Wendigo waits for me—on the other side of the gate. I lay sleepless on another hot, sticky night, bedclothes clammy as winding sheets; I smell the musty, thick-clotted bayou-stink of her ancient evil, hear the gasping wheeze of her abattoir-flavored breath and the flop and rustle of her foul tail in the dewy grass. Yes, Wendigo waits for me, a gross, eager bride, a sluttish coquette, crooning her grotesque invitation to blend with the cry of the loon and the yelp of the hoodoo. “Come rumba, my juicy Muppet, under the wan light of the ruptured moon. It’s not too late to join the party. Cross the gate—to the GOP!”
One step beyond, and our thick-hided succubus would snatch me up with one swift, undulating snap of her leathery trunk. And as I squirmed and squeaked like a plump, wriggling rat in a fat weasel’s mouth, she’d lumber back to her dark, noisome nest in triumph. Because Wendigo is the perfect incarnation of the compassionate conservative: all sly, smarmy, sweet talk and fuzzy promises, cuddly and inclusive--until the election is won and it’s time to divvy up the meat.
Happily, the morning light helps dispel the clinging horror. PeeWee and Tweeter seem OK: their eyes aren’t murky or glazed; I detect no stench of ripe pet-cemetery clay; no rabid froth bubbles from their whiskery lips; no zombie-lurch disfigures their frisky gaits. So they haven't been born again as right-wing fundamentalists! Hurray! In jubilation, I scoop them up for a quick Texas two-step around the room.
Of course, the first visit to the bathroom is never easy. Is the naked, primping, hate-worm riddled she-corpse lolling in the bathtub, smiling her lipless leer of enticement; will she stretch out her maggoty arms, her sharp, dirty finger-and-toenails for me? I tiptoe into the tiny room, shuddering in dread, straining to pierce the cloudy veil of the shower curtain. Is that her shadow, coiled to lurch out like a Convention-Republican-in-the-Box and shriek "Drill, baby, drill!" (No matter how we try to prepare ourselves, that always scares the shite out of me and the cats.) I sniff the air like a nervous prairie dog: is the thick smell of rot and death outside normal bathroom parameters? I slowly lift the restroom machete, and then, jerk back the curtain!
Thank you, Jesus! Not today!" Big sigh of relief. (Though the combination of machete and elbow grease usually suffices to settle Ms. Coulter's bathtub contretemps, it's a nasty, nasty job, not to mention cleaning the grout afterward.) Nope, nothing but a grimy tub and a daddy long legs, to whom I bellow a hearty good morning.
Tender mercies: the small blessings in life remind us of God’s infinite, if inconsistent, love for us, his lab monkeys.
Heading to the carport, I glance beyond the gate at the circle of rank, crushed grass where something monstrous slept last night: Wendigo. I knew it. Damn, that’s going to need new seed and fertilizer, and maybe some sharp Punjabi sticks to discourage the pest's return. Beyond lies the depression where the lizard people landed their ship, hooked me, Jeannine and the cats up in gloopy vats to recharge their batteries, and then distributed their “I'm NRA & I Vote!” bumper stickers. Which reminds me: I still need to make an appointment to have the Patriot-Act tracking cylinder removed from my sinus before allergy season begins.
The rest of the day is uneventful: driving to work, no grunting, four-legged, gore-snouted Fattycakes-Limbaugh darts out from the car radio to drag me back into the endless rows of rotting corn; the office elevator is not filled to the brim with blood; the shambling living-dead who stalk the hallways are only my fellow real-estate agents heading to the coffee machine and donut box. A deranged dyslexic has lipsticked “!REDRUM” across the restroom mirror, but that happens every Monday. Everything is quiet. Too quiet perhaps. Later, during our weekly session, Dr. Dobson, my new pediatrician, suggests that I’m a paranoid, hysterical, schizoid liberal with a homosexual agenda, yadda, yadda ya. He's old-school family values, so he thinks I should be stripped, hooded, electro-shocked and put in an open-air cage until I'm "better." I begin to waver: after all he is a doctor. But his unblinking reptilian gaze, crusted scalpels and floor drains tell me he knows more than he lets on. Glancing up quickly, I catch him eyeballing the thick, pulsing carotid artery in my throat like Nosferatu. Then his eyes dart furtively to my loins. Dobson is all but smacking his flabby, gray lips. I think: Get in line, big boy—but I’m glad for the freshly sharpened garden stake tucked inside my briefcase.
Man, it's been a long day, so on my way home I pick up the new 1800-page Stephen King ("The Dark Gazebo, Book 8"), a quart of tangerine Nyquil, a bag of ice and a 2-lb can of Pringle's organic, free-range pork rinds. Yep, tonight I’m going to lay back, slide the TV-room axe under the couch, roll a couple of fat, medical-marijuana doobies, and just relax...escape the real world for a few blessed hours until "Buffy" comes on.
Jeez...doesn’t that sound nice?
And come election time, I'm voting Democrat: no matter how lame they can be (Oh Lordy, it boggles the mind), at least they're my own species.
Henry E. Panky
A Big-Tent Granfalloon for All Mankind
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