The GOP (God's Own Party) Convention this year reminds me of why we are called a Party. Such a whirlwind of extravagant occasions! Even the Pentagon, not normally regarded with fear in premier hostessing circles, spent $500,000 of taxpayer money on heavy hors d'oeuvres (a minor investment that will be later leveraged into billions of dollars for those fabulous toys we Republicans can't seem to deny them!). Simply mountains of shrimp and lobster everywhere! Indeed, I haven't seen so much food since I accidentally opened Rush Limbaugh's briefcase.

I think the whole Republican Convention was a wonderful success. I have to admit, we were all a little nervous, but Junior's speech on the final night proved Doubting Thomases everywhere wrong.

    No matter what anyone says, George can read a Teleprompter. Thus, he showed that he has all of the capabilities necessary to be an American president in the Information Age.

Although it is inconsistent with the theme of the convention, let's be honest for a moment. Most of the speeches were rather dull. So Bar, whom I was sitting next to, and I gossiped about our Rapist-in-Chief and the First Lesbian, as Bar calls them, and we threw pistachio nuts into the Final Net canyons of Elizabeth Dole's hair. Every time Liddy would turn around, Bar would give her a look of such mild disdain. I whispered: "My, how she's aged." Without missing a beat, Bar shot back: "It's all that Viagra." We giggled and Poppy "shushed" us - until he caught an eyeful of my withering glance. Bar managed to get a whole jar of salted Planters in Liddy's hair by the end of two speeches. Poppy made some quip that it was only fair turnabout since Liddy is always getting in everyone else's hair. I smiled wanly, but Bar didn't even bother. She'll be the first to tell you Poppy has a corny sense of humor and she refuses to encourage him.

Well, all of the politically correct "inclusion" nonsense was rather galling. Even Colin Powell, one of the few of those people we I thought we could trust, had the nerve to chide us about so-called "affirmative action." Bar was waving her middle finger during this part of Powell's speech - until Poppy, with lightening reflexes, grabbed her beefy hand for the cameras. I know that we have to "play nice" until after our conservative candidates are elected. Then, we can change the Supreme Court and send the blacks and foreigners who were at our convention back to jail or Mexico. Now, that's what I call an affirmative action!

I ran into Nancy Reagan in the VIP powder room. I couldn't help thinking about Bar's comment, whispered in my ear while we pretended to listen to someone drone in Spanish (or some foreign language), that Nancy looked just like a little rhesus monkey in a bad wig and a red dress. Of course, Bar was wearing that dreadful bright blue dress that must date back to the Nixon administration. It makes her look like a small settee. I know she has a tongue like a viper, which I don't care for, but she is a sister in Christ so I won't say a word against her. Nevertheless, I kept looking at her husband and wondering why such a fine looking young man back in the 1940s, who was supposedly heterosexual, would wish to bed a teamster in a strand of cheap pearls. I asked him about this, but Dan Rather interrupted the President and me to ask me a question, so I never heard Poppy's response.

    Dear Sister-in-Christ, Nancy. Most people associate the color red with Satan. I'd like to think that Nancy had no small part in that.
Anyway, Nancy was acting as if she was the queen of the party. You know, we all have to be so solicitous when we mention the greatest president since Nixon, who is now, with almost indiscernible variation, a vegetable back home. Bar hates him. She loved it when Betty Ford (who was a lot more fun when she was an unrepentant boozehound) mentioned, "Ronnie's mind is gone" and I rejoined, "How can you tell?" To look at Nancy, you would think she didn't eat a thing, but the noxious fumes she left behind in the bathroom stall certainly indicated otherwise. Nancy and I have never gotten along well, so I don't waste a lot of time with insincere pleasantries since she no longer has anything I need. I've heard that she is unsaved (and was famous for giving the best fellatio in Hollywood, which, I suppose, is tantamount to being the best swimmer in the sea), which gives me a certain license to rebuke her every time I run into her. Not because I'm rude, of course, but Jesus is absolutely relentless in egging me on.

I sauntered up next to her at the bathroom mirror, watching her apply foundation like someone spreading too-cold pate over a very brittle water-cracker. Never taking our eyes off each other's reflection, we engaged in our typical banter.

"Hello, Betty. Your teeth look so pretty. Are they new?"

"Nancy, contrary to what this mirror is indicating to you -- with candor unavailable to a Christian woman -- real teeth can actually be straight and not sport the unfortunate hue of a used coffee-filter."

I then asked about her son: "So how is that little ballet boy of yours doing, dear?"

"He's not gay, Betty."

"Still? I saw that he said in the press that George W's only qualification for being president is that he is 'no longer an obnoxious drunk.' How humiliating for you. No wonder Bar loathes you, dear."

"I have no control over what my children say."

"Or do -- if that harlot Patti is any indication. Oh, hello Lynne!"

Lynne Cheney had just come in the room. I offered her comfort over having such a ruggedly masculine daughter. "It would be one thing if she were a lipstick lesbian like Jodie Foster -- or even dear Laura Bush for that matter, but Mary, frankly, looks like Dennis the Menace."

For some reason, Lynne suddenly started crying about how Mary was humiliating her. She was particularly angry with Cokie Roberts. I said, "Lynne, look at how short Cokie wears her hair! Of course she is going to be sniffing around once she found out you had a lesbian in the house with access to beer at cost. Anyway, you did the best thing by telling that nosy woman that Mary had never declared she was a lesbian, whether it is true or not."

"But Mary has announced to the world that's she's a sick pervert!" Lynne wailed.

"Oh, dear," I muttered as I looked at both Nancy and Lynne, while applying a fragrance too chic for them to recognize. "You both have such rebellious children! I do wish I could empathize, but having raised the fruit of my loins (no, offence, Lynne) as the Lord would have them, I simply have no frame of reference when it comes to bad seeds. Well, look on the bright side. When George is in the White House and we have a new Supreme Court, the Bible will be the law of the land. Then, thanks to Deuteronomy 21:18-22, you can stone your rebellious children to death. It won't be long now!"

Lynne Cheney, whom I met in the VIP powder room and was able to give Christian comfort to over her biological error, Mary.

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