So I’m reading this article about Rove which says there were two reasons his email was deleted. One — because he was totally involved with deciding who was going to be fired — the attorneys general — and Two — because he was heavily involved in the Ohio rigged elections.

He was?

Yes! He and Bush actually flew out to Ohio, met with Blackwell… so I guess according to the article, those are the two reasons why the email actually disappeared.


And the interesting thing is that the emails were not mailed on the White House system. They were emailed on the RNC’s system.

Why is that interesting?

Oh! Because they knew White House emails would be subpeona’d. This was not official White House work. It was backchannel type stuff.

Who’s the article by, Wasserman?

Let’s see. It’s on, ‘Missing Emails’. Ah, there we go. It’s Bob Fitrakis / Harvey Wasserman. How’d you know?

Because he’s covering the 2004 presidential election fraud in Ohio.

“I wonder what they think when they go through our garbage and find these. I’ve heard of women being shunned from society during their periods. I wonder if Moroccan society is one of those societies.”

I toss the pad in the garbage. I’m unhappy that all the menstrual pads are made with plastic and packaged in plastic. I’d like to find something more friendly to the planet. Tampons are not friendly to my body, so they are not an option.

“I just had an idea for a new product,” says Smith. “We can bag those.”

“What, my pads? Why?” I indulge him.

“We could sell them to vampires for a snack. Call em *crispy periods.*”

“Oh, why *crispy*? Cuz of the paper?”

“No, because of the caked menstrual blood.”

“Ew!!” I run off to the living room for my computer.

“Yr not going to write that down, are you?”


“Yr disgusting!”

“What? Yr the one who *said* it.”

“Yeah, and *I also* came in here to write it down.”

I sit down, put my computer on my lap. It feels warm. “I love having my computer in my lap… it feels like… a mind meld,” I tell Smith.

He burps and looks warily at me. Palms his newly shaved head then rubs his eyes.

* * *

Smith finishes the dishes. “Let’s go get high now.”

“OK,” I say.

“Wait, I gotta empty myself.” He pulls down his pants and sits on the toilet. I sit and wait for him at the bathroom door. “I get rid of urine every chance I get. But I should try holding it like you do.”

“No, that’s not healthy. You can be poisoned from holding it. And anyways, women have bigger bladders.”

“Really?” he asks. “We should have a pissing contest.”

“Well, women would win for quantity, but not distance.”

* * *

“What’s that phrase about Obama?” I ask Smith.

“I’m not sure I know it, can’t remember exactly what you said.”

“It’s weird. Limbaugh is really a propagandist.” I imagine every flag-waving cowboy baking in traffic in oversized SUVs. All simultaneously turn the silver dial on the radio to tune in, and light a Marlboro.

“Actually it’s kinda sad. Got in trouble with his bad habits, his prescriptions. Then he got let off the hook. And rather than be decent, he turned nasty and just started biting everybody again.”

“I think that’s his job, to increase the tolerance for intolerance. Desensitize.”

“It’s howdy doody time, it’s howdy doody time, it’s howdy doody time…” Smith hums subliminally and turns on his computer.

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