Star Spangled Bummer

Tourists stink.

I'm serious. They righteously smell.

There's nothing worse than jogging Duke of Gloucester St. in the 95 degree heat (with a humidity index of 105 slapping your lungs), and encountering a crowd of freshly scrubbed tourists.

Unruly armies of shampoo, deodorant, lotion, lip balm, perfume, and sunscreen assault your senses. These battling aromas linger in the haze until defeated by a festering pile of horse manure, or a rebellious libertarian smoker.

Angry smokers of all stripes who feel deprived because they've been stripped of their legal right to puff their fragrant cancer sticks amongst the pristine lungs of day-tripping elementary students, must surely love Colonial Williamsburg's "by, for, and of the people", anti-government message. Cigar smokers in particular seem emboldened by cries regarding "no taxation without representation."

Sometimes I ignore smokers and sometimes I emit a loud cough. Considering the combined, unfriendly to the lungs effects of humidity and phlegm, I figure I can out run the worst offenders.

First week of the month, here in our neighborhood, everyone stood in front of their closets and agonized over the selection of appropriate seersucker attire to wear to a sweltering, outdoor venue.

Ken's annual Fourth of July BBQ started with a bang. He greeted guests by extending his usual hospitality, and the viewing pleasure of his pro-Rush Limbaugh t-shirt, which he announced he'd "worn just to rile the liberals."

After positioning himself behind the grill, spatula in hand (looking every bit the reincarnation of Julius Caesar), Ken launched into a rigorous and humorous defense of Mr. Limbaugh, who had recently been arrested for carrying a (then said to be) illegally prescribed bottle of Viagra.

Since it's only appropriate that parties in the former colonial capital contain a bit of soapbox grandstanding, no one bats an eye at such demonstrations. Lack of sweet tea could cause a riot; but political commentary, no.

Still, one factor (other than fear that my dress would reveal a giant, sweaty butt stain once I rose from my lawn chair) annoyed me...the presence of "the Panglers."

The Panglers are social climbers of the worst kind and from what I've seen of their efforts, not very successful; but you've got to hand it to them because they keep on trying.

If Mr. Pangler spies someone important whom he fears hasn't had the benefit of his Rolex, he'll corner the poor soul and begin telling his life's story, including the fascinating part about his career at Perdue (think chickens, not the university), and he'll stand, like an insane orchestra conductor, waving his heavily tanned, black-haired thicket of a wrist in the listener's face. It's quite an experience, especially if Pangler is wielding a fork.

Although I know it isn't true, it seems like only minutes after we'd watched the fireworks display and sang, "by the rocket's red glare" that bombs were exploding in midair over Beirut.

This latest snafu prompted international statesman extraordinaire, George W. Bush, to share his diplomatic wisdom with fellow G8 Conference attendee and perpetual tail-wagger, Tony Blair: "...what they need to do is get Syria to get Hezbollah to stop doing this shit and it's over."

Blair responded by saying, "Just a sec. Hold that thought. I'll be right back as soon as I put the kettle on."

He then slipped out a back door, boarded one of Sir Richard Braniff's Virgin Galactic spacecrafts, and blasted himself to Pluto (cost to the British taxpayer: 10 million pounds and a year's supply of salt and vinegar crisps).

Meanwhile, back at the Kremlin, Vladimir Putkin was unable to comment on the startling diplomatic remark, as he was busy in his office, listening to R. Kelly cds and interviewing prospective, male preschool candidates who looked "unable to defend themselves, yet hungry for love."

How bizarre are the times in which we live? Just a few weeks ago we celebrated the joys of American citizenship with a display of patriotic fervor.

Now the Bush administration is telling American citizens that they must pay or sign IOUs in order to be evacuated from a war zone. Like, what, Triple A?

Seriously, do you think any government official will cross check the passports and IOUs?

Sometime In The Future At The U.S. State Dept., 007 Foggy Bottom Rd.: "Okay. Now here, we got us a passport that says 'Ralph Smith,' and an IOU that's signed, 'Muhbalzishari.' Them don't match."

I feel a presidential news conference coming on:

"Take that and stuff it up your Sallie Maes, you elitist study abroad students. As for the rest of ya, that'll fix ya for visitin' yer elderly, near to death A-Rab relatives. Spend your next vacation in the good ole U.S. of A., maybe down in New Orleans, where you'll be safe."

"As for complaints about our slow-movin' evacalation...ejaculation...I mean, evacuation efforts, I think Brownie's doin' a great job! Good work, Brownie! Bring it on! Mission accomplished!"

One wonders what evil Dick Cheney is brewing while we citizens are monitoring the space shuttle with one eye, and the Middle East with the other...um, did the space shuttle land?

Okay, maybe ten people watched the space shuttle stuff. But still, one wonders. I especially wonder if the French regret calling us a "hyperpower."

Shoot, ya'll! We can't even transport a boatload of people to Cyprus, never mind their luggage. You know those suitcases are going to end up in Beijing, don't you.

And poor Condi Rice is going to have to travel to China and sit amongst the cig-loving communists and swallow raw fish heads and barter for the battered luggage's release by trading top secret stealth satellite laser technology, which the Chinese will immediately improve and sell to the rest of the world at bargain-basement prices which will cause more wars to commence and pharmaceutical stock to rise due to the increased need for Viagra.

Shew!

Maybe it's a good thing those smelly, old tourists are safe and sound here in Williamsburg.

Plus, they keep the property tax down.

"Let freedom ring!"

Huzzah!