Hey you libtard geniuses, leave Michele Bachmann alone!
Michele Bachmann, R-Minnesota, with the Author and an unidentified co-conspirator, circa 1994.
I'm disheartened that so many clueless people could make up the Dailykos Community. From the lame attacks I've seen on Congresswoman Bachmann, it's clear that not everyone is aware of our "special operation", so I feel I need to speak out and set the record straight. I implore you all not to forward this diary to any of your conservative "friends". I doubt they'll find it on their own, what with the difficulty of "the google" and all that. We know that they are all afraid to read this site, lest they get one of those "computer viruses". But just to be safe, let's keep it on the downlow. Here's the straight dope, the inside skinny, the real facts on the Gentlelady from Minnesota. Keep it under your hat, peeps. This is the Michele Bachmann I know.
I first met Michele when I was an undergrad at Reed. It was an anti-apartheid protest in the late eighties. Michele was wearing a giant papier-mache head that looked like Margaret Thatcher (as if that wasn't a bit of foreshadowing!) but apart from that she was pure granola. Now I will admit, I'm about a 5.9 on the Kinsey scale and rarely find women attractive, but Michele was just coming out of her undergrad bull-dyke phase, and with her shaved head, sleeveless flannel, and hairy legs, she was more of a man then most of the guys I dated. Since I was wearing the giant Reagan head, we started hanging out at the rally. She first took my hand by the bonfire, while Maggie and Ronnie went up in flames.
It was a perfect match. She quoted Dworkin to me that first night about all sex being rape, but I countered that because we were both queer identified, we were in fact subverting the hetero-normative patriarchy with our sexuality. She bought it, and ended up blowing me in a port-o-john after we scored some MDMA.
We lived in an anarchist commune in Humbolt while Michelle worked on her Fem Theory masters and I got involved in tree sitting and hanging out with the Radical Faeries. It was a blissful off-the-grid life, full of composting, long discussions of Chomsky, and some really primo weed.
Michele was fearless. I once watched her take a baton up the side of the head after she hit George Shultz in the face with a banana cream pie at Stanford. She kicked the cop in the balls, and it took three pigs to wrestle her to the ground.
Then there was of course the time that Michele rappelled down the Glen Canyon Dam to hang an Earth First! banner. Her safety harness split at the seams, and she just wrapped the nylon around her wrist and pulled herself up hand over hand, every inch a fight for survival. She was so pumped up on adrenaline, that while the rest of us chilled out at Ed Abbey's place, she insisted on going out and lighting up a couple of Forest Service bulldozers. She showed up at dawn, reeking of burnt diesel fuel and dust. "That's one crazy bitch" old Ed whispered to me. How right he was.
Michele grew even more radical. I finally ended it when she got to hinting at spiking trees and venting about "the justification of violence in the face of environmental genocide". My own commitment to non-violence was too great for her. She called me a pussy and left me stranded in a rest stop outside of Reno after she stole my van.
I heard rumors. I had by then gotten involved in all kinds of radical pranking, and word came back that Michelle was out there, working on the prank of all pranks. She was going deep, setting up a righteous holy con that was going to play out long term.
The next time I saw her was at the Battle of Seattle. I was trying to pry a parking meter loose, and suddenly next to me was a curvy girl in a black bandana, crowbar in her hands. We lifted the heavy meter up together and tossed it through the plate glass window of The Gap. That was when I noticed her nails. My anarchist buddy had perfectly manicured red nails, with little stars and unicorns painted on them in gold. I looked at her, she looked at me, and she lowered her mask. It was my Michele. As the fires burned around us, I thought I saw a wetness in her eyes. But maybe it was just the tear gas.
Back at the flop house, she explained it all. She had dropped out of the Movement and moved to Minnesota, inventing a fake degree from Oral Roberts University and a fascist housewife persona. She was just then preparing to run for the State Senate, having built up a base of wingnut support in the home-schooling and anti-flouridation movements. Her hair was frosted, her eyelashes bore traces of mascara, and she had a wardrobe that only a J.C. Penney's charge account could buy you. She was on the verge of pulling the greatest prank of all.
"These sheeple" she scornfully ranted. "All you have to do is drone on about Jesus and Israel and the Communists and the Gays and they will buy anything. They see crazy as a badge of courage. I don't think you can go too far with them." There was something in her eyes as she spoke, a light that I had only seen before in the moment of battle, when all the shit went sideways. She was a soldier, well behind enemy lines. And she loved it.
She laid out her plan. Get elected to Congress, and become a symbol and spokesman for all that was unholy. She would defend evil with a smile, every time just pushing the envelope a little bit too far, making herself a growing target of scorn and derision, turning the public face of the GOP into that of a clown. She would lead them down the road to oblivion, one crazy step at a time. No one serious would take her seriously, with her flubbing of facts and cheap hyperbole and easily mockable sound bites, but the real authoritarians would love her and embrace her as one of their own. She would become their perfect Fascist Barbie, the Pied Piper of wingnut children.
We made a promise then to see each other once a year, during the Folsom Street Fair in San Francisco. We would meet up in the bi-sexual room at the Power Station. No one recognizes her in her full leather dominatrix regalia. As she lowers me into the sling, she always looks me in the eyes and asks me the same question.
"Do you trust me?"
I trust her. I know that she plays a deep game of chess, our Michele. We all, in the Dailykos Community, need to trust her. She is our perfect weapon, our double agent, our Manchurian candidate. When the time comes, she will lead the lemmings of the Right off of their cliff. If she didn't exist, we'd have to invent her.
That's why we did.
Just don't let them know.
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P.S. Don't even get me started on Sarah Palin. The shit I saw her do down in Cuba with a jar of Mayonnaise and a Cohiba, it just ain't right...