The Smear Sheet

The author is reporting from D.C., in a mall full of hipsters and hippies all looking to restore sanity, and someone named Molly.
A bizarro world was revealed on Sunday when Republican National Committee chairman Michael “Not of” Steele and Republican smear-mongerer Karl “Turd Blossom” Rove appeared on opposite talk shows. As Steele insisted on having no knowledge of shadow groups pumping billions (yes, billions – this election will cost $3.2 billion) into Congressional races on “Meet the Press,” Rove brought papers proving the dirty money and donor nondisclosures to “Face the Nation.” Steele is under fire in his party for not raising enough or supporting GOP candidates in need, yet still predicted, “An unprecedented wave on election day that’s going to surprise a lot of people.” Meanwhile, from his alternative universe, Rove is flush with cash and blaming “liberals” for inventing this mess, calling it and the Tea Party, “wholesome, patriotic and incredibly positive for the country.”

The author is reporting from a shale formation, selling shares to suck methane.
A former governor's son, former Madam, homophobic slumlord and the “Rent is Too Damn High” party candidate are all standing on a stage… The start of a hilarious joke? Nope, the New York State gubernatorial debate. I met one of these fine candidates years ago (maybe two, if the Madam's employees count), Carl Paladino jacking up prices at his gas pumps before our meeting, so let's just say the Empire State will also be won by “none of the above.”

The author is wondering why FoxNews.com reads like TheOnion.com. Hilarious headlines abound!
Things not to do if considering running for elected office: Confess on camera to being a witch and giving SNL a reason to stay on the air; pose in photographs dressed as a Nazi; question capitalism or electioneering; write a political column that mocks everyone. Indeed, this has been a week of toxic triumphs for those needing delousing.

The author is reporting from a Druid gathering, a group now recognized as a religion in Britain, tax advantages and sexy cloaks included.
A lovely Virginia road a weekend ago, autumn leaves exploding, the terror of cop lights flashing ahead. Thinking they'd finally found me and wishing my dog Stu a swell life after I'm arrested, the signs became clear: “Thank God for Dead Soldiers” and “God Hates Fags.” Westboro Baptist Church had arrived, protesting a hero's funeral at the Williamsburg Community Chapel, somehow equating dead soldiers with their own (thus God's) disapproval of homosexuality in America. This flock is clearly lost, not in Kansas anymore, Virginia that day then D.C. to defend their 1st Amendment rights this week.

The author is reporting from a city infested by mutant monsters. Not another lame zombie or vampire flick, but New York City under siege by bedbugs.
Remember 1994? A half-million slaughtered in Rwanda, Nancy Kerrigan's knee clubbed to help Tonya Harding, O.J. “maybe” killing his wife and lover, Richard Nixon mercifully dying, and a guy who left his wife on her deathbed for a better offer named Newt Gingrich announcing something called “Contract With America.” That contract had eight key policy points, and helped Republicans win the midterm elections.

The author is reporting from Fort Pocahontas, not where John(s) Smith's and Rolfe's sexy squaw made camp, but where the United States Colored Troops defeated the Rebels in 1864.

So we're at “Bay Days” in Hampton, VA, (not to be confused with a fabulous fashion show in CA) looking for George Clinton and Parliament yet finding some crap country band instead, wondering where da funk be at. Asking one of the 22 crackers listening to some 9-11 patriotic heartburn we then learned that Parliament (George couldn't make it, maybe his hair wasn't feeling well) was performing on the other stage. You heard me right: On the 400th anniversary of “America's oldest continuously English speaking settlement,” music must still serve all sides – segregation based on the level of bass.

The author is reporting for Roanoke Island, N.C., pondering love, liberty and labor at “The Lost Colony.”

Hermann gets french fries and gravy on his dinner; Greta gets put on the back porch during prepping to prevent her from mounting a chair and rolling around kitchen, crazy yellow eyes scanning the counter as her gray snout slobbers. Stu is rather bemused by his Weimaraner cousins, content with a bowl of kibble and dose of Regain for his arthritis, floppy ears firm as Hermann whines for a walk and Greta yawns in confusion. Dogs are treated like Saudi royalty (men at least) at my cousins' home in Virginia, yet the same can't be said for minorities like our President.

The author reporting from Morehead, Kentucky, deep in research while on the road.
A woman asked if we can impeach President “Take Credit?” Obama somewhere in Utah, on another AM radio show almost as fair and balanced as NPR. And, as the host fumbled for a response, something about impeachment enraging and maybe motivating Democrat voters so close to the midterms, that's when the station faded. Then Christ spoke to me, a voice deep yet gentle, filling the Midwest with prayers and peace. And venom and toxic fear, homophobia so deep that only an early-teen experience could explain.

The author is gathering lawyers, guns and money for the launch of this new column.
Ten weeks from mid-term elections, when Republicans will supposedly sweep dozens of seats and maybe take back the House (according to pundits who get paid to enrage the public with unfounded rumors), the time has come to tally the damage done by this period of “hope.”