This Week in Pictures

You are right, tea-bagger. It's not about race.

I tried to play the "race card" but I have stopped kidding myself. I can no longer deny what these protests are really about: sex. Pure, unadulterated sexual energy like this country has not seen since the 60s. The 9/12 protests were like Woodstock for overweight, middle aged, white people and their admirers. The air was sensually thick with testosterone cream, baby powder and hot dog farts and you moved as one, the crepe-y skin underneath your arms damp with righteous perspiration...

"Wanna swing?"

I tried to stay away from you tea-baggers, but I just couldn't. I am only a man, with a man's weakness. This morning I found myself sifting through Flickr accounts, searching for a glimpse of you. And there you were. There is just something about a fanny-pack over a flag-themed polo...

Tell you what, Mr. Furley. I will make your Lady's toes curl while you watch. That should de-pleat your khakis. I have some creative ideas for those wristbands. Sure hope they stretch. But don't think I am leaving you out. We can play "Gitmo: Flip the Script" once I am done here. Isn't that what you really want? Sure it is.

No , no. Leave the hat on.

Yeah, those two want to 'team Sarah all right. Ten bucks says the one on the right has Anne Murray on cassette in her Subaru. Not that there is anything wrong with that. I love Anne Murray.


Sure, okay. I get it.

Those are supposed to be dogs, with their little red tongues hanging out of their smiling mouths. Haunches tensed. Captured mid-thrust. I can see how, given the array of images to describe your opposition to health care reform you would hit on this one. It is perfectly obvious.

So, in other words, you imagine yourself bent over a table, looking fearfully (expectantly?) over your shoulder as President Obama prepares to slide his giant, engorged, Black Finger into your deepest recesses?

Is he about to turn your most private place into a Public Option, for all to see?

Do you feel helpless to stop it?

Doesn't it just make you want to pull out your... "gun"?

Psst. You. Yes, you. I see you over there, habibi. Sitting on the sidelines with your Mona Lisa smile. You aren't like the others, are you? You like to hang back and assess the situation before you commit yourself. That's because you are special.

You heard me.

Shhh. Don't bother to deny it. Anyone with eyes can see that beneath that cardigan beats the heart of a real woman, whose sensuality cannot be contained by her elastic waist pants.

And I have eyes, habibi. No, you weren't "born yesterday" and I like that. You have been around and you know how to get yours.

I know I don't look it Ma, but I am getting older too and I am growing tired of the game. I want someone who can call me on my shit, know what I'm saying? A woman who isn't afraid to admit that she has no idea what "fascist" means... and then write that out in big, block letters on a cardboard sign. If I am coming on too strong Ma, just let me know but I got to speak my heart: I see a future with you.

I just hope neither of us ever gets sick.