The American Spectator

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I looked at the group's sign-up sheet. "Wanted: Fun, fashionable, fed-up women whose bras are too attractive to burn. Prefer brunching to brow-beating, but willing to throw their cocktails in the face of oppression, sexism, and the lies that make up compassionate conservatism. Pull up a stool. We're the women you've been looking for."

The guys who had showed up were playing the sensitive male routine to the nines. Lots of thoughtful stroking of chin stubble, thick rimmed glasses, and turtleneck sweaters.

"Any woman who votes for Bush just doesn't know the facts," I heard one of these groveling sissy boys remark as I was making to leave. The woman he was talking to nodded enthusiastically, marveling at his sensitivity and understanding. Oh, get a room already!, I wanted to shout, but then thought better of it.

Street Cred

On my way to the convention yesterday, I met a young man who embodies so many of the traits that make our nation great. No foolin'.

"Hey, are you a Democrat?" he asked as he bounded up to me. He was wearing a winter jacket in the summer heat, always a good sign.

"Nope," I said. "I'm a reporter."

"Cool. I'm a rapper. My name is Intergalactic. How you doing?"

I told him I was lost.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "I'm homeless. I'm on my way to get a job. On the subway. I'd rather rap, but I'm homeless. I can prove it." With that he pulled out a slip from a homeless shelter.

"Got some cash?" he asked. I hesitated. "I'll rap for cash," he offered. "I'm crazy hot."

I thought about it for a second and decided I haven't been doing my part for the arts lately. I pulled out a five dollar bill.

"Go for it," I said.

"You may be lost/least there's no frost. You may try/still you gonna die. You might think you're in trouble again/least you ain't no Republican."

"Hold on," I said. "No political stuff. I hate political raps."

topics:
Hillary Clinton, Conservatism