I’m not a superrich Republican donor but am affluent and generous, and delighted conservative heavyweights consider me a worthy host of this fundraiser starring Sarah Palin and Michele Bachmann who I sit between on the dais, turning left to Sarah and right to Michele back and forth talking to women who get prettier and more dynamic each time I turn.
“Are you runnin again in 2016, Michele?” Sarah asks, leaning forward.
“I’m studying it. I’m feeling it. The nation wants a change. The nation needs a woman who understands the family unit and how the economy works.”
“I agree, and that woman would be me. You didn’t do very well in 2012.”
“I led the Republican primary for awhile, until the male candidates smeared me. I was viable. I held an office and still do. I didn’t resign a governorship to go into reality TV. The nation needs serious leaders who offer professional insights.”
“This great country knows you’re not up to it, Michele. You embarrassed all of us by sayin that when they were slaves African Americans had more two-parent families than they do today.”
“Well, they did.”
“Slaves weren’t even allowed to get married,” Sarah said. “Do your homework.”
“Please share some of your homework about interracial sex.”
“Why don’t you get a husband who talks like a man?”
To Michele’s right, beefy Marcus Bachmann rose tall and angry and said, in his celebrated soprano voice, “I’m more man than you can handle. That’s why you’re married to a blue collar guy whose primary achievement is hitching dogs to a sled and shouting, ‘Mush.’”
To Sarah’s left, enraged Todd Palin stood and said, “Since you’re a psychologist in the business of curing gays, why don’t you cure yourself?”
“All right,” I said, “let’s settle down.” People were looking.
The husbands sat down but Michele Bachmann stood and said, “Dumb people like you and your husband are ruining the Republican party. We’ve got to sweep unqualified commentators off stage.”
Sarah Palin hopped up and said, “Want me to whip your ass right here in front of these folks.”
“I haven’t had a fight since Marcus came home with Old Spice on his shirt, ages ago. I prefer to settle issues with my intellect but realize you don’t have that option.”
Sarah grazed my nose with a right hand that Bachmann pulled away from.
“Ladies, for God’s sake,” I said.
The crowd rushed the dais and demanded a donnybrook.
“Listen,” I said, “everyone cool off. This isn’t right. And even if fisticuffs were appropriate, I couldn’t allow the fight to be made since Congresswoman Bachmann is at most five-two and one-ten.”
“I’ll bet she weighs at least one-fifteen,” Sarah said.
“And you probably go one-forty-five,” said Michele.
“I’m a trim five-five and not an ounce over one-twenty. I exercise my muscles.”
“Really, Sarah,” I said, “I think you’ve got Michele by a lot more than five pounds.”
“You callin me a bullshitter?”
“No, I just think we need a weigh-in.”
“I really don’t feel like fighting,” Michele said.
“Then keep your pie hole shut.”
“How ‘bout you, Marcus?” said Todd.
“Thanks, but I’m more the intellectual type.”
By now, like the hungry faces below, I yearned for a fight as long as I didn’t get hit.