LOVE, REPUBLICAN STYLE

Barbara Bush Shares Her Secrets for Hot, Neocon Lovin’

Ed. Note: Every year on Valentine’s Day since 1988, Spurious George cedes control of this space to the country’s compassionate conservative of cupid-concerned questions, Barbara “Hot Mama” Bush. Ignore her amorous advice at your own risk!

Well, howdy all, and happy V-Day from your white-haired woman of wunder-“Bar” wisdom, Barbara Bush (you just call me “Hot Mama!”) Isn’t Valentine’s Day just wonderful? I mean, even those who lost their homes and family in New Orleans must feel quite fortunate today, even if their loved ones are all dead. But let’s not waste our beautiful minds on such morose matters; those who are dead are beyond help. Let’s concentrate our prayers and my considerable talents on helping the living…the living, but yet sadly lovelorn.

“Dear Bar: I fear my heart is in its last throes. I love a man who’s far away in Texas, and whom I wish I could just quit. Every year we meet for a weekend getaway, and even though we’re approximately 14 hours away from any form of communication, I just feel the whole world is watching me when I try to tell him how I feel. Worse, while he gives me money every four years or so, I’m not sure if he really cares. -Dick C in Undisclosed Location.”

Well, Dick, I think your biggest obstacle is having a boy’s name. No real Texas man wants to get intimate with a “Dick.” Once you’ve changed your name, why not suggest the two of you do something he enjoys? Maybe something manly like, oh, I don’t know, quail hunting! When you two love birds are alone, sneak up close behind him and make “accidental” contact (men love it when women get aggressive.) Maybe give him a few love taps, but nothing that’d cause any life-threatening injury.

“Dear Hot Mama: I’m a successful, intelligent career woman who looks breathtaking in high-end shoes or a flight suit, and yet I’m afraid I’ve made the oldest of romantic faux pas…I’ve fallen in love with my (married) boss. I’ve tried to hide my feelings for him, but to no avail. A powerful man, every decision he makes is insightful, well thought-out and patriotic as hell! Forgive me, but whenever he says ‘nucular’ I get in tingle in my unmentionables (don’t even get me started on what happens when he mentions ‘defeatists!’) I don’t want to be known as the “Secretary of Home-Wrecking,” but I can’t help but feel that God wants us to be together. Are all options on the table? -Condi in Conundrum”

You, my dear, are a dirty whore! You remind me of this slutty bitch that works for my Georgie (I’m too much of a lady to name names, but hers rhymes with ‘Fondopeeza Mice.’) Every night like a good boy he calls his mama and tells me all about the colored woman with a goofy smile who wants to get into his Fruit of the Looms. I mean, he pulled this woman up from whatever ghetto she was selling drugs in, and what does he get for it? Constant x-rated ebonic sexual harassment, that’s what! Condi (if that is your real name,) I suggest you find Jesus, and when you do, ask him to kick you in your over-sized ass. Bitch.

“Dear BB: When my husband was the family bread-winner, I bit my long, probing tongue when he cheated on me, but now that he’s unemployed and I’m wearing the pants I’m about to put my Doc Martins down! I swear, Hot Mama (are you really hot?) I’m so angry I’ve learned to hate all men! My friends tell me I should just lick my problem, take the dive and leave him, but I’m not so sure. I have rented a separate place in the Village (a cute little thing with no closets,) but thus far have only used it to host weekly ‘L-Word’ parties. Should I continue to stick my finger in the dike of my marriage, or strap on some courage and move on? –Carpetbagging and Confused”

Hillary my dear, enough with the pseudonyms. Just come out of the closet, enjoy your short hedonistic life and your eternity in hell.

Well, peons, that’s all the time my beautiful mind has for you little people. Until next year, ta-ta!