You know, you almost have to love Pat Robertson, bless his heart. He's a man who says what's on his little mind. Like claiming hurricanes will hit Orlando, Florida, because
Disney World hosted a "gay day." Or claiming equal rights for women would turn them all into home-wrecking
lesbians. And claiming that equal rights for women -- and homosexuals -- were the cause of 9/11. You just have to love him. I've looked at many so-called left-wing Internet sites to find out the general reaction to his suggesting that covert agents of the United States government murder the president of Venezuela -- that's the way to bring down gas prices! -- and it's all pretty funny. Letter-writing campaigns calling for his evangelical television show to be yanked from the airwaves! Angry groups denouncing him as a threat to the good old U. S. of A! People seriously worried about why the Bush administration isn't jumping up and down and screaming, "We are not like him! We don't believe in murder!" There might be a good reason they aren't jumping up and down to distance themselves: They probably agree with him, and they probably are plotting to kill or overthrow Chavez. After all, he is trying to help the poor in his country, and they love him. I'm quite certain there are thousands of PR spinners out there spinning around in anti-gravity circles and crapping their pants with brilliant ideas about what all camps should do over this snafu. I say, big woo-hoo. I just wonder how Pat is doing today. And I wonder what next he might say! Okay. I'll stop. Look, we have bigger things about which to worry, what with a president of our own with an IQ of a lentil. Still, my favorite thing so far is Pat's apology. Even though he couldn't come up with an alternative meaning of assassination, he played the only card he could and said that when he suggested that the U.S. government could just "take [Chavez] out," he could have meant that instead of murdering him in cold blood as he previously encouraged us to do, agents of our government could have merely "kidnapped" him. Fabulous, fabulous, fabulous. I love this man. So much so that I did some research, and I found out why Robertson hates Chavez so much. See, they used to date. Each other, that is. This is no lie. They had a house in the Hamptons and a huge collection of Sylvester records to which they regularly danced before going out on the town and day-tripping to Fire Island. Well, one day Hugo came home to their tony little cottage and asked Pat to buy something that would take him from 0 to 200 in five seconds, and Pat bought him a pair of scales! Okay, so those are all lies. I apologize. Smack makes me say weird things and taints the way I see things. (Does anyone know of a psychiatrist who won't try to heal me by asking me to say five positive things about myself in the mirror in some kind of creepy self-affirmation exercise?) But Pat's apology was priceless. It was almost as good as something I read the other day in a full-page Commercial Appeal advertisement from some organization formed to save the historic name of our beloved Nathan Bedford Forrest Park. This isn't an actual quote, but one of the reasons the people were asking readers to send them money -- allegedly to save the park's name -- was that Forrest wasn't such a bad guy after all because he took 44 of his slaves with him into battle! I've never spit out an Amoco-bought sandwich in laughter that fast in my life. Yes, goooood Nathan Bedford Forrest. That was so kind of you. After inspecting their teeth and purchasing those human beings, he was good enough to them to take them into a war he was fighting to maintain the right to keep owning them. At least the ones he wasn't raping and impregnating. Hell yeah, leave his statue there. Not many people can pull off something like that. Except for maybe Pat Robertson, my new hero. Now that he's suggested killing Chavez and Chavez is thinking of ways to sell oil at a reduced price directly to poor communities in the United States and cut everyone else here off, maybe he'll lay a few barrels on Memphis and we can just burn the statue down. Oh, don't frown. I'm just clowning around. I'm just freaked out that there are bodies down there in the park in the ground. How creepy is that? Almost as creepy as Pat!
Well, they ain't never going my way.
One runs at midnight and the other one
Running just 'fore day. — Muddy Waters