I ducked as I exited Chopper IV in Crawford and slid into the waiting leather of my limo. I straightened my bow tie, and whisked a small smudge off my tuxedo shoes. Sharon Stone seated next to me shivered in the unseasonably cool Texas weather and sidled closer. She snuggled up to me, nuzzling her head on my shoulder. "Thanks for having me," I murmured. It was her invite that had me on the guest list at Jenna's wedding.
Well, let me just say this about the wedding itself: They didn't stint. Laura and George were beaming and,like Babs and Poppy, seemed sober enough to actually be cognizant of where they were (though Poppy smelt like he had spent the night as an olive swimming in a giant martini.)
Jenna looked ravishing though it was obvious to me she had (once again) forgone panties--she won't be a Victoria's Secret spokesmodel anytime soon, believe you me. And who wears panties under their de la Renta gown these days anyway?
While "Hank" was snorting cocaine in the Bush family restroom, I took the pantyless Jenna for a spin on the dance floor. She cooed in my direction and said to me, "I want you to fuck me like a sailor on shore leave." I furtively squeezed her well-worn bosom. "I need me a good Semite schtup. A good Jew-boy poking." "Who doesn't?" was my characteristically laconic riposte. Minutes later after Jenna screamed (a bit too loudly for my liking) "Mission Accomplished," she staggered out of the coat room, her place taken by the catatonic Laura. "Give me your 'Axis of Evil,'" she demanded and seconds later she exhaustedly exhaled, "Heckuva job, Georgie. Heckuva job." I zipped up and skedaddled before the possibility of Babs' wanting a quick "spin" for old-time's sake.
Back on the dance floor again with Jenna whom I couldn't shake. She whispered in my ear that, confidentially, she was working on getting my Secret Service nickname changed to"Air Fuck One," but with that, Sharon cut in and Hank finally stumbled out of Casa Cocaine to assume the position.
What a gal! What a wedding! What a night.
1 comment:
Were Uncle Dick and Aunt Lynne there at the former pig farm (not a horse ranch)?
Did you look at the pampered face of the groom-to-be and think of our soldiers in Iraq sleeping in sand holes? As always, the working class does the fighting and dying and paying and the Bushies/Hagers' of the world do the partying. Drink up.
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