http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/29/opinion/29brooks.html
Who ever told you you could do funny? Now here's funny.
McCain's Speech at the OMG, OMG Is Gustav the Second Coming Convention
ST. PAUL
My fellow geezers, it is an honor for me, John Sidney McCain III -- mah friends call me Maverick -- to address the Rich Old Geezers National Convention at this triumphant moment in our history. We stand by the flag at the eighteenth hole with right hand over heart clutching trust fund certificates while our left claws curl around glasses of 72 year old (whoops, Karl says mustn’t mention age) Glenfiddich® . (Hey, Punjab, I need a refill, dammit.)
Two paths lie ahead of us: we can go back to the first tee, give ourselves all the mulligans we want, foot mashies, winter rules, hand in our scorecards twenty strokes (shorry, Karl shays shouldn’t shay shtrokes – haha, you try shayin’ that after a coupla toots) below our hacker handicaps (Who’ll know? Hey, we own the USGA. ’Shides, beating my age by a shtroke or two – whoops -- would be cool – or is it hot nowadays?). Or we can go forward to the nineteenth hole, down a coupla three more malts, harrumph by the ticker tape machine ’bout gilt-edged bonds, towel whip each other in the showers, moon the young hotties by the pool and call it a day. Or we can do both – who says we can’t have it all, and I mean ALL. HAHAHA, WE DO HAVE IT ALL.
(APPLAUSE. DANCING IN THE AISLES – well, sorta, I mean lotta white folks tryin’ to shake their booties.)
The path behind us leads to our glorious past: ah, Standard Oil and the gold standard; Herbert Hoover and the Little Correction; damnweshouldanukedem Goldwater; not-a-crook Nixon and the Southern strategy (not our sort, really, but a clever bugger, all the same); Ronnie kicking it off in Philadelphia, Miss. (hahaha, the greatest thespian of them all; so they killed a N***** and a coupla J**s nearby, we all gotta die some time (hey, Punjab, what about that drinkie, hic, ’shcuze me).
And how ’bout them Bushies! What grand antecedents: Prescott and the Nazis (whoops); Skull and Bones and the Whiffenpoofs; Gentlemen’s C’s; Pappy gets his horse (that’s flyboy lingo for plane, picked it up from Tom Cruise) shot outa under him – hey, ah can match that – while Shrubby’s a no-show at his horse show in Alabama (have ’nother snort, bro). What a lovely coupla three wars they’ve given us to carry on! Abu Ghraib – what a frat house hazing party. Gitmo – whoever thought up those orange jumpsuits, contrasts great with those terrorists’ swarthy (can I shay shwarthy, Karl?) skins, give the man a medal. Hahaha. Amen! Hallelujah! Praise the Lord and pass the Glenfiddich.
The path ahead leads to our glorious future: to the victorious Tenth Crusade prophesied in the Good Book (Hey Karl, aren’t I good? Got in the sop for the religious whack jobs.) by John of Croesus 13:4-6: “And the children of an all-volunteer army shall lead us and though countless numbers of them be blown to Kingdom come, they will have kept the world safe for plutocracy and for the peace that passeth all understanding of Grand Old Farts in countless clubhouses and counting houses.”
Yes, my friends: a Hundred Years of War; at least Fifty More Years of OIL,OIL,OIL; Twenty More Years before the polar ice caps melt -- but whatthehey, we will all be dead by then anyways. I might be dead a tad sooner than some of y’all (How old am I, Karl? Sheventy three? Shorry, Karl shays mushn’t bring up my age) but I tell you, my friends, when I’m Commander-in-Chief, SOME WILL BE MORE DEAD THAN OTHERS.
More dead ragheads, turbineheads, mullahs, ayatollahs -- SCREW WITH OUR OIL, YOU DIE.
More dead wetbacks -- what’s with this wimpy wall business? Give my Arizona vigilantes automatics and ammo and watch ’em go to work – YIPPEEEIOO.
More dead humpbacks -- we can kill whales better than the Japs and the Norskis, for Chrissake.
You name ’em, as Commander-in-Chief, I’ll nail ’em. Well, not me personally any more (heck, I gotta have my protection touring fruit markets) but I’ll order our valiant and patriotic young men and women recruited from Wal-Mart parking lots to go out and videogame a few beatings and rapes and build up some body count and then get their heads shot off in the cause of oil, bananas, whales, tungsten or whatever the hell commodity of the week the markets want freed for democracy. Too bad a coupla few thousand more of them will have to die, but we’ll bury their casketed remains in Arlington (any pictures, dammit, and we’ll off some of ya liberal East Coast media types) and chant that beautiful (get some "Brownie" points here, wink wink) Latino prayer: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.
(Muted, somber-faced applause. Surreptitious swigs out of silver monogrammed hipflasks).
_________________________________________
My friends, we must keep open the book on the bleeding wounds of the old politics of bigotry (update Willie Horton, and oh, Harold Ford, call me – this Paris, Britney and Barack HUSSEIN Obama ad will kill ya) and sail our yachts down the sludgewaters of hate (Hussein in turban riding camel, anyone? Darken the skin tones a bit, dammit.).
For if this were to be an election about the real past or present (learn to use the subjunctive, Brooksie, the subjunctive) and what these portend for the future, we’d be toast – THANKS A LOT, GW GOOD BUDDY.
So we must make this an election based on Mock Turtle arithmetic: Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, Derision (TAKE A BOW, KARLISSIMO – YO DA MAN!) and belittle, demean, dehumanize the Other because that’s how all our accomplishments have been achieved. SWIFT BOATERS, REPORT FOR ACTION. ’TENSHUN. QUICK MARCH.
(AUDITORIUM SHAKES TO THE RAFTERS. Twenty thousand delegates are on their feet, marching in place, trying to keep time, drunkenly bellowing cadence “HUP TWO HEE HAW, HUSSEIN OBAMA GOTTA GAW”. Twenty or so old guys in Brown Shirts and jackboots gimp up to the podium and salute.)
(Dammit, Punjab, top me up. Glug. Hic. Burp.)
Yes, my friends, we meet today to keep from passing the torch to a new generation of Americans: a generation of wimps scared of a little global warming; too soft to tote heat to protect their property rights; screaming “Torture” at some gentle genital electrocution; squeamish ’bout some queen in Wyoming they strung up on barbed wire -- CAN WE HEAR IT FOR THE GREAT STATE OF DICK CHENEY ------- YEAAAAH.
(APPLAUSE, DANCING and SWIGS)
Yeah, these pansies actually think red, brown, yellow and black are a rainbow of colors, not PERILS – like RED PERIL, YELLOW PERIL, BROWN PERIL and now the deadly -- SHOUT IT WITH ME, GEEZERS -- BLACK PERIL .
Yeah, wusses who’d rather save damn rats-with-wings seagulls than drill for OIL, OIL, OIL.
(DELEGATES GO WILD, half of them screaming “PERIL, PERIL, PERIL” the other half shouting “OIL, OIL, OIL” followed by the call-and-response “TORTURE, TORTURE, TORTURE” “OIL, OIL, OIL”. Sorta Sydney Olympics redux.)
We meet today to maintain the divisions that have torn this country. For we are NOT all one country and one American family: we’re RICH and THEY ARE NOT (pace Chevy).
(AUDIENCE roars in unison)
HAHAHA. We can dance nekkid and pee on bushes (whoops, Freudian slip) and dress in drag at Bohemian Grove and THEY CAN NOT.
(AUDIENCE roars, but not in unison – some women and gay-bashers curiously silent – maybe still slightly sober).
And last but not least, my friends, WE ARE WHITE AND THEY ARE NOT.
(DELEGATES BERSERK. Sustained ROARED Applause, Booty-shaking, and Spontaneous Demonstrations. Clarence Thomas, John Yoo and Piyush Jindal are curiously silent.)
______________________________________
PART II: CANDIDATE BIO (Cue the violins)
(Hey, Punjab, you pugreed punk, need ‘nother drink here? We’ll be getting into some real psycho crap soon: Oedipus, Shrub and whatnot. Hic. Burp. Belch.)
Ladies and gentleman, I never expected to be speaking before you today. Like so many of our speakers at this convention, I come from a rich, elite WASP family. My father and grandfather were Navy Admirals, actually commanded men, ships, entire fleets. Of course, I got into Annapolis – hehheh, what are legacies for – but almost didn’t make it out. 895th out of a class of 899 ain’t ’zactly Admiral material. Plus, I was kinda short – DON’T DARE SAY RUNT OR BANTY ROOSTER. 5’ 7” ain’t that short. But it’s sorta average. (Deep swig of Scotch. Glug. Hic. Burp.) YOU CAN CALL ME FIGHTING COCK. (Can I use that word, Karl?) Yeah. I like that. FIGHTING COCK. (Downs Scotch. Hic. Burp.) Shtill am. Jesh ashk Candy (whoops) …I mean Carol…(mumble mumble)….shorry… I’ll get it…CINDY.
I was looking at a miserable little life, stoking boilers on some claptrap coal carrier, but, nudge nudge wink wink, a little pull here, a bit of a tug there and I became a Navy Flyboy. Not a very good one, mind you. The Admirals looked down their beaks at me. Sure, I never commanded any men, just a damn peashooter; but, hey, if a dumb AWOL goldbricker like Dubya can be Commander-in-Chief, so can I. And that’s a higher rank than Admiral. HAHAHAHAHA.
(Gimme ‘nother goddamn refill, Poonjee. Hic. Burp.).
Got shent to Nam. Bombed some paddy fields. Blew up some hooches. No biggie. But then – SHTUPID SHTUPID SHTUPID -- got my horsh shot out from under my ash (Hic. Burp.). Y’all know what happened next: shpent the next five years in the Hanoi Hilton and been dining out on it ever shince. HAHAHA, Wash the besh, make that shecond besh, thing that happened to me on my way to achieving the American Dream.
(Takes another swig. Hic. Burp.)
Back Stateside, I abandoned my crippled wife (she’d been a model, blonde, 5’ 10’’, but that was before she shrunk a tad) and the papoose I’d pouched her with, screwed anything in skirts that moved (especially those that saluted; fraternization, subordinates, adultery, Military Code be damned – I’m a maverick, my friends) and lived with a colony of randy pigs. We didn’t have much in the way of material possession, but we did have each other and the ability to carry our booze and swap our women. I was temporarily paralyzed in a lousy desk job but I never gave up my dream: my dream of servicing the seats of power – as Navy liaison to the Senate, boy, did I manage some liaisons (wink, wink), not to mention smuggling in their Scotch for the Senators boondoggling in Saudi. And that’s when the firsh besh thing happened to me: I bedded and wedded (well, not quite yet, I was still married, you see) a tall, willowy blonde 5’ 10” BUT THIS ONE WITH MONEY. LOTS AND LOTS OF MONEY. OODLES AND BOODLES AND JUGS AND JARS AND POTS AND VAULTS FULL OF MONEY, MONEY, MONEY.
(Somewhat somnolent audience spring to life screaming “MONEY MONEY MONEY” “OIL OIL OIL”.)
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