An Open Letter to Larry Craig:

I'm in a good mood. I'm sure the rug will get yanked out from underneath me, but... for now... good mood. As such, I'm back on my game. For now. Until I get the rug yanked out from under me.

Dear Larry Craig:

Sister, we. have. got. to. have. a. chat.

A wise man, Kenny Rogers, I believe, once said, "You gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em. Know when to walk away; know when to run..." Then he sings about drug dealing and counting chickens or something, I don't know -- I used to be stoned when I'd listen to that song.

Lar-bear, one girl to another -- it's time to walk, nay, run.

This whole "I'm not guilty! I was entrapped!" excuse? Ain't nobody buyin' it. Not me, not... um... anyone. (Psst! Not even your wife! She's just holding on long enough for your Senate term to end, then she's going to drop you like a hot stone. She just doesn't want the press all over her like they will be if she divorces you while you're still in the Senate.) Because, gay or not, every guy KNOWS bathroom etiquette. You know - pretending that everyone else in the bathroom isn't there, or if you're acknowledging their presence, it's to stay as far away from that person as possible. The only reason a guy sidles up to another guy in the bathroom is for fast, anonymous, unsatisfying bathroom sex. Not something I've ever been interested in, but if it floats your boat, and you're not hurtin' anyone else, do whatever feels good.

Except if you're doing it to a cop. That's bad news bears. Especially if you're doing it to a cop and you get CAUGHT.

See, because with what you were doing? There's no entrapment. You were the one tapping your foot. You were the one running your hands under the stall. You were the one eeking over and peeking over into the other guy's stall. In short, you were being creepy. No, you were being more than creepy. You were invading other people's privacy to the point of obviously trying to initiate something unsavory in the bathroom. The only way you could have gotten out of what you were doing (Which doesn't sound like pinching a loaf) would be if you called out, "CAN YOU SPARE A SQUARE!?"

But ya didn't, Lar, did ya?

No.

Instead of doing your doody and getting out of the bathroom (Ew. Who poos in an airport anyway?!) you lingered. And had a wide stance. And tapped your foot and signed your signals with a raging old-man boner.

And that, Larry Craig, is why you are guilty. And you tried to cover it up and make it go away... and then it reared its ugly head (and I'll get to that in a second, Karma, much?) and then suddenly you weren't so "guilty" were ya? Except that you were. And then you tried to withdraw your plea. And the judge wrote a FORTY ONE page order telling you where you could stuff that Motion to Withdraw the plea. And now... you're APPEALING the order?! It's like, dude, give it UP already! "I'M GOING TO SERVE THE PEOPLE OF IDAHO UNTIL 2008 LIKE I HAVE FOR THE PAST SEVENTY YEARS." How'd ya serve them? By voting against deee gayyyyyys? Hardly seems like a fulfilling career for you... especially now... you know... even though you're "not gay." (You just love to suck off men in filthy public bathrooms.)

We all love a good scandal. We especially love a good scandal when it refuses to die. (e.g. Spears, Britney) We especially, ESPECIALLY love a good scandal when it's served cold with a delumptious scoop of schadenfreude (literally: Harmjoy!)

And you bet your wrinkly gay old-man ass there's a helluvalotta schadenfreude going on. Especially among us homo-sexuals. Are you fucking joking?! I'm eating this shit up with a spoon, no, I'm supping it off a ladle. I'm wolfing it off a trencher. To quote the slogan of one of my favorite restaurants, "I'm lovin' it."

And at the same time, I should be thanking you, Lurry. Lurrah. Lurrah Craaaaig. Thank you, Lurrah Craig, and Mark Foley. Thanks for letting your uncontrollable urges chip the whitewash off the party of "Family Values." Off hanging on Jesus' every word when it's convenient, and ignoring them when it's not.

It's delightful to watch Karma dance her slow, undulating minuet, and expose your hipocracy. It's better than an open-faced-gravy-covered turkey sammich with mashed 'taters. And those of you who know me, know how much I love my open-faced turkey sammiches.

Honestly, what I almost wish, is that I could be seated in a rolly chair, harnessed to your back, and you were pulling me around, so I could just watch everything that's happening to you, while eating a gigantic tub of buttered popcorn. When something particularly awkward happened, I would sputter soggy, half-chewed popcorn and point a butter-slick finger at you, and loudly guffaw at your misfortune.

Because... um... you deserve it.

My parents asked me (because I'm their ambassador to all things Gay, despite being VERY bad at being Gay (shut up, Andy.) what I thought about what was happening to him. My response, "I love it." And I do. I fuckin' love it.

So, Larry, my point is this: You've made your bed. You're a big boy. Your party is the party of "consequences" or... whatever. So, accept the consequences. You were creepy, and you wanted to put your mouth on another guy's wang in a public bathroom. I have no problem with you wanting to put your mouth on another guy's wang. I'm so liberal, I don't even care if you're doin' it in a public bathroom! That's filthy, sexy hot! Not my scene, but, get down with your bad self! You only live once, right?! As my lil' bro used to think the phrase was, "Throw Kasha into the wind!" You probably hook up in bathrooms a lot, and usually it doesn't nip you in the tushy (although, icky bathroom sex just seems so...dated... so... pre-Internet.) But this time, it did. Now, had you not been a TOTAL ASSHOLE to the Gays, and had you just sort of been an alright guy towards your own people, we wouldn't have sold you up the river. But if you get caught sucking guys off in Union Station and then AGAIN in a Minneapolis bathroom, and you've been particularly narst towards us, well... we're a powerful people.

We'll fucking crush you.

I mean, not me, I got no power, but other gays. Lurking in the dark, velvet wings of this Country.

So, you rolled the dice, and you got snake-eyes. Your number was up. This STILL wouldn't have been such a big deal if you had just stuck to your story, "I plead guilty to get rid of it." I mean, it's a MISDEMEANOR you've been charged with, for goodness' sake!

But methinks she doth protest too much.

And so... you ruined your career, and... your marriage. ::Whooomp-Whoooomp!::

So, like, Larry... give it a rest. Your nightmare will be over if you just let the system work its course. It's like struggling against a python. The more you wiggle, the tighter it gets. (Ooh, that sounds filthy!) Shut up, sit down, take your medicine like a man, and stop being such a fucking fag about this.

Because... the sooner you drop out of the national eye, the sooner you can get back to manning the I-95 Reststop at Laurel, or a Barnes n' Noble bathroom in Dupont...

And, level with me, brah, isn't that all you really want?

I'm glad we had this chat. Peace, donkey.

Oh, University of Miami Law.

I have two alma mater(s?). Wisconsin is the school I attended with pride. University of Miami-Law is the school that I gave a ton of money to, and could burn down tomorrow for all I care. It was a means to a piece of paper that was my ticket to sit for a test. I'll sooner cut out my liver and eat it than I'll give Miami money.

Still, the ole' Green n' Orange (or whatever our colors are... Poinciana and mold?) has been taking a bit of a hit this week. Which is not surprising, given, oh, many reason.

Anyway, emails are buzzing through cyberspace, crowing that a professor has allegedly been arrested for alleged solicitation of a prostitute. If that wasn't enough... now we have this:



If I had ever bothered to learn Miami's fight song, I'd sing it now. But... I never cared enough to learn it. So, instead, I'll just point and laugh while singing, "Varrrrrrsity... Varrrrrrsity... U-Rah-Rah, Wisssscoooooooonnnnnsiiiiinnnnnn, Praise tooooooooooooo thee we sing (We sing!). Praiiiiiiiiiise to thee our Al-Ma-Ma-Ter, Uuuu-Raaaaah-Raaaah, Wii-iii-iiis-coooooo-oooon-sin!"

What that song means, I'll never know. All I know is, it sounds creepy and old. I always thought our song should be "On Wisconsin!" but I guess that's our fight song... who knows... who cares anymore.