By Erin Sherbert
By Erin Sherbert
By Leif Haven
By Erin Sherbert
By Chris Roberts
By Kate Conger
By Brian Rinker
By Rachel Swan
Scribbling on a card, I give Vera the address and phone number of my Nader-supporting ex-girlfriend.
"Be sure to send me as much campaign material as possible," I proclaim, handing her the card. "Just keep it coming!"
Unlike their wussy liberal counterparts, the Young Republicans looooove to drink. Republicans have deep pockets, so there's plenty of free alcohol. In fact, my club, the Silicon Valley Young Republicans, is throwing a party in a hotel suite. For some reason the party is called "The Bay Area House of Blues." The best part is, I'm in the inner circle for the event, having enthusiastically volunteered to be part of the party-planning committee. I even help hand out fliers, each of which has a guitar on it, with text that reads "Just Follow the Music!!!" (They love to party!)
"Who wants a Silver Bullet?" cries a middle-aged fat man in a blue suit who earlier told me he owns a gun shop; he has a can of Coors in each hand. Yes, there's plenty of beer donated by the ultra-conservative Coors Brewing Co. There's an American flag on one wall, a large Silicon Valley Young Republicans banner on the other, and a Bush/Cheney sign in the middle.
The free alcohol is great, but this has got to be the worst party I've ever attended, on many levels. It's a sad bunch. My conservative crew, composed almost entirely of Young Republican males, stands stiffly in a corner; we're wearing ties and waiting for other young conservatives to show up. The Eagles' "Life in the Fast Lane" blares from the sound system as the funny-buttons guy plays air guitar. The hotel suite is almost entirely empty; we pass the time by bashing Democrats. ("Stupid Democrats!")
"Kerry looks like Herman Munster!" remarks a man with a protruding forehead and a smug way of laughing.
"Yeah, and Hillary Clinton looks like an ape," I say, to more big, smug laughter, which dies down eventually and leaves us standing, again, in silence.
Some of the guys pass the party time by watching Fox News. Others salivate over the very few women in the hotel room. I pop open another Silver Bullet, greeting every new person I meet with a slap on the back and the statement, "We're all family, we're all Republicans!"
After a while, though, I down a Jell-O shot and am overtaken by an uncanny fantasy. Suddenly, I want to get busy with a random conservative Republican chick in a blue skirt and go to THE DARK SIDE! My fantasy involves hooking up with and dry-humping one in the stairwell, hand under sweater, over bra. Then, as she orgasms, I whip off my get-up and proclaim, "I'm a liberal in disguise!" (most likely this would cause her head to explode).
"You know, I'm president of the San Francisco chapter of the Young Republicans," I smoothly boast to a Bakersfield Young Republican, hoping she will want to climb my political ladder, tonight, again and again. After telling me she works at a nonprofit, I announce, "Wow, that almost sounds like you're a Democrat."
She looks at me like I just called her a pedophile and walks away.
More Eagles music. More air guitar. Rigid dancing is attempted by the very white crowd, all of whom, all together, possess no rhythm whatsoever.
The YR president passes off a potential recruit to me, so I can share with him all the glorious benefits of becoming a Young Republican.
"Look after him," the Silicon Valley Young Republicans president whispers to me.
"We're all family. We're all Republicans!" I am now screaming as I give the recruit a firm, drunken slap on the back and begin to make small talk.
"You've got to join the Young Republicans," I express. "It's really a great opportunity to be amongst like-minded people."
"Yeah, it sounds great," he enthusiastically replies.
I move in closer.
"I'm also the president of another club, if you're interested in joining," I say. The recruit expresses interest.
"Our club's purpose is to promote the advancement of white people," I explain.
The recruit's face turns whiter than a Klansman's sheet.
"So what do you say?" I ask, but he quickly declines and rapidly walks away. Oh, well. As our beloved president might say, "Mission Accomplished!"