Ask Aunt Betsy: Strange Bedfellows

Hi-dee-di-dee-dosie-dotes-an-little-lambsy-divy! Heavens to me! It feels an eternity has elapsed since last you joined me, settled into my cozy mint green and butterscotch Levitz breakfast nook with matching cornucopia-themed formica table-top, lingering over a blackberry Pop Tart and a steaming cup of Chock Full o' Nuts decaf hazelnut instant. In the background, suspiciously Jewish-looking Matt Lauer is currently interviewing a family with 17 kids, all of whom claim to be Christians. But Aunt Betsy sees in their aggressively cheerful nature evidence that they aren't true Christians (i.e., Baptists) but are instead a tongues-speaking colony of snake-handling fanatics long overdue for their very own Waco-style ATF-sponsored end-of-days gun show and barbecue party. While yours truly is hardly an advocate for birth control (it invites dabbling in sex as a pastime rather than a tiresome duty and is therefore blatantly anti-Jesus), here I make an exception. This poor woman's womb likely resembles a slip-n-slide, and as pampers-filling scream machines slide from her sin hole like logs in a plume ride, the likelihood increases that she'll produce more of what the world scarcely needs: a homosexual or a democrat (po-tay-to/po-tah-to if you ask me). Judging from the looks of Jehoshaphat (the toddler boy whose birth order doomed him to a bottom-of-the-barrel "J" name), his demeanor suggests a latent talent for flower arranging and/or opera appreciation; one rather suspects that particular boat (the HMS Good Ship Sugarpants) has sailed.

Speaking of homosexual Democrats, Lance and Bruce (otherwise known as co-queens of the Ass-sex Republic, which rudely abuts the Christian theocracy of Aunt-Betsy-stan), have adopted an enormously unfortunate orphan of foreign origin and dubious ethnicity. One suspects they did so to fill the void left by Charo the Shih-Tzu, their tedious companion who disappeared a few months ago and mysteriously reappeared in my freezer in the form of delectable Korean dog sausage. As I write this, the three of them are engaged in a scandalous game of peek-a-boo on their front lawn. Why, I hear you ask, does the neighborhood association allow this belligerent display of diversity when they so recently banned my darling lawn jockeys Sambo and Mr. Bones from the driveway of Aunt-Betsy-stan? The answer is clear enough to me. Beelzebub holds dominion over our hell-bound subdivision.

Proof of Mr. Bub's presence occurred at last Saturday's Yahtzee league, during which Loretta Face (the Presbyterian divorcee/catering hobbyist whose stuffed mushroom hors d'ouvres taste like donkey sphincter au gratin) had a seizure directly after rolling a large straight. As she lay jerking about on my House Beautiful olive shag carpeting, amid the scattered freight of an overturned tray of her diarrhea-provoking canapes, I promptly sprang into action by tossing a full bucket of water on the wretched woman. While I'm to be gently faulted for failing to notice the bucket was in fact filled with dirty Mr. Clean fresh-pine ammonia, it did manage to drive beelzebub's spirit from Loretta's herky-jerky limbs. She promptly regained her equanimity before succumbing to ammonia fumes and collapsing anew, this time face-down in Mr. Sillypants' litterbox, which I'd been meaning to clean.

Anywho, let's make a dent in the towering pile of desperate correspondence clamoring for the balm of my wisdom and the insight of my infallible advice. This week, I shall delve into the body politic, answering queries related to matters specific to the Gomorrah located inside the belt parkway.

Dear Aunt Betsy: I'm a member of the House of Representatives, a proud Italian from the boogie-down Staten Island. Until recently I thought I was doing everything right. I've towed the party line, every morning memorizing The Turdblossom Daily: GOP Talking Points Bulletin. I've fear-mongered about arabs, paid lip-service to Jesus, and devoted my entire being to defending the sanctity of marriage. Last week it all fell apart when I knocked back a few shots of tequila with a group of hookers aides, took my SUV out for a midnight joyride and had an unfortunate collision with a lamp post which darted unpredictably in front of my vehicle. Since then it has come to light that my side bitch spat my bastard womb booger from her cooter three years ago. Now folks are calling for my resignation! I feel like I have so much of the Lord's work to do as a member of the GOP congress! I have a lovely family at home in Staten Island to support! Please advise, signed Golly, Our Political Will's Over-Played

Dear GOPWOP: While it may be true that when Jesus gives us lemons we should make lemonade, that doesn't mean that if Jesus gives you poop you should make Yoo-hoo. Honestly! Aunt Betsy was completely in your corner until you mentioned your district. Indeed, if you were truly a champion family values, I rather doubt you'd condemn your own unfortunate family to a life on Staten Island. Your misfortune is compounded by the fact that you unwisely chose to break a commandment, rather than a law. In America, we prefer our politicians to have rapsheets over indiscretions (see: Libby, Scooter). But at the end of the day, I blame your wife. If she were really a good WOP wife (I call them Wipes), along the lines of Donatella Versace, Victoria Gotti or Carmella Soprano, she'd have had your mistress/bastard combo pre-emptively iced before dashing out to have her mustache bleached.

Dear Aunt Betsy: I'm a woman and I have a vagina. For the last few months, I've been running for president of the United States our local "Yahtzee League." Given the fact that our particular "Yahtzee League" has never had a vagina-owning woman as president, my campaign has been groundbreaking. I feel that both me and my vagina are uniquely qualified to answer a phone at three in the morning to answer a life-and-death "Yahtzee" question. And in spite of the fact that I misspoke when I claimed to have come under sniper fire when I attended a "Yahtzee convention" in "Sheboygan," I've run a strong campaign. But now my opponent, a negro by the name of Jihad Bin Laden has been gaining support and I'm being urged to drop out of the race. Is this a vast Yahtzee conspiracy? Signed Dice Yells: Keep Endeavoring!

Dear D*KE: Ah, yes. I attended the Yahtzee convention in Sheboygan. It was lovely, in spite of the fact that it was nearly over-run by bleeding hearts who were trying to alter the official Yahtzee League Rules and Regulations as they pertain to sudden death tie-breaking knife fights. Oh, and between you, me and the pot roast—both you and your revolting vagina are quite fortunate that my rifle jammed when it did.

Dear Aunt Betsy: For seven years I've been living in a pretty house. There are negros here that I can boss around. I have two lovely twin girls, and the one that I like is being married tomorrow. Hold on, my Rum and Mr. Pibb needs another Xanax, be right back. I'm back. Sometimes I see furry talking critters in the Rose Garden. Where was I? Oh! I'm sad now 'cause a new lady gets to move in here next year and she gets to undo all my decorations! Like the singing fish art that I put in the Oval Office, and my Franklin Mint "Hee-Haw" commemorative china. And to add insult to injury, I'm going to be replaced by one of the following three: an uppity negress (negros can't boss around other negros! that's what happens in post offices and we know how that turns out!), an adulterous kleptomaniac beer queen with a fake tan, shady dealings, and a rap sheet, or a bloated sperm hydrant with sticky cigars who's just going to look silly attending state dinners in a dress barn ball gown. What am I gonna do? PS: I sympathize with the heck you've gone through because of Sambo and Mr. Bones. I have a lovely collection of vintage porcelain Mammy figurines and if anything happened to them I'd just die! I like unicorns. Signed, Please Intercede; Can't Keep Life Exactly the Same

Dear PICKLES: While it will be hard to improve on the exquisite taste exhibited by a chain-smoking school teacher with a Donny Osmond haircut and a penchant for vehicular homicide, we feel you'd be most at home on the ranch with your buckaroo-modern naugahyde sofa and matching wagon wheel coffee table adorned by an ashtray overflowing with lipstick-smeared Pall Mall butts. My advice is to leave gracefully, with the pride in knowing that your taste level has set the bar impossibly high. But with the exception of the Rose Garden possibly being usurped by a watermelon patch, Aunt Betsy rather thinks the storied residence will remain what your husband turned it into: a landing strip for Jihadi Airways.