So I had a little Squeaky Fromme moment yesterday in the Austin airport. My amazingly wonderful Beloved was whisking me away for a surprise birthday celebration and we decided to grab a quick bite. There, in line for Salt Lick barbecue, was the devil himself, Karl Rove. So much for appetite.
As I watched the beady eyed fucker wait his turn, I ran through a series of scenarios in my head. I could just run up and kill him. Sure I'd wind up in prison, but the world would be a better place, no? Then I realized that's a bit like closing the barn door after the cows have gotten out. I mean, honestly, hasn't he pretty much connived himself into irrelevance?
So maybe an "accident" where I turn suddenly with a milkshake in my hand, dumping the entire contents of my glass on his traveling clothes. He'd either have to change clothes and shove his sticky ones in his bag, or travel sticky. Either way, an appealing option for my devious and vindictive mind.
Eventually, I settled on the perfect plan. I'd sidle up to him casually, then give him a big wet one right on the lips. Give him something gay to think about.
But wouldn't I really be the one who was punished in that scenario? Blechh! It would be like kissing the crypt keeper.
In the end, I simply ate my tacos and glared at the man responsible for the near downfall of our country and wished him a bad case of heartburn. God knows he gave us all one.