I’m told it has something to do with the winds, their odor, or color perhaps, or maybe their simple lack. Regardless, we haven’t moved in a week.
Not that Nora or myself are complaining – we are as near the bottom of the world as we wish to be. Do you know the Bay of Islands? No…shame, that. It is as exquisite. Moreover the cruise line has found us accommodations at The Eagle’s Nest.
It is said to be Heaven On Earth itself and it is not far from it: I can safely say we have not stayed at such a place since our honeymoon at The Aerie . And the cruise line is paying – they insisted. Well…they insisted after Nora “had speaks” with them. What a gal!
Last Tuesday was Moon Festival Day – the 15th moon day of the 8th Chinese Lunar Month. Nora outdid herself – Asta and Asta Jr (fresh from Asta Jr’s 2nd birthday nap) were spic-n-span and on their absolute best behavior. They even sang a winning rendition of Pooh’s “Sing Ho for the Expedition!” before being packed off with a native guide to look at volcanoes. Just think, at 4 and 2, of what a wonderful education they are receiving!
In any event, one of the many stories surrounding the Moon Festival [also known as the Mid-Autumn Festival] is that during the Yuan Dynasty (A.D. 1280-1368) Chinese rebels fighting against the ruling Mongols ordered the making of special cakes for the Moon Festival. Baked inside each cake was a call to action and the outline of the planned attack. The rebellion succeeded and established the Ming Dynasty. To this day Moon cakes continue to have elaborate designs stamped into them.
Nora, with only the assistance of a dozen kitchen maids, turned out 2 gross of them. As well as some rice and some fruit, of course.
They are made with an Asian version of phyllo pastry with fillings of chopped nuts, red and green bean paste, poppy seed, lotus seed paste and a number of more savory fillings, one of which smells a great deal like truffle.
Karl Rove ate about 138 of them. I mean, they’re okay, you know. But 138 of them? Karl’s just a pig, that’s all there is to it.
Karl threw the mooncakes back into his gaping maw one after another like some slobbering beast, stopping only to drink – straight from the bottle, mind! – huge quantities of absinthe.
I felt terrible about Karl’s addiction for it is clear that Nora and I were his undoing: prior to the Golden Shellback ceremony Karl was a noted teetotaller. No no no; not whoremaster, as you may have heard – teetotaller.
Ah well, I mused, changes in latitudes and all that. 138 mooncakes and 3 bottles of anything? Goodnight and a pleasant tomorrow…
I could not have been more wrong.
Maybe it was the 3 bottles of absinthe. Or the giggling fey manner in which the island girls would avoid Karl’s ham-handed attempts to reach up under their sarongs while merrily whacking his head with small cudgels. Perhaps being becalmed for weeks on end had finally broken him. Whichever, it wasn’t long into the feast before Rove was moon mad. Soon enough he was standing – okay, staggering – on the beach in front of our let villa, roaring at the sea, the sky, the quaint island girls still whacking the fucking bejesus out of him, screaming that there had been, was not, would never be other masterful behind-the-scenes-motherfucker like him, all the while laughing so hard he spurted green absinthe from his nose.
It was cute…in a sophomoroic, rush-the-chubby-pledge sorta way.
Then he insulted Nora.
What words did he utter, exactly? Well, I do not have a lucid grasp of it for I had been imbibing myself. 1 Leave us allow it was wicked wrong.
I challenged Karl to a duel.
He tottered around, looking about the sand with an exaggerated, inquiring glance as if to say “With what?”
“We’ll throw each other,” I said.
“Huh?” That was Karl – ever the master of prose.
“We’ll throw each other. I intend to throw you so high that, if there is some sort of supernatural deity controlling the Universe, she will be able to wipe her ass with you. When you land, the world will be silent save for your thudding collapse.”
“…why, you great jackass!” and here Rove actually spit the words out. “I’ve thrown Generals and Admirals higher than that – your ass is mine!” and off he went to fetch a sarong (erroneously assuming it would billow on the way down and break his fall.)
Soon he was back, standing akimbo in a pink woman’s sarong (he really, really shouldn’t have been screwing around with the wait staff earlier.)
I let Karl throw me first.
I will give him this: whether it was the absinthe he had consumed or there was some muscle hidden away behind the fat of his dim intellect, he tried. On his first toss, he threw me no higher than a small palm tree; I simply lay out on the way down and broke my fall with my hands, shoulders and feet. Up in a rush, I laughed in his face, taunting him.
“I bet even Donald “Let’s Get Ready to Rumble” Rumsfield would have laughed at that one! Pussy!!!!”, I cried.
Enraged, he threw me again but wasted most of the effort in violently vomiting at the same time. Nora said it was a sight for the ages – a middle aged, sarong-wrapped man floating just at a height just above an NBA center’s head, while directly below a balding, heavily pot-bellied piece-of work was bent over, hands on knees and directing a technicolor yawn at several scrambling teen-aged beauties wearing nothing but grass skirts and leis…I hear a famous native artist is even now hard at work on a triptych of the scene.
I fortunately avoided the puke as I landed.
On his third and final heave, exerting all his strength, Karl threw me far higher than the highest cocoa-nut tree that ever grew. On the way down, I made myself smaller, lighter, than on the way up. I lay uninjured by the fall, while Karl lay panting for breath.
It was now my turn. The island beauties helped me put on my ume i ton maro and snug it tight. 2
What I was drinking:
The Blue Shark:
3/4 oz Vodka
1/2 oz Tequila
1/2 oz Blue Curacao
Combine vodka and rum in a cocktail shaker with cracked ice. Add several dashes of blue curacao, and shake well. Strain into a chilled old-fashioned glass, and serve.
Follow that immediately with…
1 oz vodka
2 oz Ginger ale
Start with ice. Add vodka to preferred level. Next add wanted amount of champagne and finish off the glass with ginger ale. Mix and drink
And topped off with…
1/2 oz 151 rum
1 oz pineapple juice
1 oz orange juice
1/2 oz apricot brandy
1 tsp sugar
2 oz light rum
1 oz dark rum
1 oz lime juice
Blend all ingredients with ice except 151 proof rum. Pour into a Collins glass. Float 151 proof rum on top. Garnish with a fruit slice, sprig of mint and a cherry.
- Recipe to follow… ↩
- A small, nearly inaudible whimper of a sigh escaped Nora lips as the young girls finished and I knew we would later have a long evening.)
Seizing Karl I threw him up to a dizzying height and cradled him in my hands like a small baby when he came down.
Then, without setting him down, I threw Rove a second time into the air; this time so high he could see ALL the isles of the Bay of Islands and, once again, caught him lightly in my hands.
Thoroughly assured that these had been but preparatory tosses to the final one that would seal his fate, the thoroughly exhausted ex-Chief of Staff entreated with me to stop, to spare his life. Whatever I desired would be mine, he pled.
I rested for a second.
“On only one condition will I spare you,” I told Rove. “Tell me where Bush’s brain is. “Where is it hidden? How is it protected?”
Rove gladly promised to tell me all he knew and, after consuming yet another bottle of the viscous green liquid, led me to his stateroom aboard ship.
In one corner of the disheveled room there was a quantity of fine white powder piled high on a bedside table. In another nook were 2 cases of the green absinthe to which Karl had seemingly become addicted. In the middle of the room was his bed. However, unlike probably every other bed a board ship, this one was raised off the deck by at least 3 feet.
Karl wiggled underneath the bed as best he could, his enormous rump pushed up, feet crabbing for purchase, until finally out from under he popped like an malevolent Pillsbury Doughboy, a small electronic device in his hand. Once he had gained his feet, Rove nearly bull-rushed me in order to thrust the device at into my hands, begging me to keep it: “It will be a relief, really – I had to take it everywhere – it’s annoying, never shuts up and doesn’t even play solitaire…”
It looked like a first generation Clie; hell, it WAS a first generation Clie.
“Where, exactly, is…it?”
“In the drawer – if we left it on the desktop it got into all sorts of mischief. Go on, take it, take it! Keep it – it’s not like any one will miss it.”
“Well, what…who…I mean, how….”
“Think of it this way.” he said. “Have you ever driven several hundred miles on a freeway and not remembered a lick of it? Or stumbled through a day on auto-pilot without once engaging your brain? Sure you have, everyone has done this once. Well, Shrub…he just does it on a daily basis, that’s all. And if we really need him to pay attention to something, we FireWire the Clie into his port… “
“On the nape of the neck, just like you’d expect’.”
“Yeah, anyhow, we FireWire him up to the device, load up a porn image or maybe a pic of some coke to get him running, ya know, and then pipe in what we need him to say… “
“No one: the party’s over, everyone’s bailing. If this were a legitimate democracy we’d all be in jail, we’re probably fine… But no one’s taking the chance, we’re all leaving early in case Congress grows a set of balls and institutes…’proceedings’.”
“Never happen,” I said.
“You know – they’re more afraid of The Dark Lord then they are Shrub.”
At that Karl laughed a very very very long time.
“Why – Dick’s an old man with heart problems ,” he gasped. “Light his ass up for this! Hell, his health is so bad he’ll need a new monkey heart soon, perhaps just gork out, saving the American taxpayers a whole hell of a lot of effort and money. ’sides – he’s a pussy. “
“Hell, yeah!” Karl leers. “I’ve backed him down a dozen times. Hell, one time he wanted to simply annex Canada. Told him ‘No – Shrub wouldn’t stand for it.’ He started sputing some shit about Shrub would do as he said and that was that. She-it: I just held up that Clie and stared him down, that’s all. Like I say, pussy.”
“Oh, fuck. Who knows. Just to say he did it? You know Dick – he’s always got to be proving he ain’t raised no gay daughter…”
Well…after that Karl and I had
manysome drinks, made up; hell, we pretty much forgot why we was tossin’ each other in the air in the first place. I ended up walking along the beach back to Nora and the girls, tossing Shrub’s brain up and down, up and down, spinning the little Clie this way and that. That is until I realized I might be making the the little fucker sillier than he already was.
What the hell am I going to to do with this thing, eh?
Oh well, back to Asta and Asta Jr I hied, who were still up, awaiting their bed time story and kisses.
And this is what I related before kissing them bunches and wishing them sweet dreams and honey:
“Once upon a time,
truffles of truth were created
as ancients surmised, during storm,
in the instant of lightning blast.”
Nite-nite, my darlings; I love you. [3. Oh…I was drinking the following (gave me all the strength I needed.) Yes, I KNOW mixing drinks is not normally advised, but how else was I to throw the morbidly obese fuck? And I only had one of each – in order! That’s important. ↩