Every Day Is Earth Day
We spent much of Earth Day in the car—driving solo, even, instead of car-pooling—but at least we weren't driving solo in an SUV, like a certain legendary 00 Soul guy we could name. And we're here to tell you: our car radio was set to the Elianathon every inch of the way! Call us Lazaro, but the whole thing makes us want to go get a DUI. Aren't the Miami relatives the most? We think Marisleysis—our new hero, and we're going to begin hoarsely pretending to cry every chance we get—should marry The Fisherman. They could live on his boat, and she could make his sweet little life a living hell. While we're on the subject: How come no one in the media has mentioned what a hotty that handsome Commie dad is? Leave it to the mainstream media—once again!—to miss the important stories.
We missed our talk radio terribly once we got to the Hub in Fullerton, where Earth Day festivities were simmering in a large parking lot. But for an Earth Day in a parking lot, the Hub does an awfully good job. Unfortunately—as opposed to the partiers in Miami—no one was celebrating Earth Day by lighting tires on fire. It would really have added a little spice.
It really was a lovely Earth Day, although by the end of the day, the parking lot was as full of trash as a Little Havana trailer. Where have you gone, Woodsy Owl? But although the day was filled with music and joy, Gypsy Boots (who on Earth Day 10 years ago told us we looked like his first wife) was nowhere to be seen. And nobody was talking about the environment, unless you count The Moseleys railing against The Man forcing us to use his internal-combustion engine and yowling instead for an engine powered by rock & roll! Just add three quarts of The Truth! All right, all right! Shadoobie! The Moseleys were so hot with rock & roll wasabi—especially when they stroked their guitars like they were three-foot penises and licked their lips at the girls in the crowd and sang "a sexy little song called 'Jack the Ripper'" and about how they just needed Vitamin U—they cured our cold. Unfortunately, the wedding band on Rex T. Moseley's left hand cost him some major sexy points. He's no Juan Miguel!
Of course, there wasn't a word the whole day about pesticides, or tire fires, or this fun new stat from the Harper's Index: of the 10 environmental treaties under dispute at the Seattle World Trade Organization talks, all 10 led to a weakening of U.S. environmental law. Shadoobie! But there was 00 Soul getting all Rasputin on us and magically forcing people's hips to shimmy like Delfin Gonzalez's double vision. Just drive between the lines, Delfin! And Zebrahead did a very fun version of the Spice Girls' "If You Wannabe My Lover"—although we are kind of over the "ironic cover," which was done to death at last year's Weenie Roast. Hmmm. What else? That was pretty much it.
Good news, comrades: our demands have been met, and the boycott of the Swallow's Inn in San Juan Capistrano has been called off. Y'all can put away the tires and the lighter fluid and go back to drinking at 7 in the morning with the mean old bastard of an Irish barkeep. (And there's nothing we like better than an Irish barkeep, except Marisleysis, of course.) Steve, the owner, has repaired the African painting in the women's room so that it no longer features racist caricatures. Now the women's room is just full of pictures of cock, as it should be.
Having heard the joyous news, we hit the Swallow's on April 20 for the magic of Chris Gaffney and the Cold Hard Facts, and the place was at its very best, filled with beautiful, promenading 80-year-old couples in matching beaded Western outfits; women who looked 25 from the back and 55 from the front; young drunks; old drunks; scary drunks; nice drunks; and two—count 'em, two!—identical bearded old guys, each only an inch or two taller than we, who both seemed to have wooden legs and were the most marvelous dancers we'd ever seen, aside from Chuckie the Federal Bounty Hunter and li'l Mikey Folmer.
After making shameless cow eyes at one, he assured us we were a waste of his time unless we liked "fishin', boating, motorcycles and riding horses," and a few minutes later, practically unsolicited, said, "Tell me a bar I don't know." Now that's a man. Not Juan Miguel, but a man nonetheless.
Look into our eyes. You are getting sleepy. See your tax refund? Cash it. Tithe to us. In small bills. Lots of small bills. Send them to the Commie Girl Tax Relief Fund, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627. CommieGirl99@hotmail.com.
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