Having been in a Bee Gees kind of mood ever since the Sun-Times screamed “Stayin’ Alive” across its front page a few mornings ago in reference to Hillary Clinton’s huge primary wins, Tippi Henshaw suddenly feels as re-energized as her candidate does—despite having to lie about her euphoria to her own family.

“We got a good man in McCain. He’ll get the job done right,” her husband, Chip, declared after his favorite clinched the GOP nomination. “Don’t you agree, honey?”

“Of course, dear, he’s an experienced leader,” she said with a smile while wondering if Cindy McCain had ever had plastic surgery—not that there’s anything wrong with that (Tippi loves Nip/Tuck).

“Damn straight he is. He’ll make one heckuva President,” Chip proudly stated before their older son, Charlie, chimed in with: “I’ll miss Bush.”

“Me, too, son. McCain’s got some mighty big shoes to fill there.”

Tippi just nodded and smiled and continued knitting while wondering if McCain was as boring in bed as his speeches were (there’s just something about the man’s voice that puts her to sleep).

It’s not easy being a closeted Democrat in an otherwise robust Republican household. Chip would absolutely flip if she revealed her secret admiration for Hillary, so she pretends to share his love for war-obsessed individuals. She used to be a Republican long ago—having happily voted for both Nancy and Barbara’s husbands—but from the moment she first laid eyes on Bill and Hillary, it was love at first sight—and she’s been living a lie ever since (her dramatic acting classes in college have come in very handy over the years).

However, sometimes when her husband caresses her ass in public much to the horror of their three children (“Your mother needs to know she’s still got one fine caboose,” he always says in defense of his wandering hands), Tippi just wants to scream, “John Edwards makes me so wet, there’s a river running down my legs!” But, of course, she would never confess something so shocking (and deliciously true). Chip would have a cow—like he did three years ago after Roger and Doug’s annual holiday soiree, where she had a wonderful time drinking pink squirrels and dancing to the tune of Manfred Mann’s Earth Band’s “Blinded By The Light”. Yes, she did get a bit looped that night, but she disagreed with her husband’s “You embarrassed yourself and me” assessment of her behavior. Some folks just don’t know how to have fun.

And now as the Bee Gees sing “Fanny (Be Tender with My Love)”, Tippi looks at her computer screen and smiles. She’s writing a book—or at least seriously thinking about it. So far she’s typed this:

Planet of the Brides

She thinks it’s kind of a catchy title.

This future bestseller will be a sweeping family saga like The Thornbirds (one of her favorite books). The actual story is still in the early planning stages—and will probably remain there for some time as she has become hopelessly addicted to MySpace (having recently noticed her son Billy on the popular social networking website, she was immediately intrigued, and she casually made inquiries about it until she felt confident enough to create a space of her own).

So Tippi is doing a lot of writing—on her personal blog. Today it’s all about how her teenage infatuation with the rock group, The Police—and its sexy lead singer, Sting—has returned ever since she recently bought two tickets to their upcoming concert in May. She hasn’t told a single soul about this secret purchase—except her online “friends”—and despite not knowing whom she’ll be going with, she is beside herself with excitement. Finishing her blog (“Don’t Stand So Close to Me, Sting, or I’ll Have to Jump Your Bones”), she now sends her new pal, Margo Channing (a Bette Davis fan), a cute comment photo of an adorable kitten in a Pop-Tart box before changing CDs.

Oh, this is so much fun, she thinks as her MySpace persona, Mildred Pierce (she’s always loved Joan Crawford), goes in search of more friends with common interests as The Police sing “Every Breath You Take” from their Synchronicity album (which she also still owns on vinyl along with their Zenyattà Mondatta and Ghost in the Machine).

Planet of the Brides will just have to wait ‘til another day.

* * *

Meanwhile, behind another locked door in the Henshaw household, nineteen-year-old Charlie is measuring with a ruler—for the umpteenth time. Just to make sure. The boy was so thrilled to recently learn—while Googling—that the average size of a man’s erect penis is around five to seven inches. And he’s got himself 7.5 above average inches of stiff excitement!

“Mom, Cookie’s locked herself in the bathroom again!” his brother announces out in the hallway.

“Use the other one, dear, that’s why we have two,” his mother replies from her computer room.
“But she’s always in there. It’s not fair.”

“Leave your sister alone. She needs her privacy.”

Charlie doesn’t understand why Cookie just doesn’t lock herself in her room like the rest of the family. His twin sister has always been a little odd, but lately she’s gone totally nuts—wearing only black clothes and sunglasses (“I’m in mourning, people, don’t you understand?” she screamed the other day at breakfast before throwing her Lucky Charms on the floor). All because of some stupid house.

“It’s our Graceland! And they want to tear it down!” Cookie angrily informed them last month after the owners of the California house—where the Carpenters (her favorite singing duo) once lived—announced that they were planning to demolish it.

“How about some rainbow sherbet, dear? It’s your favorite” was their mother’s attempt to comfort her grieving daughter to no avail.

The dark wardrobe and sunglasses appeared the next morning (“Rainy Days and Mondays” isn’t just a song in Cookie’s weird world—it’s a way of life).

The girl needs to get a grip, Charlie decides as his own firm grasp is beginning to get tired. Usually Ann’s long beautiful blond hair and lovely alabaster skin makes him blow his wad within a few minutes—but not today. He clicks off the cute conservative and brings up Elisabeth’s smiling face before closing his eyes to imagine himself in bed with both his beloved Ann and The View’s outspoken babe and . . .

Nothing. Dammit.

With his erection starting to wane, the frustrated young man is tempted to give up—but he really wants to come. He just needs that something extra special to push him over the edge into ecstasy.

Biting his lower lip, Charlie hesitantly clicks on another photo. And there he is—in his handsome fighter pilot outfit—unzipped to show just enough white T-shirt to make the boy’s dick stand at full attention once again.

He’s smiling at me. Only me. He wants me. Wants me to unzip him all the way down. Oh, George, invade me, baby.

It never takes Charlie very long whenever he resorts to using this particular old photo, which is now covered with the sticky fruits of his labor. The young Texas Air National Guardsman has never looked so sexy. If only he had taken the time to clip his aspiring unibrow, the picture would be perfect.

He now opens an email from his buddy Eric (Funny Shit! You’ll Die Laughing!) and starts watching a strange YouTube video of some guy dressed like Sylvester Stallone in the original Rocky movie—gray hooded sweatshirt and black cap, gloves and sneakers—who seems to be participating in a talent show by badly playing a trumpet to the tune of “Gonna Fly Now” while jogging around a stage.

What the hell is this? Charlie wonders until finally at the end he receives an answer when the guy removes his cap and smiles out at the faint applause: He’s a girl!

“Let’s give a big hand for the little lady—Miss Travis County—Tippi Tyler,” says an announcer just before the video ends and the naked young man jumps up from his chair in a state of shock and confusion.

“Mom?” he utters aloud.

And that’s when Charlie Henshaw hears his mother scream.

To be continued . . .

Comments RSS