You arrive at your parent’s house. Hmmm, lots of cars out front, including a stretch limo. You open the front door holding a pumpkin pie and a bottle of Reisling.
As you head towards the kitchen, you see them – Michele and Marcus Bachmann. Standing by themselves in the fully decorated dining room. They seem to be hovering over a specific chair. Your chair! Their eyes are closed. They’re mumbling. What are they doing? Praying. Praying over your place setting.
Michele whispers, “Please save Helen. Please save her and all the sinners, particularly all those sinners in those godforsaken Scandinavian countries like Norway.”
It could happen. Heck, it has happened before.*
You toss and turn again. You can smell the sweat coming off the running back, someone tugs at your jersey…NOPE! That’s your bladder and that’s your hand, tugging at your pants.
You need to use the bathroom. It was a long car ride. You’ve had some coffee and just started on the Reisling. You need to go!
Here, out of my good conscience, I must warn you! If you are a lesbian and intend to use the bathroom in the general locale where Michele Bachmann is present you must take precautions. Make sure that immediately after you exit said bathroom that you seek out witnesses and remain where they can see you.
This may sound alarmist, but as history shows no lesbian (or nun) is safe when it comes to Michele and the women’s restroom.**
Sure enough, as your family is about to sit down at the table – Michele goes missing.
Small shrieks are heard from the bathroom. “Help, Help,” she cries. “I’m being held against my will!”
Your father leaves and returns with a distraught Michele. Bachmann wasting no time points a finger at you and screams, “That barbarian held me captive in the bathroom. I had to wash my face in the bidet!”
My advice – let your father handle it. He should respond with something like, “Michele, knock it off. That bathroom door sticks and Helen was playing with the kids outside.”
Oh, it could happen, folks. Heck, it already has. (See Batshit in the Bathroom, below.)
You pull the sheets up around your neck and slam the football into the turf celebrating your touchdown in the endzone! No, wait – now you’re at a party, you’re exhausted because…
You’re stuffed. You’ve kicked off your shoes and the tryptophan is working its magic. You enjoy a quick snooze.
Moments later, you awake with a start. One of your nephews gives you a nudge and points at the couple standing over you.
It’s Marcus and Michele again. This time they’re both wearing matching, hand-crafted, headdresses and speaking in tongues. Unfortunately, this ain’t the Ya Ya Sisterhood. This is the Bachmann’s trying to pray your gay away.
They’ve done it before! Or so they say.***
My advice here – defend yourself! Grab a sofa cushion and try to beat some sense into them. It can’t hurt.
You sober up. It’s post-Thanksgiving, days later and your dreaming has changed. Now, you only dream that you’re Anita Hill and Herman Cain is telling you…there’s a “pube on your Coke”.
You receive a bill from Bachmann and Associates for “conversion therapy”. $75.00 to be exact.
My advice – ignore it. After all, you’ll be in good company.****
Think of it as civil, nonsense, disobedience.
Now, wake up! Because you are not, in reality, Helen Lafave or a Bachmann. For the latter, you should be very, very thankful.