Tuesday, February 28, 2006

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree!

Tonight, I inhaled a dangerous blend of household cleaning products and was subject to strange and terrifying visions. As I lay on my couch, a sinister scraping sound awakened me from my fitful slumber. I looked up and, much to my dismay, I saw Minnesota governor Tim Pawlenty peering down at me from a hole in my ceiling. His beady eyes glistened and sweat was shining in his mullet as he waited up there, giggling softly to himself.

“What the fuck are you doing in my ceiling, Tim Fucking Pawlenty?” I asked him, the churlish Democrat in me not quite stifled by the oddness of it all.

He curled a beckoning finger and threw down a rope ladder. “I didn’t vote for you, bitch!” I yelled at him, but he had already disappeared. I felt I had no choice. I clambered up after him, eager to give him a piece of my mind. I don’t like Tim Pawlenty, you see. I don’t feel he’s one of Minnesota’s better governors. Compared to him, former professional wrestler and current professional joke Jesse Ventura is a Rooseveltesque statesman.

When I made it up the ladder, I realized that I had gained entry into a bizarre new dimension. My apartment building had disappeared and now I was standing on a puffy cloud in the middle of a beautiful, endless sky. Other clouds floated around me and riding on each was a prominent Minnesota Republican. To the left of me was Speaker of the House Steve Sviggum; to the right was United States Congressman and Perpetual Tool Mark Kennedy. In the distance there was a whole constellation of right-wing luminaries: Michelle Bachmann was there, earnestly uninteresting Star Tribune columnist Katherine Kersten was there, and so were oh so many bloggers of that stripe.

I was frightened. Obviously, I could not speak my mind in such company. Gently, I asked Senator Sviggum, “Where are we going?” And what the hell kind of name is Sviggum anyway?, I added in my mind.

“To the Palace of Glory, my son,” he answered and I thought, I’m not your son, you goofy-named political hack. It had not yet sunk in how strange it was that we were all wearing glowing white robes and floating towards a gloriously-shining edifice of gold and alabaster. It was situated on the largest cloud of them all and surrounded by winged cherubim playing small harps. I might be wrong, but I think they might have been playing Lionel Richie’s “Hello”.

I said, “Oh. I don’t want to go there. I want to go back to bed.” Katherine Kersten hushed me then. She did it with what I felt was excessive vehemence, too. I just glared at her, though. I was sure that if I let slip the venom that was on my tongue, I would only be setting myself up for great and painful punishment. Play your cards right, I thought, and maybe you can get out of here without these Republicans eating your face off...

It wasn’t to be, though. Our clouds drifted up to the luminous gates of the palace and dropped us. There we stood, three hundred thousand Republicans and me, when blinding lightening flashed and tremendous thunder pealed. When it was over, three men stood before us, resplendent in shimmery futuristic leotards. One was, predictably enough, Karl Rove. The next was Grover Norquist, who is even less handsome when seen in person. The final one was–and I’m still unclear on why he was there–famed Star Wars bit-player and Hennessey spokesman Billy Dee Williams.

“Greetings, Republican minions of Minnesota!” Karl Rove announced and there was tumultuous applause from all. When it died down, Grover Norquist spoke up, “We shall now hear the day’s agenda from Winkie, the Talking Mud-Skink.”

That was when a small lizard sitting on Grover Norquist's shoulder started to speak in a gravelly baritone. “We will proceed into the great hall,” it said, “And then we will smoke a bunch of hash, eat some Ding-Dongs, watch some old porno movies Ralph Reed loaned us, orgy like a bunch of Romans, and then–when we’ve had our fill–we shall eat that Democrat’s face off...”

“The Mud-Skink has spoken!” Karl Rove boomed and then he led the way into the palace. I tried to hang back, but the stampeding Republicans carried me along with them. There was no escape. As soon as I realized this, my natural reticence disappeared. “I DON’T WANT TO BE EATEN!” I shouted into the uncaring crowd, “PLEASE, REPUBLICAN LEADERSHIP OF MINNESOTA! PLEASE, DO NOT EAT MY FACE OFF!”

But it was hopeless. They were drunk with power and hubris. They carried me above them, whooping and whistling, into the vast bowels of their palace. I could see them licking their lips and tightening their bibs already. I was doomed. My voice hoarse, I roared to no one “HELP! REPUBLICANS ARE GOING TO EAT MY FACE! AAAAAAAHHHH!”

It was around then that I came to my senses. I’m alright now, but I think I’ve been reading too many blogs for my own good. Either that or I have to start cleaning my apartment with all-natural products.