Sooo…. This talkative, buxom, middle-aged woman seated next to me at the banquet table just reached over and started fondling the butterfly and cock-fighting pins I regularly garnish on my chest.
She took her time examining, fingering each of the three colorful rhinestone ‘broaches.’ Then she tenderly over-patted my pectoral region and simply noted with a coquettish grin: “Nice.”
At that I reached over and patted her breast and, returning a naughty smile, simply said: “They’re nice, too.”
“Tit for tat,” I added. And she seemed – how should I put this – appreciative. If not flattered. I know I was.
Well, from the appalled eye-daggers I received from the rest of the other folks at the table you’d have thought I had thrown the lady atop their bowls of French onion soup and had my way with her.
A delicious thought no doubt being monitored by the PC police – via the NSA. But of course this wasn’t Louis the XIV’s Versailles Palace of pleasure. And obviously I was seated at the wrong table with linen napkins and polished silverware. You know, with a bunch of Volvo driving, politically-correct liberals whose etiquette is as manicured as their chemically enriched suburban yards.
And just as a younger woman in black with an angular coiffed hair-do was raising an expensively manicured finger to remonstrate me, the attractive lady I had patted offered, almost giddy: “You know, that was refreshing… very touchy… Well done…”
Hmm… Classy broad. And, thankfully, the older guy next to her wasn’t pulling out a dueling pistol. He was rather preoccupied with slurping his soup after punching portals in the Provolone cheese.
At that I got to thinking about pursuing the pat-down. It was just a thought.
Nevertheless, before the climate changed to thunder I decided it might be best to ratchet back my provocateur a notch or two. Introduce a safe topic conversation. One that is the last refuge of the unimaginative.
After all, we who officially value freedom of speech above life itself seem to have nothing to talk about but the weather. That is when we aren’t proselytizing about how I should properly act as a ‘castrated’ male. Besides, weather is supposedly apolitical. It doesn’t care what you are. And it’s safer than sex without condoms. Furthermore, I wasn’t packing any in my men’s wrist bag, anyway. Nor any blue pills.
At that I posed for one and all: ‘So, you think the historic climate change agreement adopted in Paris is going to save us from ISIS?’
Hmm… For people who dress so meticulously, and know which forks and spoons to utilize appropriately, they seemed a tad confounded.
‘What does one have to do with the other?’ asked a fellow shorter than I am, sitting overly erect next to a beautiful hunk of pulchritude taller than me.
To tell you the truth I really didn’t have much idea, myself. They just seem to both be what everybody is talking about these days (besides Donald Trump). Both seem to be full of a lot of hot air. I mean the North Pole is melting. And all these weird Islamist jihadists are running about shooting hot lead, issuing death threats and hotly insisting Allahu Akbar!
“And the way I understand it,” I said, trying to keep from being a tad too pompous, “they must be related because Climate scientists and TV weather people both get a lot of death threats…. You see what I am talking about here?”
Because I certainly didn’t. Oy-vey-iz-mir! I uttered that to let them know that even though the Cossacks certainly raped my great-great-grandmother I am still considered a Jew.
And then I offered: “You see all those Tea Party libertarians… and Republicans like myself, think that anyone associated with the weather, is like the government – always in the wrong.”
“Well, we have to do SOMETHING,” offered the awkward looking gentleman planted next to woman in black who had raised an admonishing finger my way. “Things can’t just keep going on like this. Anyone who says there isn’t a change in weather patterns is denying reality.”
“Really,” I intoned with the cosmopolitan elan of a secret agent. “The weather always reminds me that we don’t get what we want, we get what comes.”
“And you might want to consider,” I added, as an aside, “among famous traitors of history one might mention the weather.”
And suddenly this guy talking, abruptly quivered his head like we shake one of those little snow globes to see what comes out. I thought he was impressed by my bodacious words. But, indeed, people never cease to disappoint you.
“Are you really a Republican?” he wondered, as if the notion of a guy like me wearing pins on my black, long-sleeve painted-on Tuxedo T-Shirt with the big red bowtie was just too incongruous. I mean I also was stuffed in a perfectly minted 60-year old Nehru tuxedo jacket given to me by a grand old dame whose cheating husband passed away. It was unbuttoned to my broaches. And then there were my wonderful pair of black and gray boa cowboy boots.
Sooo, just what was his problem? I may seem a tad eccentric, but no one has proven me crazy. Even though my last ex-wife assiduously attempted to convince the court. That is before they asked me to have her committed.
To what? I wondered to duh judge and district attorney. No one will have her. And when I ran out of bourbon for just one day I too realized why.
“Yep,” I sniffed to the inquiring fellow. “I just changed my party affiliation down at the Department of Motor Vehicles. I proudly informed the folks there – who were all Democrats long before they received their first Obama free cell phone – that I was switching to Republican so I could vote for “my man… The Donald!’
“You switched your party at the DMV?” he asked incredulously “Can they do that? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
Hmm… Obviously this fellow – like my last ex — is a tad out of touch. For, if you don’t know what your government is doing for you, as well as to you, it must mean that you actually have a job. Or at least something that provides him enough to keep that wryly smiling wife of his from cracking her dominatrix whip.
Like they say: Smiling faces show no traces of the evil lurking within.
Anyway, I pulled out my slip of paper — which closely resembled a receipt from a cash register – that verified my new party affiliation.
‘I have to admit,’ he said, examining the receipt like he needed a Flash Gordon decoder ring, ‘I never would have suspected.’
“What?” I said, ‘that your wife and I used to be lovers in prison?’
Uh-oh. I think I finally got on his last nerve. Didn’t take long, did it?
“Are you always like this?” his wife, almost demanded, in her overly practiced annoying manner.
“Not when I am sleeping,” I replied. “But then you already know that…”
Damn! I enjoy myself.
“Can we get back to talking about the weather?” I practically begged to my fellow diners at the banquet table. “I mean I once dated a weather girl. And we were able to talk up a storm.”
I know, I pontificated, that we have a certain expectation of consistency with Mother Nature. Even the universe. Hell the planet always rotates every 24 hours. We get a free trip around the sun every 365 days. Jupiter is still aligned with Mars…
But when the snows don’t blow we get nervous. In the East we were breaking warm records since they began keeping records about 150 years back. My friend Erik Brady, sports columnist for USA TODAY the last 33 years, was even sent back to his hometown of Buffalo, New York, last month to write a story about there being no snow.
Since then Buffalo has received a dusting. But for Buffalo, anything less than the seven-foot blizzard they had a year ago November is like winning 10-cents in the lottery.
“Well, we can’t do nothing!” insisted the youngish gentlemen still seated overly erect. “It may already be too late.”
“Indeed,” I said. “The only two things I know you can do about the weather is to drink heavily. And, in your case, quit breathing.”
I think he took that a tad too personally. But I can’t help myself when I am on a roll. And drinking.
“Sooo, is it also too late for ISIS?”
The consensus at the table was: “No.”
“Okay,” I said. “The emerging countries that signed this Paris climate agreement ain’t gonna comply. They wanna be drunk and rich like we are. And get there by polluting the world… like we did.
“Sooo, perhaps we ought to focus on priorities. Like ISIS. And repairing our roads and bridges. And then there’s that little matter of our broken education system. Our President (who I voted for twice I gotta admit) wants to keep kicking the can down the road to the community college system. All that means is that stupid and uneducated people aren’t going to realize they’re stupid and uneducated until they get to college. And that ain’t the way it’s supposed to work…”
“Soooo…” smiled the pretty woman who had patted my chest, “you switched to Republican to vote for Trump. Is he the answer?”
“No,” I shrugged. “ But he’s not the problem. Stupid people are. People who get worried about the weather. Even mad at the weather. You can’t get mad at weather because the weather’s not about you. We should apply that lesson to most other aspects of life.”
At that she only replied: “Interesting… You get me thinking.”
“Hmm…” I offered. “Is that foreign territory?”
“You certainly know how to flatter a woman,” she said feigning a frown.
“I prefer to use my hands.”
“How about we meet next week. For lunch?” she wondered.
“How about your husband over there?” I said, nodding my head to the guy next to her still slurping his French onion.
“Oh,” she laughed. “He’s not a Republican. He’s a socialist democrat. For Bernie. Thinks we should share everything…”
And dats yDrewIS on dis penal colony…