April Foolishness: The Week in Review

Sunday marked the informal yet infamous "April Fools Day."

Legend holds that the custom of playing tricks on friends originated in France during the middle 1500s. The European calendar, which formerly recognized the first day of the new year as April 1, was shifted in 1564 to January 1 by decree of King Charles IX.

Those who disliked the decision and continued to observe the first day of April as New Year's Day quickly became the butt of jokes and tricks by friends who dubbed them "April Fools."

I know it's hard to fathom such rudeness from the French, but it's all right there on the internet.

And like the twelve days of Christmas or the eighteen of March Madness, last week seemed to coagulate into the Seven Days of April Foolishness.

Perhaps I became sensitized to these acts of idiocy based on my own behavior. On Wednesday I weighed myself twice at the gym—once before taking a shower and again afterward, somehow rationalizing that a pot-roast sized piece of filth had been surreptitiously pried off my scapula by the water stream and rendered me a peck lighter.

Or maybe my cackles were elevated when my eleven-year-old daughter and I, after purchasing a five-dollar hamster, were advised by the pet shelter lady to have the rodent neutered by an exotic animal veterinarian, even though it faced a life of solitary confinement.

Isn't that kind of like asking Charles Manson to invest in an IRA?

Whether or not last week provided a larger than average dose of foolishness, I'll let you, the enlightened reader, decide. Here's some of the nonsense  that went down:

Former Massachusetts governor and current clueless blue blood, Mitt Romney, felt compelled to relate a joke to Wisconsin voters:

"One of the most humorous I think relates to my father. You may remember my father, George Romney, was president of an automobile company called American Motors...and as the president of the company he decided to close the factory in Michigan and move all the production to Wisconsin.

Now later he decided to run for governor of Michigan and so you can imagine that having closed the factory and moved all the production to Wisconsin was a very sensitive issue to him, for his campaign...Every time they would start playing 'On Wisconsin, On Wisconsin,' my dad’s political people would jump up and down and try to get them to stop, because they didn't want people in Michigan to be reminded that my dad had moved production to Wisconsin."

Hang on a second. Ever tried typing while laughing so hard that your eyebrows grow? Whoa. Okay, better. Nothing busts me up like a good old fashioned closed factory joke. I hope I don't think about that while riding the bus tonight. People will move away from the cackling lunatic.

Then there was Geraldo Rivera—you know, the guy who led the search for Al Capone's vaults, the most epic snipe hunt in the history of the small screen?

Yeah, same guy, and last week he claimed that Trayvon Martin was partially responsible for his own death because he'd been wearing a hoodie when he was shot and killed by a neighborhood watch volunteer.

Geraldo, you've got a point, and but for the grace of God, so goes Bill Belichick after all those years trolling the New England sideline rocking that notorious thug wear.

Finally, the coup de grace of a week drenched in nitwittedness occurred Saturday night, when drunken University of Kentucky basketball fans rioted in the streets of Lexington, setting cars and couches ablaze and hurling beer cans in a celebratory orgy over their team's Final Four victory.

As asinine as is the act of destroying property to express happiness, go ahead and slather on another coat of imbecility to this behavior, because the basketball team hadn't even won the championship game yet—for all these cretins knew, they were overturning Ford Escorts and USA Today dispensers over a second place finish.

I could list further examples of idiotic behavior last week, like the British supermarket chain which distributed forty-seven thousand David Beckham posters to English school children which displayed Beckham's large arm tattoo of his wife in lingerie, or Rick Santorum saying something on tape and then denying he said it and getting really mad at a reporter for bringing it up.

But you get the idea. And since Santorum and Romney have rendered their verbal gaffes a weekly occurrence, I'm wondering if Groundhog Day might be more a more appropriate metaphor.

Would the Las Vegas of gay marriage also have two-for-one prime rib?

I've been a little edgy, lately. Big surprise, right?

It's like that feeling when your kid uses too much toilet paper, and they flush, and there's that moment when everything's swirling around, and you hold your breath and hope that your equipment can prove itself worthy of the challenge, dispersing all matter, both organic and otherwise, and permanently transferring ownership to septic Siberia.

Or, there's the other possibility: rising tide levels result in catastrophic flooding and a biological event demanding a plunger, towels, Lysol and possibly a post-traumatic, Silkwood-type decontamination shower featuring three to four SOS Pads.

That's how I've been feeling this past week; Sorry for the crass analogy, but I'm waiting to see where all the swirling shit will end up.

I suppose it started last Friday. Mitt Romney, pandering to his fellow tightie whities at this year's Conservative Political Action Conference, boasted about successfully prohibiting, as governor of Massachusetts, out-of-state gay couples from entering his state to get married and then returning home.

"On my watch, we fought hard and prevented Massachusetts from becoming the Las Vegas of gay marriage," Romney blustered.

It's a good thing no one tossed him a freaking football at that point, because he would've spiked it and leaped into a front row of flabby Caucasians ill-prepared to support his robust frame.

Yeah, nothing can chill a soul to its core, nothing can rattle a society's foundation, like a couple of women driving up from Virginia, getting married, spending two nights at the Worcester Best Western...and then leaving the state.

That was enough for one flush right there. But as I reached for the metal plated handle, another presidential candidate's sweaty palm slapped my forearm from its destination.

On Tuesday, Governor Chris Gregoire signed Washington's same-sex marriage bill into law, making my home state the seventh to afford gay and lesbian couples full marital rights. It was a proud day to be a resident of Washington and one I hadn't imagined would happen so soon.

But before you could say, "I now pronounce you Stan and Mike," guess who swooped into the Evergreen State to douse my warm endorphin blanket with a ham tin full of gelatinous piety? None other than the candidate who won't go away, Rick Santorum.

The guy is like eczema in a brown sweater vest.

Remember him? He's the dude who stated that allowing two people of the same gender to marry would crack open a Pandora's Box of biblical proportion—soon, men would engage in legal bestiality and women would elope with...I don't know...huge vats of salsa.

The former Pennsylvania senator spent the day offering his support to a crowd of pastors and '"values voters"(which is code for "I hope no one ever finds out what's in my computer") toward repealing Washington's sparkly new law.

And by the way, if some guy wants to marry a farm animal, they should be allowed to, for the animal's sake. I grew up near rural south King County, and after bearing witness to some long-term pairings, one of the parties didn't get much out of the deal and should be entitled some form of compensation.

Having Rick Santorum in such close proximity caused me to reflexively pull the lever, desperately desiring the swirling, soily soup in my head to disappear with a cleansing whoosh.

It's looking like the circling mass may not be eradicated until November, however, when the Roto Rooter van pulls up and a guy named Obama steps out, pulls up his sleeves and opens his toolbox.

Listen up, candidates: How to turn this thing around.

"Everyone has a plan 'til they get punched in the mouth."
-Mike Tyson

That's one of my favorite lines ever.

It's so accurate, whether, as with Mr. Tyson, it literally refers to one of his long history of fallen tomato can opponents, or more figuratively referencing the combatants in our modern political arena.

While none of the presidential contenders would even consider going a couple of rounds in the ring, how much fun would it be to watch Gingrich sweating and gasping for air as he simultaneously attempts to punch Santorum and hide his quivering moobs?

While the candidates surely consider themselves above any type of physical fray, wouldn't it be great to see Perry and Romney go after each other at Madison Square Garden during halftime of a Knicks game?

I could see Perry dominating at the outset, but then Romney getting really pissed about the condition of his hair and windmilling his open-gloved hands in a climactic, yet ineffective rage.

Alas, I can only fantasize about such entertaining political exploits.

But now that Mr. Romney has opened a fairly sizable lead over the others and gained nearly enough momentum to propel his robber baron arse to the nomination, the also-rans had better restock their verbal quivers or forever stand down.

So, in these desperate days, exceptional circumstances require exceptional assistance and I'm here to offer just that to messieurs Paul, Perry, Santorum and Gingrich.

Congressman Paul, you've got the reputation of a well-prepared, mature orator, as well as a highly respected physician. So, next time you hear Mittens proclaim that "corporations are people, my friend," ask him where General Motors' scrotum is.

It'll throw him off. A lot.

Governor Perry, Mr. Rommey likes to attempt to relate to average folks, which you do, as well. So, next time he claims that "there were a couple of times I wondered whether I was going to get a pink slip," tell him "That's ridiculous. Y'all could get as many pink slips and blue teddies as y'all want. In fact, you could buy the entire Fredericks of goddamn Hollywood."

Snap.

Senator Santorum, if Governor Romney makes the mistake of again saying, "I like being able to fire people who provide service to me," respond with "That's where we differ, sir. Since I'm a highly repressed right wing Christian, I conceal my perversions by keeping all those who service me financially secure."

Moral high ground is what it's all about, no?

And finally, Speaker Gingrich, you've proven yourself to be quite adept at firing sharp verbal salvos, so you don't really need my assistance. But just in case, if Mitt again affirms that "President Obama's stimulus plan is one of the biggest peacetime spending binges in American history," remind him that the United States is certainly not at peace, but it will seem like it once there's a President Gingrich.

He'll be godsmacked by your badassedness.

You guys are welcome.

Bachmann leaves nothing behind but Santorum.

Up in the morning look in the mirror.
I'm worn as her tooth brush hanging in the stand.
My face ain't looking any younger
Now I can see love's taken her toll on me.

She's gone. Oh I, oh I'd
Better learn how to face it.
She's gone. Oh I, oh I'd
Pay the devil to replace her.
She's Gone— what went wrong?
  
"She's Gone."
Hall & Oates, 1976

I'm not going to lie...it hurts. Way down in my gut, it smarts, and I'm sort of hanging by a thread right now.

But it's over. Doggone it. Michele Bachmann, America's sweetheart, has decided to "stand aside," to withdraw from a pack of GOP candidates she had been spanking a year ago with the vigor of a yellow pant suited dominatrix. 

Sure, she was flawed, but that's the thing about her that lit my Presto Log. Her gaffes gaffed my heart like the quiver tip of a bobbing pellet waggler. (fishing lingo courtesy of Wikipedia).

Congresswoman Bachmann had me at HPV vaccine, of which she had heard from her friend's father's husband causes mental retardation. An acquaintance of her cousin's barber's waxer told her that President Obama had incurred expenses totaling two hundred million dollars a day while visiting India.

Both statements totally false.

And totally hot.

And now she's gone.

So, Ms. Bachmann, as you retreat to lick your wounds and stock up on those comforting cans of Chung King Chow Mein for the coming apocalypse, I bid you goodbye, but certainly not farewell, my sultry psychopath.

Enter former Pennsylvania Senator Rick Santorum, who lost his latest re-election bid by seventeen percentage points in 2008. After falling only eight votes short of Mitt Romney's victory total in this week's Iowa caucuses, Santorum has now achieved "flavor of the month" status in the Baskin Robbins ice cream sweepstakes which has become this campaign season.

If I were to assign actual flavors to some of the past leaders, I'd probably dub Newt Gingrich "Newt York Super Pudge Punk."

Herman Cain might be "Meet Me In My Suite Candy Cain Crunch."

Rick Perry? How about "Scoops and Scoops of Oops?"

"Vanilla Nut" would succinctly describe Michele Bachmann's flavor, and now that Mr. Santorum has assumed the mantle, let's call his "I'm Secretly Attracted To and That's Why I Hate All Gay Boysenberry" ice cream.

It's going to be fun to finally see Dick encounter the same media scrutiny under which his predecessors have wilted. He feels that food stamps are unnecessary due to America's high obesity rate. He believes that abortion exceptions to protect women's health are "phony" and that healthcare is a luxury, an expense which most people could afford simply by lowering their cable and cell phone bills.

And Santorum stated that if he were President, even though he firmly believes in state's rights as proscribed by the Constitution, he would unilaterally annul all same-sex marriages.

The guy has six kids, so a likelihood exists that one may harbor attractions to those of a kindred gender. That's not okay, but it obviously is okay for insane people to wed. 

Otherwise, all of Rick Santorum's children would have been born out of wedlock.