with that characterization.

For the record, we don't give a rat's ass who or what Sen. David Vitter lies down with. We don't care if Wendy Vitter's tongue rots in her mouth. If she leaves and takes half of everything he owns and his cock, we'd consider that her prerogative - mostly. But woman-to-woman, she owes some kind words to the lady she attacked - when that lady was just trying to survive her marital crisis on four networks, cable, the Internet, radio, and every newspaper (fit to read and otherwise).

One woman is walking around with her head high today with no apologies owed to anyone for how she's conducted herself in the public eye. Another one looks like a crass blow-hard who got screwed-over and took it lying down (as it were). One emerged with grace from a stunning embarrassment.

The other is a larger embarrassment than the situation itself. Wendy Vitter, you owe Hillary Clinton a very public apology without any references to cutting off dicks. We don't believe you have the moral underpinnings to come through on such an obligation. People of your ilk are usually only concerned with other people behaving well. You and your spouse clearly grant yourselves an exemption from behavioral norms: fidelity, truth-telling, and common courtesy, for starters.

His redemption can't be evaluated because it depends on his veracity - a quality he demonstrably lacks. Yours, Mrs. Vitter, can be accomplished with a few kind sentences - in public - toward Mrs. Clinton, your sister in the Woman Done Wrong Club.

We're waiting.

Taking TV Up A Notch

Michael Moore goes apeshit on Wolf Blitzer. Perez Hilton, the poster child for gay concentration camps, calls Elizabeth Hasselbeck a bitch (and she is). And now, Hot Ghetto Mess.

That's right. Hot Ghetto Mess It's coming to B.E.T. on your T.V. Mm hmm. We white folks aren't supposed to comment on these sorts of things (read: Imus). Then again, we at After Therapy haven't ever put much stock in rules.

This photo is the June Mess of the Month. We imagine they're waiting for July to wrap up before they crown a new... Oh, sweet Jesus. Crosses! And nipples! And "DOG" on your arm! Oh my! Self-respect runs shallow in the hood, we see. (Apologies to the model if we assume incorrectly, but we've got $100 that says you're not an anesthesiologist from suburban Denver.)

The proprietor (and now producer) of Hot Ghetto Mess (http://www.hotghettomess.com/) has the right idea. She speaks of holding up a mirror to her own community in hopes that some light of self-awareness will dawn in the gawker's spirit. We have news for Ms. High Hopes 2007... These people have already spent hours in a mirror and this is the result. Mirrors are not achieving the desired effect. You can send this "Mess" to Extreme Makeover, What Not To Wear, and Oprah, but she's still going to go home with a flawed sense of fashion born out of flawed values. On her block, hot rims and grillz trump covering your tits, avoiding your 7th pregnancy by the age of 25, and paying your rent.

She was happy enough to pose for the photo - with a big smile. What makes you think you can shake the ghetto out of the girl? Every race and culture has lost causes. White people put theirs in trailer parks and ramshackle cabins in Arkansas. Hispanics have their barrios. African-Americans (and Black Americans who have no ties to Africa whatsoever), have the hood. Every race and culture has individuals who distinguish themselves daily - by achievement, pride, and acceptance of behavioral norms that don't quash individuality. Sometimes, we just need to leave the lesser behind in a Darwinian stab at a better world. You can plunk her in suburbia if you like. But she's gonna show her tits and her new gold teeth at your PTA meeting. Bleeding hearts will cry "Poverty!", "Racism!", "Poor Education!", etc.

We're only gonna say this once:

We were poor as church mice and our mother would have ended our miserable existence if we had even suggested leaving the house representing ourselves or our family in such a way. This is not about money or racism. This is about what you did with full benefit of a mirror. And what it says about how you view yourself. Period.

Dog.

Gay folks will have to apologize for and disclaim Perez Hilton when he hits VH-1's airwaves later this year. It can't last beyond a season or two, so we should weather the storm - assuming Michael Jackson doesn't officially come out of the closet.

We don't want to hear any complaints about how any of the above demean their respective communities. We birthed 'em, we gotta own 'em. Now... what to do with 'em?

Step One: Cover Your Tits

Back From Vacation

You leave for a week and the world goes to Hell. Hookers, and smoking and drinking! Oh my!

In a sign that the world has turned inside out, Republicans have now become the party of the loose zipper. Sen. David Vitter (R-Louisiana) seems to be a chick magnet - if the chick is a hooker. No less than three houses of ill repute now report that the very pious senator has been sampling their wares, if not gorging himself on the menu. (Hey, absent his political affiliation, we'd do him, too.)

Vitter was shocked and appalled when a member of the Louisiana House that President Clinton would engage in extra-marital dabblings. When the man he replaced, Rep. Bob Livingston (D - Louisiana), admitted to an extra-marital affair, Vitter said this (in the Spirit of Christmas and All That Is Holy And Right):

"I think Livingston’s stepping down makes a very powerful argument that Clinton should resign as well and move beyond this mess,” [Atlanta Journal and Constitution, 12/20/98]

That same year, Vitter wrote an Op-Ed piece for the New Orleans Times-Picayune in which he called President Clinton "morally unfit to govern" for having pulled the Big Lewinsky.

Fast-forward through a number of nekkid aerobic sessions with hookers and Vitter's own resignation speech sounds like this:

"Several years ago, I asked for and received forgiveness from God and my wife in confession and marriage counseling," Vitter continued. "Out of respect for my family, I will keep my discussion of the matter there -- with God and them. But I certainly offer my deep and sincere apologies to all I have disappointed and let down in any way."

My... what a difference a decade and a much larger paycheck makes. The Right Pious (And Not Just A Little Scary) Mrs. Vitter condescended to then-First Lady Hillary Clinton by ranting:

"I’m a lot more like Lorena Bobbitt than Hillary," Wendy Vitter told Newhouse News. "If he does something like that, I’m walking away with one thing, and it’s not alimony, trust me. I think fear is a very good motivating factor in a marriage. Don’t put fear down."

We've been glued to CNN for reports on the Horny Senator's penectomy. As of press time, the dick still has his cock. Looks like hypocrites and hyperbole attract. Hmmm?

Comes also the news that smoking will help prevent Parkinson's Disease. A Stanford University study reveals:

"Parkinson’s disease (PD) is one of a few conditions in which cigarette smoking appears to decrease the risk of developing the disease, with a reduced risk of 50% among ever smokers compared to never smokers."

We consider this excellent news! Nothing had us more concerned than the prospect of shaking like a leaf while holding a lit cigarette in bed. We will now worry only half as much with this revelation.

Finally, we were disturbed to learn that Chantix, the new wonder-drug to help people quit smoking, will also block the receptors in your brain that derive pleasure from drinking - thus possibly promising you a life devoid of smoking, drinking, and any reason to leave the house on a Friday night. We can't understand why the pills haven't been pulled from the shelves already. While we were willing to consider giving up the smokes, we draw the line at giving up the hooch.

It is our sincere hope that with vacation behind us, we can stand vigil against these sorts of upsets. Thank you for the break (it was unpaid - natch!). We look forward to another daily grind.

Pardon Me?

This is a 56 year-old man who would prefer you call him "Scooter" (as in Libby) and not Irv (his first name) or Lewis (his middle name). That should tell you everything you need to know about his judgement and self-image. If it doesn't, remember that he was, up until the time of his indictment on five felony counts of obstruction of justice, lying, and perjury, Dick Cheney's right hand man.

"Scooter" is the only man alive who stands convicted of obstruction of justice, perjury, and making false statements (lying) who will not see the inside of a prison. He will pay a fine of $250,000... maybe. He will also lose his license to practice law... maybe. They say his career is over and he'll be a professional pariah. You'd believe them when they say that if he wasn't the beneficiary of Right Wing Cheerleading that resulted in his 30-month prison sentence being commuted by The Only President We Got.

We're hard-pressed to believe that this man's career is over since he has such low friends in good places. It bears repeating that the charge against President Clinton during his impeachment fiasco was obstruction of justice. The same crowd who was incensed at his having lied about sex to people who had no right to ask about it are now elated that a man who facilitated the outing of a CIA agent is free as a bird. He may not be done unwrapping gifts from the Bush Administration. He could still be pardoned - alleviating the need for him to write that check or lose his license to practice law. Anyone who doubts this is in the plan hasn't been paying attention for the last 6 1/2 years.

While Bush and Cheney stonewall Congress and its absolute right to subpoena documents relating to the U.S. Attorney firings, among other travesties, we should be bracing ourselves for a long and exciting road. You can set "Scooter" free, but you can't hide from the Constitution. Eventually, hubris gives way to reason and the rule of law. Those who run afoul of the Constitution and other laws eventually get their due - whether they serve their time or not. It's not too late in the term to think about impeachment of one or both of these scofflaws. The subpoenas are nothing more than the foundation laid for such a process.

No one in Congress believes they will ever see a single page of redacted emails in compliance with any of the subpoenas issued. Democrats simply needed Bush et al. to act in contempt of Congress by ignoring them. That, in itself, is a crime. Impeachment is specifically reserved for High Crimes and Misdemeanors. Now we have a crime. Bring on the articles of impeachment.

It may seem a cryin' shame, if not a crime, to commute the sentence of a weasel like Libby. It's no crime. What he did most certainly is a crime. But one of the perks of the presidency is the unfettered right to commute sentences and pardon completely. If this works out the way it should, the Libby matter should be an afterthought to a bloodbath. We'll be there with bells on.

Bring on the popcorn.

War And Pieces

It will tax a liberal's patience and commitment to peace when bombs show up in the London Theatre District or detonate at Glasgow's airport. We're generally inclined to be understanding of the circumstances and history that underpin such acts - without condoning them, mind you - but this liberal draws the line at targeting the theatre.

We eschew pre-emptive anything. Pre-emptive attacks are the same as regular attacks. Pre-emptive war is the same as regular war. It's a silly modifier along the lines of "wet" water. But there comes a time when we are willing to take the gloves off and show our teeth. Without invading irrelevant countries and setting up occupying forces for years at a time, here is our inclination when events such as this weekend's occur:

If, in the name of Islam, you blow up a bus, we're going to level a number of mosques - equivalent in number to the passenger capacity of the bus. We're not going to make sure they're empty, we're just going to level them. Not put a hole in them and throw a little rock around... Level them. If, in the name of Islam, you blow up a ship, we're going to level a number of mosques - equivalent in number to the passenger capacity of the ship. Again, we don't care if they're occupied. We're just going to remove them. If, in the name of Islam, you kidnap folks, we're going to level a number of mosques - equivalent in number to the family members of those you kidnap. Get the idea?

We freely admit that we have borrowed liberally from the Israeli Theory Of Dealing With Motherfuckers: You Kill One, We Kill Ten. Your Turn. We aren't anti-Muslim. We suggest that when and if Buddhists lose their zen bent and start blowing shit up in the name of Buddhism, we level temples according to the above formula. We highly recommend that we apply the same principle to dealing with radical Christianity. (We considered whether this particular religion shouldn't be an exception to our No Pre-Emptive Strike rule. Reluctantly, we decided to stick to our principles. For now.) When and if Christians start killing people and blowing things up in the name of Jesus, we're gonna level churches. On Sunday. At 10 a.m.

If, within 7 days, the offending religious extremists don't cease and desist (including apologizing profusely), we're going to dust your crops with Malathion and the most virulent strain of e-coli our scientists can muster. We're going to pour generic dish washing detergent in your drinking water. And we're going to start the longest line of bulldozers you've ever seen on the southern border of the country of our choice that is reasonably considered to be supportive of the terrorist acts. If, on day 8, the crop dusting, water tainting, and roar of bulldozer engines don't inspire a cessation of violence and a profuse apology, we're going to drive the bulldozers north 100 miles. Every day, they will drive 100 miles - knocking down anything in their way: hospitals, schools, mosques, homes, banks, restaurants, daycare centers, people.... By the time we reach the northern border, we will have effectively cleared one country of all infrastructure and, most likely, any inclination to fuck with us.

We won't be sticking around to rebuild anything. Whether you ever write a constitution or get running water is not our concern. Your government is your business. If you live in anarchy, good on you. If you can't get electricity, that's a shame. Too much oil with no way to sell it? Damn. Give us a call when you get back on your feet. We'll do dinner.

Should that method not be effective, we'll throw a dart at a map of terrorist-sympathizing nations and simply start the sequence anew. This should not be construed in any way as support for the current Bush folly in Iraq or the saber rattling toward Iran. We're just saying... if you're going to respond, respond in kind. Much like you can't reason with Ann Coulter, you can't play fair with these religious bombers.

This is why we need openly gay leaders in the military. We will take a certain amount of shit with a smile and a fair amount of dignity. Once you cross the line, however, we are not only going to respond in kind, we're going to disembowel you as a warning to the others you represent. What we give up through patience, we more than make up with vengeance and unrestrained fury. We learned that from our drag queen mothers at the Stonewall Riots.

Enough, already. Don't make us go all Tallulah Bankhead on your asses.

It Took A While, But...

They warned us this would happen. Not on the first day, maybe not the first year or even the first term, but they told us so. We were put on notice that the Supreme Court would tilt just enough to the right to let women, minorities, and the poor slide out of justice's scales and into the gutter.

Maybe next time we'll listen.

Ruling in favor of a group of students who were denied nothing (nothing!), the Supremes eviscerated the legal legacy of diversity in our public schools. Louisville had a policy that classified students as white or non-white for the purposes of allocating available slots in particular high schools. Their goal was to have no school with less than 15% minority enrollment, providing a realistic racial balance within each school regardless of the neighborhood where it was built. Not in this country!!

"Joshua", the boy at the center of the Seattle schools case, didn't so much as ask for a spot in a school and get denied. "Joshua" got everything he wanted. He went to the school of his choice, took the courses of his choice, and got dissed by the cheerleaders of his choice, we imagine. The Supremes seized on this miscarriage of justice to announce (through Bush appointee and Chief Justice John Roberts):

"In design and operation, the plans are directed only to racial balance, an objective this Court has repeatedly condemned as illegitimate."

Remember... we did this. No Bush? No Roberts, no Alito (who simply grinned and nodded throughout the decision). Heaven forbid racial balance should ever be achieved. In a predictable, yet sadly ironic, footnote, the lone minority on the court, Clarence "Uncle" Thomas, shuffled and smiled broadly throughout the reading of the opinion. In the most perverse note of all, the opinion compares itself favorably to the landmark school desegregation ruling: Brown v. Topeka Board of Education, noting that it is following in the footsteps of Brown by condemning race-based student classification.

Only the most willfully ignorant and perverse onlooker could compare the exclusion of black students from most schools in Topeka to the Louisville goal of ensuring access to all schools for children of all races. This decision shows the court's eagerness to gut the social advances of the last 50 years and has nothing to do with upholding the goal of a "race-blind" society. Women, Gays, workers of all stripes, the criminally accused, the mentally ill, and any other vulnerable, historically put-upon person has reason to sit up and take frightful notice of the opinion.

Little will change in Seattle or Louisville, in truth. Only a handful of students ever fell into the equation that required identification of their race to resolve a placement question. Rather, this is a shot across the bow, courtesy of the two men who swore before Congress to uphold the Supreme Court's precedents, to anyone who has taken two steps forward since 1964. If the announcement of the Court's decision didn't change your day, you weren't paying attention.

Pay attention, already. You're next.

Six Cards, Two Shirts, Lunch and This....From CNN

What a birthday! Just when we thought we had nothing to say about anything, CNN sent us the most beautifully gift-wrapped package, courtesy of our friends at the Opinion Research Organization. A poll released today shows that for the first time ever, a majority of Americans believe that gay and lesbian people couldn't switch teams, even if they wanted to.

You'll forgive us if we remain seated while we applaud your collective revelation.

(Photo: The Not-Quite-Dead Fritz Capone and Ms. Charity Case)

We believe they asked the wrong question. We want to know if our fellow citizens believe that heterosexuals could change their orientation if they were so inclined. But alas, nobody asks those kinds of questions. Nobody asks because the underlying message of this and similar polls is that there is something wrong that could stand changing.... if one were so inclined. We resent the inference. And we hope your daughter brings home the butchest dyke on campus.

Fully 56% of those surveyed believe we are what we are. Jennifer Holliday might be changin', but we are not. We lift a well-manicured middle finger to the other 44% who, in 2007, do not have ignorance as an excuse (unless they live in Alabama, then we cut them slack). We assume 30% are the same people who think the country is heading in the right direction, so we discount them as Terminally Hopeless.

It's the remaining 14% that concerns us. We issue a challenge to that 14%: Just try it. We hereby volunteer to be the test case for the 14% of America that thinks we can be changed. We're not getting laid anyway. What the hell? If it puts an end to this nonsense, we'll take one (as it were) for the team. We're warning you, though: we get a little panicky in the straight porn section of the video store.

Every single person in the poll had an opinion on the origins of homosexuality. Presumably, none of them were asked about the root of their heterosexuality. We contend that's a far more interesting question - especially given the number of practitioners. Most likely, people who've never even met a Certified Deviant have a definite opinion as to why we like boys. In contrast, we don't have a conclusive thesis on why we like boys. We just like boys. We also like strawberry shortcake. It didn't occur to us to ask why. Mainly, since liking boys and strawberry shortcake has never been a problem for us, we don't see the need to investigate why we like either.

Again, we resent the inference underlying this question: What do you think caused this odd thing to happen? We would like the good people at Opinion Research to call us next time. We have a few thoughts we'd like to share.

On the bright side, fully 51% of those polled favored either marriage or something like it for gay and lesbian people and 57% favored our right to adopt children. We want to meet the 6 percent who said "Yes!" to adopting children and "NO!" to getting married. We don't think they should have telephones, let alone be included in any more polls. I think they're trying to find takers for the kids they don't want, frankly. And we're not biting.

79% believed openly gay people should be allowed to serve openly in the military (sure... in time of war... nice of you... assholes). We're looking forward to the next peace-time poll to compare numbers. We have a theory on this one. (See parentheses.)

In sum, we don't think people should go around asking whether or not we a) could be "cured" b) should be "cured" c) deserve children d) deserve spouses e) deserve to join the military or f) were "born that way" or "made that way". We only question the origin and staying power of things we assume someone would want to change. So here's a pin for your pollster's balloon.

On this, the 38th Anniversary of Stonewall (look it up), we raise a glass to Judy, Liza and Barbra and announce in full voice:

I am what I am! I am my own special creation.
So come take a look.
Give me the hook or the ovation.
It's my world that I want to have a little pride in.
My world and it's not a place I have to hide in!
Life's not worth a damn till you can say,
"Hey world - I am what I am!"

I am what I am! I don't want praise. I don't want pity.
I bang my own drum.
Some think it's noise, I think it's pretty!
And so what if I love each feather and each spangle?
Why not try and see things from a different angle?
Your life is a sham till you can say,
"Hey world - I am what I am!"

I am what I am! And what I am needs no excuses!
I deal my own deck!
Sometimes the ace, sometimes the deuces.
It's my life and there's no return and no deposit.
One life, so it's time to open up your closet!
Life's not worth a damn till you can say,
"Hey world - I am what I am!"

-Jerry Herman, "La Cage Aux Folles"

Dear Mrs. Edwards...

Dear Elizabeth Edwards,

We just adore you. We stood in the rain for over an hour a few years back to see you and your family. We have credentials when it comes to loving the Edwards family. Because we are so fond of you, we'd like to impose on our one-sided friendship to make a suggestion. Or two.

Before we suggest, we want you to know that we voted for John. Both times. And not just because he's good looking.

OK...mostly because he's good looking. But also because we got that Kennedy vibe. And "Two Americas" resonated with us. And also because as he was leaving the venue in Lawrence, KS, he reached past his phalanx of Chippendales/Secret Service Agents and touched our hand. Right after he had put the same hand to his sweaty brow. And put his sweat on our hand. We didn't speak right for a week after that. So we get John Love. We really do. We really, really do. And how. Nobody that good looking should get brains, too. It's practically unfair.

We read this morning that you picked up the phone to attempt a reasonable dialogue with a woman whose name we have vowed never to type again. Her initials, though, are Ann Coulter. You asked her to stop calling your husband a fag (a dream we gave up on years ago), to stop saying she wished your husband would die in a terrorist attack, and to generally use the brain God allegedly gave her to raise the political conversation in our country, not debase it. Honey... You simply can't talk to these people that way.

You can talk to Greenpeace or PETA or the ACLU like that. But you can't talk to those other people like you would normal human beings. You have to talk to them like you would a black bear ready to drag your kids off into the dark. You have to scream and curse and wave your arms. They won't understand you, but sometimes they do wander away. And that's the goal. Just make them go away. With bears, as a last resort, you should shoot them with some sort of legal firearm purchased only for the purpoes of hunting. We don't dispute that this method also works on the people in question. We don't condone it, mind you. We're just saying. Your understandable expectation that you could reason with this woman as a human being misfired on its premise: she's not a human being.

Given every opportunity to claim satire, "just kidding", "gotta make a buck, I'm not gonna marry well" or anything approaching rationality, she declined. They're all like that. They really are. I know it's hard for our kind to imagine that there are entire packs of people like that, but there are. This is why we have suburbs. It keeps them where we can find them. We put lots of Wal-Marts and Applebee's around them because they're easily distracted. It keeps them out of our own neighborhoods, largely.

They've never liked anybody who wasn't vile. They've never said anything helpful. They have no goals that would improve life for anyone but themselves. Go see "Evan Almighty". (God knows we can't and they have to make their money back somehow.) Imagine that this is the kind of person that prompted God to flood the joint in the first place. Now realize they're all over the place. Thirty percent of America thinks we're heading in the right direction - and they all listen to Ann Coulter. Can you imagine? I know. It fairly boggles the mind.

We sincerely hope your health is excellent and that John inspires us to greatness once again. Thank you for lending him to the process. But please, in the name of all that is holy, stop talking to Ann Coulter. Every time we give her a reason to keep speaking, the Talibanis points to the T.V. and say,

"And they wonder why we have Burqas."

Love,

The After Therapy Gang

Welcome To The Party, Please Remove Your Feet

Sen. Richard Lugar (R - Indiana) has decided that our ongoing military disaster in Iraq is no longer a good idea. He was joined by Sen. George Voinovich (R-Ohio). Word is that more from the Party of Lincoln will voice a similar sentiment after their July 4 vacation.

Nothing screams "Independence" Day like waiting for 90 other people to stand up before you can locate your balls. Way to go, boys. Remind us not to call you for anything requiring leadership, sound judgement, or an independent voice. Spineless jugheads, the lot of them. We hope they get gangrene of the nostrils.

In related developments, Lugar and Voinovich called on the South to abandon slavery, Henry the VIII to stop being mean to wives, and the Aztecs to halt human sacrifices.

We now return you to your regular programming: Dick Cheney And The Hijacking Of Two Branches Of Government. Cheney set a record this past week by declaring himself the recipient of Executive Privilege (Executive Branch of Government), which exempts him from disclosing who's been greasing the wheels of government, and by declaring himself a member of the Legislative Branch of Government, exempting him from disclosing anything at all under the rules that apply to the Executive Branch. Handy.

In related developments, Michael Jackson declared himself both Black and White, Mary Cheney proclaimed herself married and single, and Mitt Romney declared himself Mormon and Not-THAT-Mormon.

Now two young girls have been maimed or kiilled in amusement park incidents. This is not our idea of amusement. But this is... Perhaps this is a message from God that amusement parks should be left to adults and not screaming adolescents. Sort of a refuge from teenagers and people who think strollers belong outside their yard. We're tired of being run down in malls, on sidewalks, and - yes - in amusement parks by people who think their stroller-bound child will charm us all by its mere presence. It doesn't. It's annoying as hell. It is a tribute to my kind that we don't push you both into traffic. And that's not just idle chatter. We have discussed it. We are a people on the edge.

Nancy Grace has announced that she was secretly married and impregnated sometime in the last 90 days. While we have never had anything nice to say about the former Ms. Grace, we would like to extend our best wishes to her husband and say that we understand completely the urge to keep this sort of thing quiet. Grace will continue to draw from her deep well of bitterness for her television persona despite her triple blessing: not just a husband and a pregnancy, but twins. Grace promised to defy joy and continue making a pretty penny from her unhappiness.

Inspired by this freedom to be who one wants to be, we are declaring ourselves rich, good looking and famous despite all evidence to the contrary. We expect Senators Lugar and Voinovich will acknowledge our new status somewhere around the year 2073.

Better late than never? Only if you think spraying water on an extinguished fire counts as helpful. Sometimes you don't get credit for just showing up.

One More Time For Old Time's Sake

We hoist a cake and a beverage to the number 42 this weekend. We really thought for a moment that you might be the slot where the roulette ball stopped. Barring any unfortunate encounters with black bears or city buses in the next few days, looks like we were wrong. All the chips go to the house. And we couldn't be more tickled.

We'll flip half the digits in the next few days and put a "3" where the "2" has served us so well. The party will go into the night...and into the fall...and into the New Year, if things go as planned. The travel bug has bitten - hard. We can just barely pass a mass market paperback book without smelling the ocean. This phenomenon has occurred before. This year, it happens to coincide with a birthday, which takes it up to an all-new level. Your dear blogger parts with money about as easily as a quadriplegic does the Macarena. If anyone is sitting near Katie, you might advise her to bar the door. The checkbook is out and we're hitting the road.

We caught a vision of blogging from Puerto Vallarta yesterday. Wi-fi being what it is, we figured it would be a nice change of pace.

BAH! We want to put our toes in water that didn't come from a tap! We want to be winked at by people from other countries! We want to drink Pina Coladas from sun-up to well past sun-down and back again and eat off of Esther's Taco Cart at 4 a.m. just because it's there. We are resort people. Resorts we shall have. Puerto Vallarta is just one. We also have Greece firmly in our sights.

An apartment overlooking the sea, a coolish breeze requiring an authentically next-door knitted wool cardigan over the linen ensemble, a sketch pad and hunk of charcoal just for show, a James Patterson mystery half-opened on the lap, and one of those completely un-self-conscious, open-mouthed, head thrown back naps in front of God 'n everybody. Oh heaven! Take me now. Go haul yourselves all over the Acropolis and back if you must. Just leave me right here by the view and bring back something I recognize for dinner. That's the after-Holidays plan.

For the rest of you Americans who do not know the name Eureka Springs by heart, this will be a revelation that could destroy the entire culture of the place. But there is a little gay mountain mecca in Arkansas that will make you thank your founding fathers you didn't have to hire a sherpa to get there. We went a couple years ago to enjoy the under-priced luxury of an in-room jacuzzi, porch-settin' as a viable recreational option, and shopping on real cobblestone streets that would make Brussels herself jealous. That we made the trip in September, come leaf-changing time, was pure kismet. God herself never envisioned a scene so beautiful.

The B&B was run by two straight women who were completely lesbian in appearance, demeanor, style, and living quarters. This is the kind of eclecticism that keeps Eureka Springs, AR on its toes. We approve. The porch and upper balconies go all the way - no alllll the way around the house to where they meet the cliff against which the house is built to keep it just barely off the street. Access to the room is behind a door that was disguised with a mounted water fountain to throw off the casual lurker - a nice Batman Touch.

Breakfast is served daily every evening in the room. A basket appears from nowhere with scones and croissants, jellies and butter so cold that it's just spreadable come morning. Impeccable timing. There's a fridge inside that dresser where the TV hides. They don't keep track of what you eat or drink. If you need any more, just holler. The house is at the top of the winding street that is home to the hysterically diverse mom and pop shops that crowd against one another in good neighbor charm. Across the street is The Post Office, which means you see everybody at least once. It seems folks don't much like having the mail brought to them in Eureka Springs. It's nicer to get out and meet somebody when you need to collect your own, I suppose.

A few doors down from The Post Office is the Tobacco Shop. Anywhere else, it would be a Head Shop. In Eureka Springs, it's a Tobacco Shop. No winks. No nods. It just is. But you can get a hookah, a bong, rolling papers and the most amazing vanilla-flavored cigarettes you ever died smoking. They have them in cinnamon and chocolate and a variety of other death-defying flavors, too. We plan to try them all this time. Tempis Fugit and all that.

Don't tell any questionable characters you know, but the joint we laud is The Elmwood House. You can see a bit of it online at http://www.eurekaelmwoodhouse.com/. Don't forget to mention "After Therapy". You won't get a discount. We just appreciate the publicity.

We're in high Carpe Diem as we finish this lap. We invite you to hang on, tag along and follow closely. We sit down a lot nowadays - just to look around and make sure we haven't missed anything. But we're still going places. This year...literally. Thanks for a fine year.

And a note to Whoever Makes These Things Happen: We'll take another one about this time next year, too.

The Mid-Year Pot/Kettle Review

We're always amused and occasionally enraged when we find people who inhabit glass homes lobbing rocks at people who may or may not deserve a head wound. So many instances occurred today that we decided to compile a half-way point review of 2007 for some of the finer examples.

In no particular order:

Elizabeth Hasselbeck on Being A Good Friend - "Truthfully, I think a friend is someone who you have positive communications with, so I don't know if I would define us as friends right now." We offer as an example of positive, friendly communication Hasselbeck's tacit agreement with the assertion that Rosie O'Donnell is a traitorous whore for Al Qaeda. If that ain't friendship, we need a Dionne Warwick intervention. Can someone get ahold of Gladys Knight, Stevie Wonder and Elton John, too?

Fatah on Hamas Being Bad For Palestinians - "There is no dialogue with those murderous terrorists." - Mahmoud Abbas, Palestinian President. Far be it from us to remember that Abbas leads the party of the late Yassir Arafat, that towering figure of peaceful resistance and anti-terrorism. We almost forgot that Abbas, known by his Palestinian Mob nickname "Abu Mazen", took the reigns of the terrorist P.L.O. upon Arafat's death. We submit that the only true gripe Abbas has is that he didn't throw the first punch and that there weren't several hundred Israeli tour buses collaterally damaged in the process. Abbas is also nominated for the Takes One To Know One Lifetime Achievement Award.

George W. Bush on Stem Cell Research - "America is also a nation founded on the principle that all human life is sacred." We can't help but point out that not all human life is sacred to this administration. At the same time, we don't want to be impolite by pointing out the sacred Iraqi elephant in the living room. Or the suffering sacred lives that won't be helped by stem cells. Or the sacred human lives we've left in trailers across the Gulf Coast. Or.... We'll let others put the puzzle pieces together. Bush's mother appeared bug-eyed at her son's decision to veto legislation allowing expanded stem cell research. Upon learning that Graves Disease, which afflicts the 82 year-old, is among those diseases with cure potential from stem cells, Barbara Bush called her boy with a brief message: "Thanks, asshole."

Donald Trump on Rosie O'Donnell - "The ratings for her show were terrible. They basically threw her off the air. ... " We enjoyed seeing Donald's ex, Marla Maples, on a practically unwatchable program earlier in the week. Mostly, we enjoyed it knowing that The Apprentice - Trump's only remaining foray into TV (his Martha Stewart version of the show tanked in less than a season) was already in the dumpster pantheon of shows that didn't last as long as anything Rosie ever touched. We clearly recall running gags on the Ro Show what lasted more seasons than The Apprentice. You'd think Trump would realize that his greatest TV hit was being a punching bag for America's Favorite Lesbian on The View.

Ann Coulter on Civil Discourse - "I was going to have a few comments on the other Democratic presidential candidate, John Edwards, but it turns out that you have to go into rehab if you use the word 'faggot'..." Using the ugly, dyke-y, cunty, emaciated, stringy-haired name calling approach would probably give Ann multiple orgasms. So we won't do that. But you get our drift. We have a firm policy against aiding and abetting Republican orgasms. If we ever learn that Bill Maher is schtupping her - even with marijuana as an excuse - we're cancelling our HBO.

So there you have it... The first five finalists for the 2007 Pot/Kettle Award are in - and we didn't have to blow Simon Cowell (not that there's anything wrong with that), Ryan Seacrest (not that there's anything wrong with that), or David Hasselhoff (there are TOO many things wrong with that) to get here. Here's a toast and crossed fingers for an equally enjoyable second-half of the year.

Getting Googled In Your Jammies

Back up several months, if you will, and recall the humble - no, humiliating - roots of one dear rural blogger. Old friend becomes new flame becomes manipulating, lying, son-of-a-bitch. Shell of a human being washes into a therapist's office against his best judgement. Indignant exit to follow.

Caught up? OK. There was never any plan for a blog. There wasn't even a plan for a journal. We didn't own a note pad, for that matter. Had we wanted to document any aspect of the experience, we would have been stealing our own toilet paper for the title page. Or, we could have broken the No Wal-Mart pledge we'd just signed, driven 25 miles each way, and bought paper. Then it occurred... This is (was) 2006. There's a computer in the house.

At the computer, the goal was to snap ourselves out of the unprecedented funk by making fun of the entire therapy experience. We had laid down a number of rules for the journey: 1) We are not going to lie down on that couch. Too cliche. Besides, we get reflux. 2) We are not going to blame our mother for how we interacted with a 6'5" hairy oaf. 3) We are not going to pay a therapist for the privilege of an erotic relationship. (See? We can clean it up when required. You'll see why briefly.)

So we started repeating and revising, in 90% truth style, the experience and found a helpful way to participate in the Clinic while clinging to our Cynic. It worked. Funk dumped. Sense of humor restored. New-found lease on life, if not love, established. Thank you for your time and, for the record, "No, we are not interested in expanding this paid relationship into the erotic arena. Flattery duly noted."

What helped it work was a healthy dose of exhibitionism. By pure accident, we stumbled across the free blogging site, perused a number of the posts, and generally decided that our ego would allow us to document this experience - anonymously - in the public eye. The self-imposed commitment to keep it running was helpful in the extreme. If nothing else, it kept us from sinking inward toward that black hole of self-absorption - the bad kind, not the kind we peddle here on an almost daily basis. Never, never, never did we have any ambitions toward becoming the next Erica Jong, David Sedaris, William Burroughs or Schmoe Jablonsky, the weekly newspaper letter writer.

Then came the strokes, feedback, snarky responses, and the occasional cat-call. Instant addiction. And not just a couple minor delusions of grandeur. We were our very own Huffington Post - if to no one else but the dog and the guy in New Jersey who never fails to read a post. We've tottered along that way for months now. Following the therapy, we changed our name a tad, changed the focus a lot, and started talking more about the world and less about ourselves. Some called that evolution. Others just wanted to know where all the dirt about our personal life went. (Note: It went back where it came from with a cross-eyed man. We never said it didn't still rankle us.)

We got a little giddy about the world-wide stumbles that just having a blog will get you. Spain, Venezuela, Sweden, England, France, Vietnam- even places they don't speak English!! Like Arkansas! Somebody searches for "Judy" and whether it was Garland or Blume, if you mentioned either, you're going on the list of clicks they can make. One time we typed "Sirhan Sirhan" into a post and it has generated more visits than anything else in over a year of typing. Go figure. Someone googled "women's prolapsed (rectums)" and found us. We cannot begin to explain that phenomenon. Such is the Internet. You don't get too giddy about who's reading because half the time they didn't mean to find you anyway. That was until last night.

The House of Representatives found me. The real one. Ours. Three times in twenty-four hours. I'm sure they're not conducting a job search. I happened to mention my congresswoman in passing. Someone on The Hill googled said lady, and by whatever happenstance ended up between the covers of (if not with) YOURS FRIGGIN' TRULY! Now, this may be the standard protocol for Congress, but when you live in Mayberry and anybody in the hallowed halls of Congress has reason to know you're alive... Words fail.

Our drunk friend** in New York City has pimped some of the writing here to New York Magazine, made us flirt with CNN staffers, and generally shoved us off on a number of his dates via telephone - most of whom had some editorial title for some major magazine you've either read or from which you've cut pictures. But nothing.... nothing... prepares you for the day when you're sitting in your underwear eating Frosted Flakes and you see "Unites States House Of Representatives" among the footprints to and from your potty-mouthed rambling about everything and nothing. (**Ed. Note: By "Our Drunk Friend" we mean "Our Only Friend" in New York City. Due to heightened sensitivities on the Island of Manhattan, we take this rare step to clarify that we have never seen this unnamed person drunk. In fact, we have never seen this person. To our knowledge, he may not exist. We also cannot confirm that he has ever had a drink of anything, including water. Neither can we confirm that he is a he. We cannot confirm that he is in New York City for that matter. We take complete license to characterize him as we see fit and leave his friends to have a sense of humor about the matter or to spend more time at the gym. If they took as many well-lubricated phone calls in the middle of the night as we had, they would enjoy taking the occasional jab at one of their favorite people, as well. No aspersions are cast on the quality of this individual - which we assert to be well above average. Aspersions are heaped on those who would take such an off-hand, mostly loving characterization and turn it into a Whodunnit. Now...back to our story.)

We want to just take this chance to give a big shout out to the folks in D.C. for the hard work they do, for making a nobody's day, and.... since we have your attention, at least fleetingly... You're doing the Lord's work. Thank you for helping us get rid of the last guy. And thank you for being smart enough not to do the job like we would - with flaming torches, nooses and midnight raids. You seem to be hitting all the right notes with a broad swath of the constituency - even though we'd prefer a Jihadi Democrat Congress that pulls wigs off little old Republican ladies. And men.

We're smart enough to know that getting everything you want usually isn't good for you.

And please.... Google more often. Next time, call ahead and we'll fix punch.

Finally, Something That's Really Mom's Fault

Monica Emmerson's Travel Day To-Do List

Sippy cup, sippy cup... Hold toddler, look harried, contact media, get in front of the story before somebody with a Blackberry emails CNN with a tale that you threw a hissy in the airport that required half the U.S. domestic armed forces to address.

Make sure you're not the bad gal from the get-go. Everybody's going to initially buy the Security People Gone Mad angle. Forty-eight hours of publicity, let it slip that you were a Secret Service employee to bolster your credibility, wrangle an ill-deserved apology and free flights for life for you and the kid.

Contact one of those sippy cup manufacturers and hint that when this all blows over you'd be willing to do one of those ironic wink-and-a-nod commercials to push their product. Jot down a few notes for how I explain to the tot that I used him as a prop in what became an international sham job. We all hate our parents by the age of 16 anyway. What the hell? He'll have a better excuse than most.