Listening to the news this afternoon, I learned that Michelle Bachmann has officially withdrawn from the race.
About a year ago, I was sitting on the deck with Glen, discussing the world scene, politics, fine cheese… the usual hot topics. We had gone through the custom rote declamations of amazement at the pinheads currently holding down both ends of the political bell curve and capped it off with nearly 20 minutes of our best material on the trio of wackettes that were mesmerizing the TEA (Terrify Elderly Americans) Party. Sarah Palin, Michelle Bachmann and Christine O’Donnell, despite being crazier than a soup sandwich, were completely dominant over that edge of the spectrum. (Actually, “dominant” is a fitting term. You get a feeling that a lot of these folks would pay dearly to have one of these ladies give them the spankings they so richly deserve.)
Glen and I had settled into the smug, superior, self-satisfied silence that always caps reviewing and solving problems you know you won’t be personally called on to deal with. After a moment or two, though, Glen sheepishly confessed to something that had been weighing heavily on his mind. He felt he had to talk this out even though he was worried that I would…
1. Think he was nuts or…
2. Share his secret shame with the world.
Right on both counts, it would seem…
“I realize they are completely mad,” he agonized, “but I find them oddly attractive. Is there something horribly wrong with me?"
“Yes,” I assured him. “Yes, there is.”
But he’s not alone. I think he put his finger on the cause of their almost inexplicable appeal.
“Hey, what’s that shimmering, wavy thing in the air there?” Glen whispered, warily.
“Just another flashback,” I explained.
“It’s coming closer!”, he nervously hissed.
“Hmm… Best keep your arms and legs away from it”, I opined lazily as the “Wonder Years” music washed over me. “I’m not sure what would happen if…”
The scream cut off abruptly but I was already back several decades and the 70's music soon drowned out the gurgling sounds.
At some point in our early years, most of us guys have been involved with crazy women. We will, for the most part, deny this if asked; especially as it will be our wives doing the asking and we do not want them ever thinking, even for a moment, that:
1. We ever went for crazy women
2. They might, in fact, be those crazy women
They aren’t. Fortunately, those of us who survived crazy women learned to sincerely appreciate non-crazy women. Just as bungee jumping over a dry, rocky river bed may be exciting once; you’re nuts if you continue that sort of behavior after the cord snaps a few times. (Yes, a few times. We’re guys. We learn but not particularly quickly)
This is because young guys are all crazy as well. Well, perhaps not crazy but definitely of diminished capacity because they’re completely in the thrall of their sad, hormone-driven nether brains and the nether brain knows, instinctively, that there’s nothing more exciting than crazy sex; trumping angry sex, makeup sex or outdoor sex and possibly incorporating all of those at the same time. You don’t know where you’re going or where you’ll end up with Crazy Woman but it’s like a ride on an extreme roller coaster that has not been maintained or inspected. You may excitedly raise your arms or something into the air during a curve only to lose it suddenly. It’s amazing what some women will do to disappoint their fathers and a bit disconcerting to realize that you’re probably it.
Eventually though, assuming you survive, the ride comes to an end. Crazy girls heads back to Bradley University, change hats and enter a convent or join the Young Republicans. Perhaps you, yourself, come to the realization that it’s time to move on. This could happen while you’re assembling what’s left of your record collection and clothing scattered about the lawn, trying to get the painted graffitti off your car or snagging pieces of your cat out of the blender. It could occur during the day’s 14th frantic, suicidal personal phone call at work. It may come at 3 AM when you wake up to find her standing over your bed in the darkness. Sure, she’s naked, but she’s also holding a knife and staring blankly at you. You leave the apartment and most of your possessions and go far, far away.
It’s reassuring to know, though, that ultimately even "Little Elvis" himself is able to draw a line in the sand. (Yep, I'm that endowed... Sorry...) This usually happens in your early 30's when the raging hormones start to die back a bit. I remember finding myself in that situation, getting involved with a girl because she was the sister of an old friend and it theoretically seemed like a nice thing. However, when going to seal the deal, Elvis actually initiated a dialogue. As I recall, it went something like this...
Elvis: "What the hell are you doing?"
Me: "Uh, what do you mean? Boy? Girl? Elvis gets touched?"
Elvis: "Are you nuts? Look in those eyes. She scares the hell out of me!"
Me: "For god's sake, knock it off! You're embarrassing me! Do your stuff, dammit, she's getting that "sympathetic" look!
Elvis: "No way, man. You wanna tap that, you're on your own! I'm taking the boys and spending the night up in the abdomen. Good luck!"
Me: "No!! Don't leave me alone with... What do I... Oh Lord!!!!"
I understand that years of trauma and psychic damage elsewhere have confirmed Elvis's sage wisdom from all those years ago. Thanks, little buddy. (You can come down, now...)
Back in the hotel room, I draw out of the reverie and back to the news, silently wishing Bachmann well, in an odd way. O' Donnell has disappeared; Palin's stuck in a dead end relation with some guy who walks dogs for a living and the Republican whack-a-mole game has dwindled down to a few less colorful players. Thank god there's still one crazy girl left. While not at all attractive, it still provides someone for the Tea Party to lavish their twisted affections on until they finally sneak away in the middle of the night, tears of embarassment stinging their faces.
Keep cab fare and a change of underwear in your murse, Santorum.