I survived the Lieberman bunker

Thanks to all of you who expressed concern about my well-being. I'm sorry to leave you hanging, yesterday. I haven't had an opportunity to post. I'll finish the story now, starting where I left off.

I started packing up my laptop immediately after I published my last post. Not wanting to draw attention to myself--Sen. Lieberman was still taking an occasional pot shot at Peretz's sewing machine and the College Republicans' keg--I had to pack very slowly. I laid on my side as I did it, trying to keep as low a profile as possible. This put me in a position where I was looking straight into the College Republican's corner.

That's how I noticed Ann Coulter. Still flat on her back from an overindulgence in alcohol, she was making the kind of movements that suggest that she was on the verge of waking. You know what I mean: a twitch of an arm, a shake of the head--that kind of thing. But it wasn't the movement that caught my eye. It was the pup tent. Yes, you read that right. Ann Coulter was sporting morning wood.

Actually, calling it a pup tent doesn't do it justice--the damned thing was huge. It was more like one of those old Army eight-man arctic tents, the ones supported by a huge pole in the middle; only this one was covered in black cocktail dress fabric rather than Army drab canvas.

One would think that I'd be repulsed by such a sight, but strangely, I wasn't. Instead, I was fascinated and more than a little bit excited. Soon my hand found its way down to my little soldier's bivoac area where it began to run Private Johnson through a close order drill.

I don't think there's anything wrong with that. She has breasts, soft skin, long silky hair, an adam's apple, and a johnson. I'd say that's a 2:1 ratio of lady parts to man parts. That makes her a woman in my book.

She noticed me as she awoke and smiled when she saw what I was doing. "Come on," she yelled to me as she lifted herself from the floor, "let's get a beer."

"My Left Nutmeg," Sen. Lieberman screamed before I could warn Ann.

"Uhhhh...bloggers are dirty hippies," Lanny Davis proclaimed in translation.

"Boom," Joe put another .357 slug through the keg.

That was too much for Ann. She might be a big fan of carpet bombing and torture, but by God, you don't mess with her beer. She crossed the bunker in a flash, disarming Joe before anyone could react. Then, after punching the Senator in the testicles three times for good measure, she turned to me and said, "You're hurt, come with me back to my hotel. We'll have some drinks and I'll sew you up."

So that's how I made my escape from Joe Lieberman's command bunker. I think I'll end the story here, since I didn't blog the election anymore after that. Heck, I don't even know who won.

I've spent the day with Ann, considering various aspects of morality and traditional family values that I hadn't thought existed until now. For instance, although Leviticus tells us it's wrong for a man to lie with a man as he does a woman, it's silent about a woman lying with a man like a man would lie with a woman. Heck, I'm fairly certain that wouldn't even qualify as adultery even if the woman in question made you wear a dog collar and called you "her bitch."

I hope Ofjoshua buys that.