I'm continuing to consolidate more of my online writing under the name "Ms Terri" as part of an attempt to bring my multiple online personalities together in a big group hug (ha!):
(with apologies to Edgar Allan Poe)
Once upon a Tuesday dreary, while I waited, drained and weary,
Done with speeches, no more crowds to fill my ears with a mighty roar
On the TV, votes were mappin', suddenly there came a tappin'
As of some one gently rappin', rappin' at my hotel-suite door.
"'Tis my subconscious," I muttered, "remindin' me what I adore —
Oh, the limelight. I want more."
Ah, distinctly I remembered it was just this past September,
When Katie Couric's “gotcha!” questions I strove mightily to ignore
What would happen by tomorrow? – if I lost, would I have to go home and borrow
A cup of sugar from my Russian neighbors on the nearby shore?
I didn't want to go all the way back to my obscure Alaskan shore.
I wanted to be famous for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustlin' of each Florida votin' booth curtain
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beatin' of my heart, I stood repeatin',
“'Tis only the bleatin' of the liberal media press corps
The Un-American socialist terror-lovin' press corps
This it is, and nothin' more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitatin' then no longer,
I called the hotel's front desk, and for a plumber to be sent up I did implore;
For I had a cravin' for some clappin', and when I heard the plumber's rappin'
Oh, so faintly he came tappin', tappin' at my deluxe penthouse hotel-suite door,
“I swear I will never raise your taxes,” I told him as I opened wide the door; --
He winked at me, and I wanted more.
And his plunger, red as a mitten, still is sittin', still is sittin'
On the entry table right inside my Wasalia home's front door;
And when I see it, my tears start streamin', for my heart is always dreamin'
Of the time the Joe Sixpacks were beamin' at me, and my life was not such a bore
And my soul from out of the plunger's shadow emerges and declares that bein' without power is such a bore
I miss the limelight – I want more!
Life imitates satire.
My satire, this time!
Last night at the Republican Convention, during Rudy Giuliani's speech, the crowd started chanting "Drill, baby, drill!"
Six weeks ago, I wrote an entry for a satire contest, which had John McCain trying to woo the youth vote by putting on a hoodie and awkwardly attempting to rap. It started like this:
Look around America, and what do you see?
A million phat sites where a fresh oil rig could be
Drill, baby, drill, baby, bring me that sweet oil
Bring it to me piping hot right out of the soil.
After months of being among the runners-up (always a bridesmaid and never a bride) for this weekly satire-writing contest, this time I won! The assignment: write 400 words or less on the topic "Polygamy is made legal."
Update: Won again (6/24/08): Another former Bush adminstration official publishes a tell-all book, and this one tops all the others!
And again! (7/15/08): Cheney declared election winner after Haliburton wins electronic voting machine contract
And another (7/22/08): To attract young voters, John McCain raps
This won Honorable Mention in the 1/21/08 demockeracy.com contest:
Thank you, humans, flora, fauna, bacteria, viruses, blue-green algae, and distinguished guests.
Continued ...
