RNC: Tuesday: Drinking and Screwing
With Arnold Schwarzenegger and the Bush twins sharing the stage on Tuesday night, the party atmosphere was in full swing. Our beer cup runneth over, and the hot dogs were firm and salty. Delegates were sporting plush elephant caps with enormous, erect trunks, and there were two women in velvet bodysuits and leg glitter posing for photos in front of the governors suite. Somebody was bound to get felt up, and we wanted it to be us.
Armed with our tape recorder and digital videocam, we decided to court some strange bedfellows and set out into MSG to interview people about the one interest common to Republicans and Democrats alike: gettin’ some.
Unfortunately, it became quickly apparent that the conventioneers who didn’t immediately walk away from us once when we asked to interview them for our upcoming sex column were hesitant to feed us anything more lugubrious than the party line.
“Sex is a very important part of marriage, but it’s for marriage and I would encourage people to stay celibate until marriage. It makes the sex wonderful for marriage,” one Iowan conventioneer told me. When asked whether her husband wore boxers or briefs, she answered cryptically, “Both.”
Undaunted, I cornered a Utah state senator on the floor, who almost convincingly agreed: “I think abstinence is really the best route to go. We should try more of that,” to which he added, “Uh...I don’t think I should be talking to you,” and I was left to wonder exactly who the “we” was of which he spoke. For the man representing a state where illegal polygamous unions still flourish, I had one more question.
“Are you Mormon?”
“Baptist,” he nodded and pretended to make eye contact with someone behind me. Curiouser and curiouser.
Obviously the older attendees were employing a clever confusion campaign to foil our investigations. We decided to take a stab at the taut-skinned youths who were beaming from every corner. Collin, a volunteer from Connecticut, was looking forward to his frosh year at Harvard. Though he hadn’t made a convention hook up, he did have a heartfelt message for the women of Cambridge.
“Ladies, watch out for me!” he yelled into my handheld. I asked him what he thought of the rumors floating around that extra prostitutes had been flown into the city from parts undisclosed to service the conventioneers. “Well, if you’re powerful, you can pretty much do whatever you want.” Harvard University agrees with you, Collin. Somebody give this boy an oil company to run!
The glee of sexual schadenfreude was beginning to wear off. Wasn’t anybody in this town procreating? Wouldn’t anyone tell us something we wanted to hear? Like a naughty little angel, there, in our deepest moment of despair, stood Samantha Bee of the Daily Show. Beautiful and tiny, Samantha Bee answered our stupid questions with all the kindness she possessed:
Q: How old were you when you lost your virginity?
A: Oh my god. Am I really on tape here?
Scott: It’s an alternative weekly rag, don’t worry about it.
A: I was 15.
Q: Was it romantic?
A: Nooooo.
Q: Was it by choice?
A: Yes by choice, not romantic at all.
Q: What’s the kinkiest thing you and your husband have ever done?
A: Gravity boots. I hope my parents see that in print.
Feeling a little lighter in our loafers (has anyone ever spoken with Samantha Bee and not wanted to make out with her?) we headed down to the press entrance, where we were in for one more celebrity surprise. Turning the corner we found a pissy-looking Robert Smigel and his enfant terrible, Triumph the Insult Comic Dog, winding up an interview with Air America. We jumped at our chance and coaxed a soundbite out of the curmudgeonly cur. When asked whether there were any bitches at the convention he had his eye on, Triumph didn’t hesitate. “Well, you know...that Lynne Cheney. She reminds me of this Pomeranian I banged a couple of weeks ago.”
Oh, but the bitches were about to get even fluffier. It was time to relocate to the floor for a power hour of the Bush women. If we were stupefied by the Bush twins’ speech--“Jenna and I are not really very political, but we love our Dad too much to stand back and watch from the sidelines. We realized that this would be his last campaign and we wanted to be a part of it.” (Where to begin? The giggling admission that they--the daughters of the most powerful man in the world--don’t “get” politics? And when exactly did they “realize” that this would be his last campaign?)--we were morbidly transfixed by the glowing inanities spewing forth from Laura Bush’s mouth like so much spun cotton candy.
Afterwards, making our way out of the arena, we were overcome by a giddy, yet moronic sense of well being brought on by the first lady’s hypnotic, Joker-faced speech. I was ready to sprint to City Hall, get married, and be home, making babies and pastries by 2am. Maybe I’d even buy an American car!--an Oldsmobile Cutlass with which to cart said husband and oven-fresh buns to and from the State House. Suddenly all of my problems, my worries, and certainly my impending personal economic crisis seemed surmountable.
But wait, a little voice nagged from the depths of my smoothed-out brain, isn’t there another reason you’re here? Yes...it seemed to me there was something I was forgetting.
Getting felt up!! screamed the voice, which was beginning to sound suspiciously like Bill Clinton's. Right! I was here to ask Republicans about their dirty parts. How could I have forgotten, even momentarily? It wouldn’t happen again. I blinked. The fog in my head cleared. There I was, surrounded by screaming, bloodthirsty delegates, most of whom would sooner eat Al Franken’s toenail shavings than give me, Suspicious Press Member, a single whiff of their dirty laundry. But I had to try, just once more, before leaving behind all the latently fetishistic glamour of the second night of the RNC. Desperate in so many ways, I spied two tall, good-looking boybots standing in the vicinity of the Tennessee delegation. I approached carefully, and flashed them a demure smile intended to disarm.
“Hey guys,” I cooed, “I’m writing a column on the convention and I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me.”
They each took a step toward me in unison.
“What kind of column?” Bot A asked.
“Oh, you know...a sex column.” I batted my eyelashes. Bot B stepped back so quickly he nearly tripped over a discarded “W Stands for Women!” sign.
Bot A drew in very close. He put his hand on my upper arm and gently squeezed, looking deeply into my eyes, “No thanks, sweetie,” he breathed.
Mission accomplished.
Armed with our tape recorder and digital videocam, we decided to court some strange bedfellows and set out into MSG to interview people about the one interest common to Republicans and Democrats alike: gettin’ some.
Unfortunately, it became quickly apparent that the conventioneers who didn’t immediately walk away from us once when we asked to interview them for our upcoming sex column were hesitant to feed us anything more lugubrious than the party line.
“Sex is a very important part of marriage, but it’s for marriage and I would encourage people to stay celibate until marriage. It makes the sex wonderful for marriage,” one Iowan conventioneer told me. When asked whether her husband wore boxers or briefs, she answered cryptically, “Both.”
Undaunted, I cornered a Utah state senator on the floor, who almost convincingly agreed: “I think abstinence is really the best route to go. We should try more of that,” to which he added, “Uh...I don’t think I should be talking to you,” and I was left to wonder exactly who the “we” was of which he spoke. For the man representing a state where illegal polygamous unions still flourish, I had one more question.
“Are you Mormon?”
“Baptist,” he nodded and pretended to make eye contact with someone behind me. Curiouser and curiouser.
Obviously the older attendees were employing a clever confusion campaign to foil our investigations. We decided to take a stab at the taut-skinned youths who were beaming from every corner. Collin, a volunteer from Connecticut, was looking forward to his frosh year at Harvard. Though he hadn’t made a convention hook up, he did have a heartfelt message for the women of Cambridge.
“Ladies, watch out for me!” he yelled into my handheld. I asked him what he thought of the rumors floating around that extra prostitutes had been flown into the city from parts undisclosed to service the conventioneers. “Well, if you’re powerful, you can pretty much do whatever you want.” Harvard University agrees with you, Collin. Somebody give this boy an oil company to run!
The glee of sexual schadenfreude was beginning to wear off. Wasn’t anybody in this town procreating? Wouldn’t anyone tell us something we wanted to hear? Like a naughty little angel, there, in our deepest moment of despair, stood Samantha Bee of the Daily Show. Beautiful and tiny, Samantha Bee answered our stupid questions with all the kindness she possessed:
Q: How old were you when you lost your virginity?
A: Oh my god. Am I really on tape here?
Scott: It’s an alternative weekly rag, don’t worry about it.
A: I was 15.
Q: Was it romantic?
A: Nooooo.
Q: Was it by choice?
A: Yes by choice, not romantic at all.
Q: What’s the kinkiest thing you and your husband have ever done?
A: Gravity boots. I hope my parents see that in print.
Feeling a little lighter in our loafers (has anyone ever spoken with Samantha Bee and not wanted to make out with her?) we headed down to the press entrance, where we were in for one more celebrity surprise. Turning the corner we found a pissy-looking Robert Smigel and his enfant terrible, Triumph the Insult Comic Dog, winding up an interview with Air America. We jumped at our chance and coaxed a soundbite out of the curmudgeonly cur. When asked whether there were any bitches at the convention he had his eye on, Triumph didn’t hesitate. “Well, you know...that Lynne Cheney. She reminds me of this Pomeranian I banged a couple of weeks ago.”
Oh, but the bitches were about to get even fluffier. It was time to relocate to the floor for a power hour of the Bush women. If we were stupefied by the Bush twins’ speech--“Jenna and I are not really very political, but we love our Dad too much to stand back and watch from the sidelines. We realized that this would be his last campaign and we wanted to be a part of it.” (Where to begin? The giggling admission that they--the daughters of the most powerful man in the world--don’t “get” politics? And when exactly did they “realize” that this would be his last campaign?)--we were morbidly transfixed by the glowing inanities spewing forth from Laura Bush’s mouth like so much spun cotton candy.
Afterwards, making our way out of the arena, we were overcome by a giddy, yet moronic sense of well being brought on by the first lady’s hypnotic, Joker-faced speech. I was ready to sprint to City Hall, get married, and be home, making babies and pastries by 2am. Maybe I’d even buy an American car!--an Oldsmobile Cutlass with which to cart said husband and oven-fresh buns to and from the State House. Suddenly all of my problems, my worries, and certainly my impending personal economic crisis seemed surmountable.
But wait, a little voice nagged from the depths of my smoothed-out brain, isn’t there another reason you’re here? Yes...it seemed to me there was something I was forgetting.
Getting felt up!! screamed the voice, which was beginning to sound suspiciously like Bill Clinton's. Right! I was here to ask Republicans about their dirty parts. How could I have forgotten, even momentarily? It wouldn’t happen again. I blinked. The fog in my head cleared. There I was, surrounded by screaming, bloodthirsty delegates, most of whom would sooner eat Al Franken’s toenail shavings than give me, Suspicious Press Member, a single whiff of their dirty laundry. But I had to try, just once more, before leaving behind all the latently fetishistic glamour of the second night of the RNC. Desperate in so many ways, I spied two tall, good-looking boybots standing in the vicinity of the Tennessee delegation. I approached carefully, and flashed them a demure smile intended to disarm.
“Hey guys,” I cooed, “I’m writing a column on the convention and I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me.”
They each took a step toward me in unison.
“What kind of column?” Bot A asked.
“Oh, you know...a sex column.” I batted my eyelashes. Bot B stepped back so quickly he nearly tripped over a discarded “W Stands for Women!” sign.
Bot A drew in very close. He put his hand on my upper arm and gently squeezed, looking deeply into my eyes, “No thanks, sweetie,” he breathed.
Mission accomplished.
posted by Screwsan at 2:44 AM
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