Vice Presidential Fantasies

Finally, a vice presidential candidate I could see myself sleeping with. O sure, there was Walter Mondale–Wally–who fired my loins as a young man. I touched his hand–once, fleetingly–in a hotel ballroom in Louisville, Kentucky. I will never forget that day. He looked down at me with those soft midwestern peepers, and I could hardly contain myself. His manner spoke political loser, but he communicated with me, personally, an altogether different story. It’s something we shared, and it’s something you will never understand. 

George Bush–he was a looker as young man: Ivy boy, stud ball player, skull and bones necro-monger. His heyday was far before mine, and I could only see him as the happy, silly, avuncular type. No fantasy seemed right when GW was the VP. And with Barbara hovering about the edges, I always felt as if I were in for a spanking.

Dan Quayle was another animal altogether: corn-fed Indiana party boy, I could imagine him swingin’ from the chandeliers after a long night of blow and Jack Daniels. I bet the smile never left his face. Golden boy VP:  Where are you now? Where are you now?

It was always tough to have a full-blown VP fantasy about Al Gore, not because there’s anything wrong with Geek sex, but because Gore hovered in the shadow of an enormous presidential ID. Imagining Al undressed took full concentration, for the huckleberry face of ole Bill Clinton himself always wedged its way into my image bank. But that’s been Gore’s lot, hasn’t it? Nobel Prize notwithstanding, he will always be the sapling struggling to reach the light. 

And so we are blessed, my friends, with uber-fertile VP candidate Palin, whose brood is testament to this Brave New World. Let’s have more candidates about whom we suspect: they may be wearing something really interesting underneath all of those platitudes. And I’m not talking about Temple Garments.

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