Rummy, We Hardly Knew Ye...Rumsfeld's Departure

Dahlings -

I'm still recovering from that wild post-election party I went to. A conga line of Democrats, the Republicans hiding in the library, puffing cigars and grumbling...it was such fun!

But one has to atone for one's sins, so today I am drinking green tea for its antioxidants and eating chocolate, because...well, because.

And now Donald Rumsfeld has stepped down. That image always makes me imagine someone stepping off a wooden apple box in the middle of a meadow, I don't know why. I'm not up to any Deep Thoughts myself, but I received the most charming note today from a stricken reader, poor fellow.

Dear Ms. Hoardmeister -

I've written to you because I thought you would understand my problem. I've always had problems with men. My last boyfriend was Morgan. Morgan was…well, he was special. Tall, handsome, and always on top. That’s what I need. Once I touched his bunghole, he didn’t speak to me for three days!

I know, I know, too much information, but that’s me, in my head, out my mouth. Finally I cried and asked him to forgive me, and then everything was all right. Until Morgan dumped me for a hot Asian waiter at the Saigon Grill. That used to be our place. Men like Morgan, they do what they want. Men like me, I do what they want, what can I say?

I'm writing to you, Ms. Hoardmeister, because I’m in love. I really am. But I can’t tell anybody. It’s like when I was growing up. Being gay was “the love that dare not speak its name.” Well, it’s worse.

I’m in love… with a… Republican.

Please don't hate me. This is the real thing, I can tell from the way I feel when I see him on CNN. I was killing time in Borders Bookstore, and I picked up a copy of Rumsfeld: A Personal Portrait, by Midge Decter. I thought I’d have myself a good snicker. But the word she used to describe him was: manliness. And oh, yes, those photos of him in a college-wrestling outfit--I’d like to be underneath him on a mat!

I had to buy the book, Ms. Hoardmeister. I made sure they put it in a bag. He’s my dream man: Donald Rumsfeld: the ex-Secretary of Defense. I can tell he’s a top.

I never watched the news, but I became a CNN junkie, just waiting for Donny to come on. Those teeth, that smile…I don’t call him Rummy like other folk, I call him Donny. It’s my pet name.

I fantasize about our perfect evening together. Donny would pick me up at my hotel in a big limo, and then he’d take me out for dinner at the Capital Grill. That’s up there in DC. He’d probably drink something real sophisticated, and I’d have a pina colada. And we’d have the best table. Everybody would be looking at us and talking about what’s going on. His wife knows he’s gay. But you gotta be careful about the media. Even they get tired of writing about Brangelina! Donny’s got two butch lesbian bodyguards, they are so interesting, they used to have to guard the Bush twins. But that got to be too much nightlife so they asked to switch.

He’d order for me, and he’d remember what I like. Donny wouldn’t even have to look at the menu. Because he’d care so much. He’d order me a hamburger, and he knows I don’t like American cheese, he’d remember I like goat cheese, it’s real sweet. (Most people from the South don’t like goat cheese.) We’d have a nice long dinner. He’d tell me all about his plans for the war, whichever war it was, there’s so many going on all the time. It’s hard to keep up!

Donny would confide in me how stupid President Bush is and how crazy-making it is to try to get Dubya to understand a single thing. Even with pictures. One problem is that Dubya is irrelevant, you know what I mean? Who listens to him any more? Now he’s trying to ban gay marriage. The whole world going to hell in a hand basket and Dubya wants to ban gay marriage. That’s the problem in Iraq; all those crazy gay couples blowing up US troops. Please. Well, at least Dubya said he’s the “Decider” when it came to Donny and all those generals. The “Decider.” Sounds like a character in a bad video game, doesn’t it?

Donny would say he won’t go hunting with Dick Cheney, ‘cause once that ole guy has a shotgun and a couple of Stella Artois in ‘im, you better look out! Donny calls him “Deadeye Dick.”

After dinner, we wouldn’t have dessert at the Capital Grill. ‘Cause it’s kinda bright and noisy. We’d go somewhere dark with a candle. Dessert and coffee. Something fruity, ‘cause with all the kissing that’s gonna happen, you wanna eat something clean. Like lemon sorbet at a wedding. ‘Cause you don’t want to feel all full when you have Donald Rumsfeld lying on top of you.

And we’d go back to my hotel, and I don’t have to tell you what would happen next. Other than that would be lots and lots of explosions. Oh, that night would absolutely nuclear. In a good way. He has totally occupied my heart. He’d invade me again and again, but I wouldn't ever want him to pull out.

And now it's all over, and he's leaving the government. I am heartbroken. I can only hope his replacement is suitably butch.

Thanks so much for listening! I feel so much better. Kisses!

Poor, sweet boy, such an innocent. I can't answer for the replacement's masculinity, but I hope he is a suitable match. I know what unrequited love feels like all too well, although in my case it wasn't for a man, it was for a Vionnet snatched up by an unfeeling witch with no feel for true quality. It haunts me to this day.

Oh, dear, I am completely fatigued. Off to take a hot scented bath using my specially hand-made soap by Sarah Jessica Parker.

Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog