Seeing Russia

Quick back-story: When I was a senior in high school, someone attempted to assassinate then-Vice President Dick Cheney.

Throughout the course of human history, this has happened several times. Mostly because Dick Cheney has been alive for most of human history (ooo, obvious burn!).

However, as a high-school student in east Tennessee, and one of the only five members of our school's Young Democrats club, I couldn't resist being a little snarky about it. Also, at this point of our lives, I'd already been cautioned against snarking about "Freedom fries" in the cafeteria and why the debate team never got pep rallies (which is totally unrelated to politics. I just thought it was unfair).

Anyway, shortly after this assassination  attempt, my English teacher launched into a diatribe about how terrorists' true goals are to destroy American morale. Naturally, I thought it would be remiss of me not to mention that, um, everybody hates Dick Cheney. I also suggested that if terrorists had wanted to kill someone truly important, maybe they should've targeted Fonzie.

Just to be clear: Happy Days and Scream are two of my favorite things on Earth. They both feature Henry Winkler. Also, dude wrote a children's book about a dyslexic mouse. I sincerely hope with all my heart that nothing bad ever, ever happens to Henry Winkler.

Apparently, exalting Henry Winkler as a key piece of Americana is, ironically, anti-American, which is punishable by detention. And it's probably not a coincidence that that was the only year the Young Democrats club existed.

Yeah... that wasn't really a quick backstory. That was a friggin' long backstory. Sorry.

The point is, Republicans and I frequently find ourselves at a cross-purpose. The only thing that can possibly bridge that gap is, as always, my slightly pathological need to tell lies and my fainter, but always obnoxious, sense of vigilante justice.

Recently, I found myself in a conversation with several aged hippies. Normally, aged hippies are my third favorite people on Earth, falling behind aged ballerinas and children who think they're Batman.

But for whatever reason, these aged hippies were really getting on my nerves. Maybe because hippies who live in log cabins in unincorporated parts of town, while carrying iPhones, strike me as an eensy bit hypocritical. Maybe I was just having a rough day.

Or maybe I just wanted to be a bitch. It's possible.

Anyway, the aged hippies started in on a Sarah Palin diatribe. Normally, I would be thrilled that someone in east Tennessee dared tarnish anyone in the Grand Old Party. But like I said, I was in a foul mood. And when the hippie lady said, "I hope you guys aren't offended, but..." something in me popped.

"Actually, I'm volunteering for her 2012 campaign."

Jaws literally dropped. The aged hippies edged away from me. THE HIPPIES DIDN'T WANT TO BE MY FRIEND ANYMORE. It was terrible.

But not terrible enough to stop lying. So I went more in-depth about my 2008 experiences going door-to-door, because my sorority supported a "strong, beautiful woman in charge, who doesn't have to be a total shrew like Hillary Clinton."


My inner feminist died that day. And my inner writer/ feminist/ real person died further when I said, "And ohmigod, I hate Tina Fey. She's made like, millions off wearing glasses like Sarah. Does no one notice that she's a total ripoff?"

Unfortunately, I didn't get a good look at the aged hippies' faces.

I was dying inside and had to stalk off.

I may still be a little dead inside from that one. So be prepared for a big, Tinkerbell "Ifyoubelieveinfairiesclapyourhands," soul-sustaining lie to come down the pike.

It's going to be AWESOME.