How awful it must be to sit behind the president during the State of the Union. The mind wanders. What’s Boehner thinking? I can only report what I saw etched across that handsome face and hidden behind the steely blue gaze. Someone get my fan.
Here’s what he was thinking. Clear as day.
What’s with the sea of magenta? Is there a Dem in the room not wearing a magenta pantsuit? Hillary, did you make some calls? It’s January in DC. We wear navy blue and navy blue. Pfft. Except for that time Obama wore tan. Smirk.
There’s the Supremes. Hey Guys. And Ruth. Are you wearing another doily dear? Nope. She’s rockin’ jammies under that robe. It’ll be nap time soon enough. C’mon dude, somebody poke her. That’s not nice. Did you guys have wine with Scalia again? Diggin’ the black lace gloves girlfriend.
As opposed to Happy Jack In The Box next to me. The guy’s a puppy. He’s an actual human puppy. Ever seen anyone so god damn smiley? If he could bound from his seat and give everybody a big bear hug, I think he might. I wish he were my grandpa.
The pres is slouching. Pull yourself together man. You’re the president. Jeez. Wear that shit proudly or get off the podium. If I have to endure obstructed view via the silver collection in front of my face, you can stand up straight. Shoulders back, there you go.
Up and down again. Dammit people. Sit the hell down. This is the floor of the House of Representatives; hallowed ground. We are not howler monkeys. We get it; you like the guy. Now sit down and listen. I don’t want to have to get up again.
I moved my face. Shit. That’ll be all over HuffPo tomorrow. Look at Boehner’s facial movements. Like that’s news. No, I’m not happy. It’s late. I’m hungry. I have to report to a bunch of Tea Party twits tomorrow. Wait. Is my tie straight? It feels a little cockeyed. I do have the best suit though. Damn good suit. The pink tie; good choice. Classy. Goes with the tan.
Jill looks good. Green suits her. Michelle, poor thing. Fashion Police is gonna take her apart—Bitch Stole My Look and all. Stole it from Alicia Florrick, The Good Wife. Granted, we’d all like to be badass Alicia. Girl’s life falls apart and she not only turns lemons to lemonade with vodka, she adds those little ice cubes with flowers. You know the ones. All the while wearing Michelle Obama’s suit—first. That thing will sell out before the speech is over. Happy birthday Michael Kors.
By the way, Michelle, smile. Your husband is the president. Don’t act like you’re over that. If I have to deal with it, you do too. Be happy. You got all the marbles.
This is longer than I thought. I knew the 3:30 draft wasn’t the final. They were rewriting this sucker in the hallway. Damn—I squirmed. Well, at least I made it 53 minutes before I shuffled in my seat. So far, only my face has moved. I touched my eye and I smirked a little. Way to hold it together man.
Are those shoes camouflage? Say it isn’t so. Girlfriend, there is no need to tell us you’re from Iowa. Cute idea—soldiers and all—but no.
It’s over. Halleluiah. Who’s got my scotch? What did I think of the speech? Where’s Sam Seaborn when we need him?
The Duchess Diaries 