Elizabeth Dole: Plastic Magnolia

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Let me make a small confession: I sleep with the TV on. I was accosted late last night in my sleep by the honey-suckled voice of North Carolina’s Senior Senator, Elizabeth “Liddy” Dole. She and her opposite number, Chuck Schumer are chairs of the Senate’s GOP and Democratic campaign committees and they were speaking before the National Press Club about their parties efforts to hold the Senate.

Before I begin the substance of my political critique, a brief word about Mrs. Dole. Mrs. Dole, 70, has an amazing plastic surgeon. He has managed to make her look both ageless and lifeless at the same time. Combined with a mask of thick make-up, she looks like an amazingly animated right-wing mannequin. Chirping cheerfully, Miss Liddy has perfected a public persona of saccharine sweetness and stepford wife precision that gives me the creeps. Henceforth and forevermore, I shall dub her the Plastic Magnolia.

Hearing the plastic magnolia cheerfully prattle on about the necessity to keep the Senate in GOP hands to secure the “War on Terra” evokes a ridiculous mental picture of the plastic magnolia attired in a dress made of curtains, like Scarlet O’Hara in “Gone With The Wind” as she daintily alights down a winding staircase to make a dramatic entrance as Michael Steele, dressed as house slave Butterfly McQueen screams out, “Oh, Miss Scarlet, I don’t know nothin’ bout winnin’ no Elections.”

The plastic magnolia is in deep denial about her party’s chances to hold the Senate. She alone will probably not be able to keep a sufficient number of the ignorant patrician’s rubber stamp minions around to constitute a Republican majority. Miss Liddy went on and on about the party’s prospects in key races in Montana, Pennsylvania, and Virginia.

Montana Senator Burns, a racist and troglodyte is in the fight of his life and has the plastic magnolia’s unqualified support; So does wingnut extraordinaire, Senator Rick Santorum of Pennsylvania and the ignorant confederate, Virginia Senator George Allen. To hear her expound on these hopeless races is downright funny, almost as funny as imagining how her half-embalmed, octogenarian husband, Bob Dole, a part-time Viagra salesman hounds her for sex. Can’t you just see her annoyance at the effectiveness of those little blue pills?

I, for one, will be glad when the whole lot of them is out of power. Perhaps then, Mrs. Dole can be put out to pasture in an expensive department store as the right-wing clotheshorse that she is.