The Beauty of the Conservative Fox

If asked to punish the opposition to my political dreams, the very soul that wishes to crush me and leave me for dead inside a trash compactor outside of Louisville, there are truly only two considerable options that rush blindly through my mind.  The first, of course, is to hate them with every fiber of my being and to spend the rest of my life committing a whole overflowing cornucopia of sins in order to extinguish their flame.  Or I could date them – considering the female gender specifically – and put them through all of the lukewarm Applebee’s dinners they can swallow before sucking them dry through the torment of marriage.

Ah, sweet sadistic fantasies – will you ever leave my mind?

God forbid they ever crawl from my ears like tarantulas of virtue.  A tarantula of virtue that keeps reminding me (in the sacred language of the arachnids, very tricky – very tricky!) that I find the conservative breed the most alluring.  And after years of dating soppy liberals with sloughs of social problems and an overwhelming lack of foresight, I am ready to admit that the liberal end of the political spectrum is the weakest of possible options.  Feminists eating feminists and spike-haired teetotalers are damn attractive – damn attractive! – but lack the little twist that I so much enjoy.  It’s amazing how conventional and expected the life of a drug addict is.  Waking up and going to “work”, at different times of course, but always maintaining a similar routine that seems mundane for the subject at hand.

If you’re going to lead a life of hard drugs, abuse, or simple excess… you better stand out every once in a while.  You’ll be forgotten – (And the corpse will rot without notice.)

And the beauty of the conservative female is as follows: Passionate structure.  It no longer matters that your views are incorrect, (or misguided, or ignorant, or perhaps just obsolete,) but instead that you believe in something at all.  You believe that the lives of coulda-beens and shoulda-beens are more important than our society of ares – maybe you’re right!  Perhaps my eyes have been blinded by the stinging sweat of nervous do-gooders.  And damn! I’ve invested so much!  But that’s why I have my soft spot for you, righty foxes, and even your mothers, as well.

Two champagne glasses filled with gorgeous certainty and unrivaled confidence create the legs of the ideal conservative woman.  Perfectly tanned – spoiled even – by a sun that has shone just for them.  And in turn, they shine for me.  For you.  For everyone, some would insist.  It was Winston Churchill who once said, “The perfect set of legs could make me a Nazi in seconds.”  Don’t look that up, it’s speculative at best, but a valid point all the same.  (Churchill thought it, I’m sure, and isn’t that good enough?)  And I say in complete seriousness, with a hastily mixed concoction of shame and pleasure smeared across my face, that a sincere Republican woman is more attractive than her counterpart.

But Christ! Have I gone soft?  Have I lost all sense of convictions?  Have I been snagged by the evil glue that seeped from the pores of Richard Nixon?  The same disgusting paste that some life-long Republicans can’t seem to pry themselves away from?  Have I lost my mind to the extent that I would chance my entire life in the hands of a right-wing nutjob in high heels?

Yes – and it’s a beautiful downfall that tastes sweeter with each passing day.

And I’d fill an entire newspaper with personal ads suggesting the very same treacherous thought that I’ve been hinting at for so long: The young Republican woman, (much like the ideal young Republican male,) has class.  A shine.  A dare I say blissful quality that has no competition, and unsurpassed brilliance in moments of defense.  When they argue, they make me smile.  And when they win, in those rare and bittersweet moments, I get butterflies as though I were performing “Stairway to Heaven” on an ivory kazoo at Wembley Stadium.  A certain wonderfully nervous moment I can’t suppress with distain for neo-con rhetoric.  Five spoonfuls of liberal sugar get all lumped up in my throat.  It’s a tremendous, awful experience I always treasure behind closed doors.

Doors I have used to hide shrines of Republican idols, both named Mike.  Wallace and Ditka, respectively, make me grit my teeth with anxious frustration.  And doors that hide file cabinets of complaints about immigration, and concessions to faith-based ideologies, and certain sympathies for Nixon.  He thought he was right!  Go figure.  And I’ve come to accept such pitiful excuses from lizards of California politics. 

And the hope – the subtle dream – is that behind a closed door lies a beautiful right-wing fanatic who can agree to disagree.  Or at least is willing to fight dirty – the only way to fight – with chairs, or lamps, or the overturned urn of my Libertarian father smashed across both our skulls, leaving us in a swirling pile of blood and filth and rhetoric.  And love.  Perhaps not the same dream that Dr. King shared with the masses, but a vision of perfection nonetheless.

And a wonderful realization of insanity.