Calling a Spade a Small Gardening Shovel

Posted By:	Boneman
Posted On:	Sun Jan 11th, 2009

Do you ever wonder if you're still attractive? It crosses my mind from time to time as the years continue to wrap around me like extra layers of clothing. I'm not talking like "Hollywood pretty-boy sexy" (we can't all be Mickey Rourke) but it'd be nice to imagine that you could still stir up a little mischief with the ladies. Or, at least y'know, hit the misses - for us married stiffs. I'm sure most of us have to glance wistfully in the rear-view to recall our prime. Thank goodness objects appear larger in that side-view mirror. Despite my advanced years and a church calling that keeps me out of trouble, the concept of s-e-x still pops up at the odd moment. Just because the testosterone has ceased to percolate like it once did, doesn't mean the mind has wandered out to pasture.

For example, I was watching Obama's inaugural Gala and when the gay Bishop stepped to the pulpit to offer the invocation I noticed a woman shamelessly giving him a pretty thorough visual "eval" (she must not have caught the drift that the man had long since forsaken Judy-ism in favor of Duddhism). But sure enough those old habits die hard because as I saw her slowly smile and watched that desire flash in her eyes I thought "oh boy - spank me now, because she has got it on the money - that Reverend is one smokin' hot hunk o' holy homo-licious honey-bunches of ozee-oats and little lambs eat-ivy. Wouldn't you? It's a rhetorical question but what I really caught myself wondering as the openly gay, politically outspoken Episcopal Bishop neared the close of his prayer, was whether sometimes he secretly adds a barely audible "guh" when he pronounces "amen?"

As far as those wacky prayers went, I think B.O.B wishes he would have stuck with "Plan A." The rhyming-color guy actually had several poetic passages, but I smelled trouble when he started off on that bit about not being afraid to sit with my woman under my fig tree. Even the color business started off okay "When Black will not be asked to get back, and Brown can stick around," but then he lost me "Yellow is mellow," and the Redman can get ahead man, and the Boneman is a Stones fan - so Paint It Black ‘cause it's only Rock ‘n Roll - just white boys raking in the green playing blues they "borrowed" from the blacks. There that's colorful. Wow, the more I think about President Obama the more ironic it becomes. Next thing you know Germany will have a Jewish president.

I sense that most folks around these parts are a bit less afflicted with Obamania than most the rest of the country. A little more reserved and certainly less infatuated with our new President than the norm. By no means unsupportive and certainly not prejudice or any of that, but definitely keeping judgment reserved for the time being. By this I'm not trying to cast us as spoil sports or fair-weather fans, I guess the best way to describe it would be "ahead of our time." We're already where the rest of the country is going to be in a year or so. Still - mostly hopeful, but not anticipating a sparkly new land of milk and plenty, with rainbows and unicorns and streets paved with . . . jerky? I mean all we really have the right to expect from Obama is hard work, good decisions and transparency. Sadly that would be one heck of a lot more than we've gotten from any President in this generation. And I don't want to hear about William Jefferson Clinton. Please - that womanizing Commandment-smashin' Philistine just happened to be in office during a prosperous economic cycle that he had about as much to do with as Beavis and Butthead.

Unrealistically high expectations ordinarily have the potential to ruin say a movie or an album by a favorite band, but aside from the all-too-realistic possibility of assassination, dealing with the mass disappointment when the world stays its crummy self and nobody gets their jobs or houses back the moment his shoes hit the Oval carpet, is bound to be B.O.B's chief problemo. All these Pollyannas who act like the world is a struggling NBA team and Obama is a graceful 8 ft 3 inch point guard who can drain the three ball. The Bigfoot spotters who pretty much look to Barack as some sort of superhuman hybrid of Jesus, John Lennon and JFK are his biggest liability. Well maybe not as big as those mountain retreats full of jackboot-wearin,' white dudes with swastika tattoos where their hair used to be, but he certainly has little to worry about from the Boneman and his meek following of Whigs and Independents who insist on dwelling on reality. (Actually I don't remember my education well enough to recall anything about the Whig party other than next to Democrat and Republican it sure struck me as a stupid name. It's like "okay guys we're up against the Braves and the Warriors whaddaya say we call our team the Fig Pickers.

I have to admit that I was a lot more concerned about the threat of assassination before Joe Biden opened his mouth. The more I listen to our Veep, the more I suspect that Obama didn't select him as a running mate, so much as a Life Insurance policy. Not even the screwiest wingnut in the drawer would sleep nights with Palooka Joe at the wheel. Still I wonder if the fellas up in the supremacy compounds can resist printing up a big batch of tee shirts with a picture of Obama in crosshairs and a caption that reads "Just Biden Our Time." Hey, I'm just sayin' - people get up to some pretty crazy shite.

Biden has, no doubt, been on a short leash ever since he demonstrated his two-fisted grip on historical fact when quoting a 1928 television broadcast by President Roosevelt? I suppose it's unnecessary to "once again" point out that FDR wasn't elected until 1932 and it was the mid ‘60s before the majority of American households could boast a television set. At the time I felt sorry for Obama I guess, but now I figure - whatever Biden can do to help keep the President unshot-at is to the good.

Biden's ever diminshing role became all-too-clear when he attempted a little levity to smooth over the big "Swear-in Flub-up." Obama quickly grabbed him by the sleeve in a manner that suggested a couple things to me. One - Joe Biden is now, for all intents and purposes, our Country's "Vice Bitch," and two, his adlib remarks are going to dry up like the Sudan after the Apocalypse. It was a revealing moment, as we got a pretty good gander behind the easy-going, graceful facade of his majesty. Similar to the time Toto tugged back the curtains to expose the cheap machinations of the great and mighty Oz, this event gave us a brief, but perhaps illuminating glimpse of the President's true colors. Pardon the expression.

I honestly believe Barack decided to go ahead and make a full do-over of the swearing-in thing after he awoke in a sweat from a horrible nightmare during his first night in the Whitehouse. In the dream he awakes to a beautiful morning despoiled only by the roaring of a fleet of U-hauls coming up the Whitehouse driveway. As the convoy rumbles by his bedroom window, John McCain pokes his head out of the lead truck with a smile and a big thumbs up, "Sorry chief, but here in America the President gets his oaths right the ‘first' time, my friend!" Barack turns and frantically shakes his wife awake, she turn slowly and smiles strangely before tearing off a mask to reveal Ashton Kutcher "you're so Punk'd . . . oh man! Bro this is so beyond classic!!!" Caucasion people start coming out of the woodwork laughing, as Barack goes nuts poking away at his dead Blackberry. Jan and Cindy Brady come running in, jumpin' on the bed in their jammies "Daddy, we missed you - can we go home now you big silly!" You have to admit that would scare the black right off ya. [Cut to the Chief Justice's bedroom 5:30 A.M.] The phone rings and a bed-lamp shows a grey-haired woman pick up, her eyes growing wider and wider. "Well I never heard such language . . . what on Earth is the world coming to?" Finally slamming down the phone indignantly. By this time Justice Roberts turns toward us "what is it dumplin'?" "I should hope it was a wrong number, you wouldn't believe the filth. Some . . . lunatic ranting and cursing. Something about shooting a hockey puck or maybe a honky punk, yes I think that's it - he was going to shoot him one no-good ‘honky punk'? I hate to say I told y'so John . . . but," shaking her head as the lights go off. "There goes the neighborhood.")