Heart of Dorkness (I Love the Smell of Vaseline in the Morning)

Sen. Gordon Smith took me down to meet my crew. There's something very fishy about that guy. He's always looking around as if he's afraid someone might spot him with Republicans. It's as if he's ashamed of all the success we've achieved over the last 4 years. I was relieved when our stroll down to the crew ended.

They were standing next to an old, beat up Chevy Suburban. It was covered from bumper to bumper with faded bumperstickers from the glory days--declarations of "Remember Ruby Ridge," and "Communists Fluoridate," that kind of thing. This, I soon learned, would be our ride.

My crew was as sorry-ass a bunch as you'll find anywhere. They were led by a Congressman, Patrick McHenry, the kind of man who layers his nipples with gauze in a vain effort to hide the tell- tale shape of nipple rings. Such subterfuge never works with a man like him. The padding only accentuates the enormity of his manbreasts, drawing attention to them and the unmistakable bulge of, well, nipple rings blanketed with gauze.

My driver was Jonah Goldberg, a guy who fights fascism wherever it isn't. He's cognitive dissonance personified and stuffed in a bottle of Mountain Dew and a dishevelled bag of Cheetos. Hopefully, it won't be lunchtime when the shit hits the fan.

Rep. Michele Bachmann is riding shotgun. Her main job is to point at people and scream, "WITCH."

Michele Malkin is in the back with me. As far as I can tell, she's there to inspire fear and to bite things and people.

Introductions were brief, then we hit the road. Now a Suburban is a big, roomy outfit, but I quickly learned not big enough if you're stuck in one with Rep. Bachmann. She never stops talking, yet, she never really says anything either. It's all just a word salad: "communists unamerican demons kielbasa homosexuals afro-americans Bobby Sherman." She was like that for hours. It put Malkin so on edge we had to stop at every rest stop so she could bite someone.

Rep. Bachmann finally shut up about 40 miles out of Colorado Springs. It was there that the Suburbans neglected engine finally burned up. Apparently, checking the oil seemed a bit too much like regulation to the RNSC, so they refused to do it on principle.

We had the truck towed into town and got an estimate from the mechanic. It seemed steep, but we wanted to get back on the road so we handed over the RNSC credit card. He ran it, looked at the receipt that printed out, reached into a drawer, pulled out a pair of scissors, and cut the card in half. "The bank told me to do this; you should pay your bills," he said.

So there we were, stuck in Colorado Springs without a car or money for food and lodging. All seemed lost until Rep. Bachmann started screeching. "Call Dr. Dobson," she said, putting together her first complete sentence of the trip, "call him, call him, call him!" So I did. He seemed a little reluctant to help at first, because I'm a Mormon--or whore of Babylon as he called it--but then he asked me about all the giggling and squealing. When I explained it was Rep. Bachmann, he said he'd come straight over and pick us up. Apparently, he's a big fan of Bachmann's.

"I'll get you a car," Dobson promised upon arrival, "but you have to let me see Rep. Bachmann rebuke some sinners; I've read all about her; now I want to see her in action."

After explaining that our new vehicle would be delivered at our destination, Dobson drove us to a club named "The Wild Worm," where a dancing group called "The Chippendales" were appearing. They were unlike any dancing group I'd ever seen. Each dancer would come onto the stage dressed like a cop or a fireman and strip down to nothing but a tiny bit of cloth against which his massive member strained mightily.

The moment she saw the dancers, Rep. Bachmann fell to the floor ,and her body, filled with the Holy Spirit, began writhing and shaking in time with the heavy bass beat of the music. Grinding her pelvis against the floor, she began rebuking the dancers. "Rigid rods of unrighteousness," she screamed, "Hard harbingers of Hell bearing Beezlebob's boners!"

The Holy Spirit became stronger within her as she issued her rebukes and soon spread to the rest of us. Mrs. Malkin lunged at a dancer, biting him on the thigh and Rep. McHenry stripped down to his briefs and began anointing another with oil, or actually, Vaseline since that's all he had.

Dr. Dobson stripped off his belt and began rubbing his manparts frantically against a table while shouting, "go my wicked little dachshund, rebuke them with all thine might or you will feel the lash of my terrible belt!"

Jonah headed straight to the bar and started downing ever bowl of rice snacks in sight.

All this rebuking, biting, anointing, chowing, and threatened dachshund discipline didn't go down well with the wicked. They began wrestling us and tearing off our clothes. Soon, we became little more than a huge greasy ball of naked flesh, flailing belts, and probing man-poles-- all in all it was the most wondrous rebukement I've ever experienced, but we were soon spent.

We laid on the floor for awhile catching our breath and listening to the music and the steady cadence of Jonah's grazing. 

Dr. Dobson spoke first: "Smell that? You smell that?"

"What?" I responded.

"Vaseline, son," he continued, "nothing in the world smells like that. I love the smell of Vaseline in the early morning. You know, one time we rebuked a leather festival for 12 hours. When it was all over, there wasn't a single person who could sit. The smell, you know that petroleum jelly smell, the whole club reeked of it. Smelled like... the Rapture. Someday Jesus's gonna come."

Here's the keys to your new car," he concluded, "it's a '74 Pinto; you'll love it."

Tomorrow: Never get out of the Pinto.

Heart of Dorkness Index
1. Prologue
2. The Mission
3. I Love the Smell of Vaseline in the Morning
4. Never Get Out of the Pinto
5. The Horror