You know how people in Washington DeeCee are saying that they take no joy in impeachment, and that it is a solemn event that should be handled with deep reverence?
Oh, hell no.
Honey, this is Texas. We celebrate in Texas. We razzle-dazzle in Texas. An impeachment ain’t no damn funeral, but even if it was, I’ve known funerals to last three days and end with at least half a dozen people, in various states of undress, arrested for disorderly conduct, and a couple more trying to explain to the EMTs how the hell they got themselves twisted up in a knot like that. I have even known a few who passed out drunk and ended up as a significant part of the centerpiece at a wedding held the next night at the church, following that Texas tradition of doing the best you can with what you got stuck with.
If any event in Texas does not end with wet crêpe-paper stains on bleached blonde hair, glitter in someone’s eye, and somebody’s Frank Sinatra-cool loosened bow-tie ending up as a tourniquet (whether one is needed or not), then I pronounce it a “happening,” not an event.
Come on, haven’t we earned this time to celebrate? We have been depressed as all tarnation and have suffered through semi-daily nightmares thinking this hapless sumbitch was going to get us all killed just any minute now. All we were depending on to keep us alive was (oh my God, don’t even think about it) Rudy Giuliani. Hell, don’t we deserve a few hours of unbridled, tickle-my-belly joy?
I don’t know if you were blessed with a grandpa who grew up out in the country where folks had to learn to entertain themselves, but I did. My Grandpa used to talk about a day filled with good luck and some extra lovin’ as being a “dancin’ nekkid on the back porch” kind of day. That’s an image that has planted itself in my head for many years. I’ve had damn few of those days, but I think the Trump impeachment will fill a gap on many people’s dance cards.
So, I’m planning a party.
I need a Welcome sign for the front door. I think it will read “At Last, At Last, We Are Free from that Ass,” but I’m also considering “Treason Is the Reason for the Season.”
Music? Picking impeachment-party music is hard. How about “Since You’ve Been Gone,” “Na Na Na Na Hey Hey-ey Goodbye,” or “Cry Me a River”? And there’s a few I haven’t written yet: “Build Your Own Damn Wall,” “Why Did You Screw America?” “You Don’t Care about Crap,” and my sure-fire hit-to-be, “Are You F’ing Serious?”
For food, there will be borscht, beets, and Putin’s table scraps, but this time they won’t be pre-chewed by Donald Trump. After the impeachment, we will never have to eat that crap again.
Now comes the party drinks. My go-to recipe is the Im-peach-mint. You get a medium peach, a couple sprigs of mint, and put them in the blender. You blend the fool outta them while you drink a bottle of the liquor of your choice.
If you’re gonna go fancy-pants, fix a White Russian, dammit.
I’m thinking about serving Omarosa Mimosas, but only because I like saying it so much.
Party games: Pin the Spine on John Cornyn, and Bobbing for Cheetos.
Finally, I’ll be serving German schnitzel as a Thank-You to Angela Merkel for leading the Free World as the United States fought with Europe like a drunken married couple outside an Applebee’s.
Until I see you next month, I wish you a warm and wonderful holiday season.
This article appears in the December 2019 edition of OutSmart magazine.