Friday, October 14, 2011

My Life: Moonbat Central

There I was, right in the middle of Moonbat Central.  Moonbats to the left of me, Moonbats to the right of me, Moonbats sneaking up behind me with all the stealth of a Canadian hockey team headed for their favorite watering hole just after the defeat of a long time rival.  I was outnumbered 30 to 1.  What could I do?  Clearly, fortification was needed.  Looking around in desperation I spotted the bar.  It was hidden away in a small room in the back, the entrance to which was obscured and effectively blocked by a pack of hoary Moonbats engaged in mutual self-abuse self-admiration.

Maybe I better back up and explain just what I was doing in Moonbat Central and how I came to acquire Big Mike's birthday present.  Mike turned 110 last Wednesday, so naturally I had to get him something special.

One way or another, I managed to get invited to the Toledo Press Club's Touchstone Awards.  I didn't want to go, but Mom got invited as well and since Mom doesn't do well drinking and driving at night, well, what else could I do?  I got my ears lowered and dressed my mother's favorite son out to the nines, then we departed for the Toledo Club.

The Toledo Club got started in 1879.  In 1915 the current location was opened to the members.  The cost to build this pile is listed at half a million dead presidents, but given the connections the members had I'm willing to bet they got a real deal on construction costs.  These days the Toledo Club is one of those places few of the great unwashed see the inside of much less get to enjoy past the time the doorman provides them with the traditional bum's rush.  The walls are paneled, museum quality artwork sets off furniture that wouldn't survive unscathed for ten minutes in a four star hotel and all the staff are attractive, female and pleasantly glad to see you.  The parking lot has a guard shack, a chain link fence topped with concertina and active 24 hour surveillance (the neighborhood is bad, and by that I mean downtown bad in a city where unemployment in the downtown area hovers around 25%).

The awards event is on the fifth floor, so we get to ride up in an elevator car that was brand new when Tommy Wilson was alive and well and living on Pennsylvania Avenue.  Again, wood paneling, nice fixtures and artwork.  As soon as I got off the elevator I knew I was in trouble.  Moonbats all over the place were showing their teeth and pretending how nice it was to see each other, yakking about The Anointed One in 2012 and His plans to bankrupt the nation by 2014.  I waded into the water and got my official name tag from a hottie at the Welcome! table, then I headed for the main room to snatch up some real estate and an alcoholic potable, not necessarily in that order.

According to the official agenda,  we were supposed to graze from 6:00 until 7:00, which is when the show would start.  I note that this isn't a cocktail party and we aren't having hors d'oeuvres.  We graze.  Now, I don't graze well.  I tend to jump the fence and chase around after the neighbor's cows.  Nonetheless, if they could graze I'd give it a try.  First, however, a drink was needed.

Muttering something to Mom about needing to see a man about a crap game in the back room, I headed straight for the bar entrance only to have my passage blocked by a Moonbat fully twice my size – and for those of you who know me, No, I'm not kidding, and No, I hadn't been drinking.  Yet.  That's the whole point about the bar, remember?  I stepped aside and allowed the old freighter passage.  I stopped again for the trio of aged Moonbats blocking the door, but they shifted position once I dropped a dime on the carpet a few yards away.  They pounced, I left them squabbling about the lost and found versus finders keepers.

The drinks at the bar were all twice the normal price.  Top shelf scotch was Glenlivet, but I wasn't interested.  I wanted a perfect manhattan, and at a place like the Toledo Club I expected the bartender to be able to make one.  I was about half right.  The bartender was a good deal younger than I am, so I was pleasantly surprised that the expected question wasn't asked (How do you make a manhattan, perfect or otherwise?).  Instead, the bartender wanted to know what kind of bourbon to use.  When I expressed my preference for rye, the show slammed to a stop.  The bar had no rye whiskey.  I substituted Maker's Mark and contented myself with an imperfect manhattan.  I noted that the proportions the bartender used were one quarter dry vermouth, one quarter sweet vermouth, half bourbon.  No bitters were added.

Time to graze, thinks I.  Returning to the pasture I made a strafing run at the hog trough, loading up on 18 count shrimp topped with cocktail sauce, scallops wrapped in bacon impaled on toothpicks, a few Swedish meatballs and a selection of wafers with various toppings.  I was all set.

The thing I learned about grazing is that you are expected to juggle your drink, your fodder and Moonbat conversation all at the same time, and you must do so without choking on one or throwing the other.  Remember, primates and small children throw food.  My mother's favorite son does not, even when I overhear Moonbat plans to bankrupt the supposedly overflowing coffers of local business so as to provide remedial education for college bound inner-city youth, all of whom must be admitted to a university of their choice due to various constraints and limitations on admission standards.  Put differently, the bar is adjusted so no child will be left behind, the great unwashed is paying their way and truly the good life is just over the next rise.  After twenty minutes of this I had no choice.

I jumped the fence.

Blessed solitude at last.  I wandered the hallways in search of what I might find, stopping briefly at the Men's room to play the flute.  Further down the hall I found a stack of community property.  Well, well, well, would you look at this?  Just the thing...
Happy Birthday Big Mike

You see before you a beer mug with some interesting news and pictures on the front.  I gave it to Big Mike for his birthday, explaining just how I came by such an unusual gift.  I was prepared to explain just how Mike would be opposing the Moonbat theory of natural property law by accepting this gift, but he was ahead of me.  No surprise there, as Big Mike has a thorough understanding of Moonbat philosophy.

Prior to delivering said gift, I was inspired to create this display so as to underscore the irony of the  Toledo Press Club's obdurate position on gun control.  Tell me, which is mightier – the pen or the pistol?

1 comment:

Older School said...

They say the pen is mightier than the sword.
Why bring a sword to a gun fight?

There's nothing like a party with some pretentious moonbats to make you want to drink heavily.