Paging John Ashcroft

White kids on dope!

Photo by Rebecca SchoenkopfSay you happen to be at a wedding so Republican that Karen Hughes, the woman who gave us George W. Bush, has flown in from Texas to give one of the readings. (From the Book of Ruth, actually, one of my faves—you know, "Whither thou goest, I shall go," etc. It's a terribly romantic bit of Old Testament and more nuptially hopeful than Leviticus 20:10: "If [there is] a man who commits adultery with another man's wife, one who commits adultery with his friend's wife, the adulterer and the adulteress shall surely be put to death.") Now say that you are pretty much the only person at this elegant and heartfelt union who is—how shall we put it?—French. By which I mean not French, but communist.

Then you should be very, very careful not to say to the junior bridesmaids (from Dallas, no less!) while showing them how to dance to Van Halen, "You just kind of make a stupid face. You know, like you're on drugs!"

You and your moral relativism will be reported to John Ashcroft immediately.

Now, it doesn't matter if you realize your mistake faster than you can say "public lynching." What you've just done is the equivalent of saying hell to an old southern lady—which, we learned one night in Jackson, just ain't done.

And it doesn't matter that you're making fun of Hessians by saying they have the same stupid face you might see on people who use drugs—that you're not actually recommending drugs or their use. You have said drugs to nice girls from Texas.

And it doesn't matter that you blurt out, "Not that any of you would ever do drugs." There's no damage control now. You have said bomb on an airplane. Would you care to make a Hitler joke in a Miami convalescent home now?

"I need to get a drink of water," the oldest and most glamorous of the quartet will intone prettily (and Dallas preteens can be glamorous indeed) before leading her charges off the dance floor and over to the chaperones, who have clearly (and successfully) coached this young lady in how to deal with peer pressure and iffy situations—iffy situations like you. "Talk to your kids about drugs," say the ads. "They'll listen."

Clearly the Office of National Drug Control Policy is right on target about this; clearly it works; and just as clearly, you have just been reported. You are being watched. You are the Jerk at the Wedding—the Jerk that in better days you used to smirk and titter at and gossip about—and you're so mortified with yourself you could just about catch Ebola and die right there, bleeding from all your bits. Ann Coulter, Miss Social Graces herself, could shriek that you're a scandalous traitor, and she'd be right. Ass.

Also, whatever you do? Don't say ass.

Kids Korner!

Ass, ass, ass, ass, ass.

Ass.

A Tender Moment

Feeling like an embarrassed bit of toejam plucked from the un-American foot of the Green (Communist) Party, I headed home to the kid. The party had been lovely, the weekend perfect, the wedded couple beautiful and touching, but I was subdued. Am I a bad mother, a slob, a moral relativist? Am I inappropriate and vulgar with children? Do I not give My Little Buttercup the guidance he needs to grow into a fine citizen, a fine man?

I pondered this still while we smoked some family crack.

No, I decided. I'm fine.

Then I sent the boy to buy more crack. Frankly, I don't like to go to the crack dealer's house myself since it's pretty sketchy and gross. But since Jimmy turned nine, it's about time he pulled his own weight.

We Head to the Festival of Children.

At the Mall.

You Know. For the Kids.

I don't know about you, but when I want a special day with my lovey son, I like to head to the mall!

And that's what I did on Sunday! Just in time for the Festival of Children! At the mall!

Now, I took French lit and urban studies like the rest of y'all; I realize the new habitat of les flaneurs is the mall, and therefore the mall is not a hopeless pit of consumerism's sad, empty calories —the empty calories that come from trying to replace the love and affection that are missing from your cold, convenient marriage with Dolce, Bulgariand Baccarat—but rather is society's new meeting place. A meeting place of ideas, even!

Or a meeting place of women and Cartier.

Same difference!

But this Festival of Children was to be a meeting place for children's charities; according to an old issue of Coastthat's posted on the web (Festivalofchildren.org), Sandy Daniels Segerstrom her bad own self—of the fabulously wealthy Segerstrom family that owns much of what's worth owning in Costa Mesa—realized that every charity in the damn world was aiming to make life better for the kids (it's always "the kids"!), and yet they were all going after the same pile of dough! How about a little d├ętente? A rap session between the competing charities like those old summits between the Crips and the Bloods? It would be just like the Congress of Vienna, except with socialites instead of Prince Metternich! Dawg!

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