In the wake of Davenport and Grose: The OC GOP Race-Samizdat Parties.




samizdat, n., Russian:   a system in the USSR and countries within its orbit by which government-suppressed literature was clandestinely printed and shared.

“Any popular vice, substance, or literature that is repressed will just go underground and create a thriving subculture.” – a wise man

“What a great idea, what a great party!” Bob chuckled to himself, as he drove home slightly buzzed on the Chivas and the camaraderie.  Everyone agreed that it was ridiculous to have to meet in such secrecy for such innocent fun – political correctness run amok! – but heck if they hadn’t made lemonade out of this lemon.

It made him feel important too – only his first term on the Central Committee, and here he was hobnobbing at an invitation-only event with Republicans he’d admired from a distance for years – Whitacre, Grose, Davenport, Pauly, Nichols… and they treated him like an equal!  Tim was especially friendly, slapping him on the back several times.  Shucks, he would have made a great OC GOP leader.  Oh well, some day soon!

That basement was amazing – all the classic Obama images blown up and framed – the watermelon patch, the chimp family, the Obamacare witch doctor, other ones he hadn’t seen before:  Obama as Osama, a poster against “miscegnation” – a nice (if brusque) old man named Martin explained to him what that word meant.

When it was his turn to show what he’d brought, he was a little hesitant as it had nothing to do with Obama, blacks or Muslims – but he needn’t have been.  He’d spent over a hundred bucks of his own money to get enough CCIR merchandise from his friend Barbara Coe – teeshirts, caps, and posters, all featuring a hilarious image of a terrified family of illegals being chased back across the border by the California Bear – enough to give out to everybody:

And they loved it! Deb Pauly shocked the crowd a bit by changing into her new teeshirt in front of everybody (Bob felt himself blush as he tried to avert his eyes from Deb’s perky breasts.)  Tim slapped Bob on the back, guffawing, “I’ve seen those shirts before but they make me laugh every time!” And Lupe Moreno mock-frowned, “You’re intruding on MY territory, young man… but I love you anyway!” Then she waddled over, pressed her floppy body against his, and gave him a big wet kiss.

He was amazed at how hilarious Tim Whitacre could be after a few drinks.  But really, what made Bob laugh the hardest was the Obama joke Dean Grose told.  He went through it in his head, wondering if it would work without the N-word so he could tell it at work.  No… no… that joke just wasn’t the same without the N-word.

Damn it, he suddenly thought resentfully, “I am not a racist!”  It’s all just jokes, plus he had black friends.  At least that one guy, the black guy at work, what was his name, Dan I think.  Sometimes they high-fived each other, and sometimes they talked about sports.  He was pretty sure the guy’s name was Dan, he’d say hi to him again Monday morning because he was totally not racist.  Still, he probably would never tell Dean Grose’s Obama joke to Dan.  He laughed a little, thinking how inappropriate that would be.

Damn! He just accidentally sped right past the 22 onramp.  That’s okay, he’d take the 91 east instead.  The scotch felt warm and jolly inside him.  How many had he had?  Four?  No.  At least five.  Okay.  Focus on the road now.

Suddenly he cringed a little as he remembered his one faux-pas of the evening:  hearing Scott Baugh (who’d always been nice to him) mentioned snidely one too many times, he had made the mistake of saying something like, “Oh, he’s not such a bad guy, he just has to worry about our image out there in the politically correct world.”  Suddenly you could hear a pin drop, and then Deb Pauly began cursing like a sailor.  Bob had never heard a woman, or even a man, screech out so many filthy words so loud;  the veins stood out on Deb’s reddened forehead, her spittle flew across the room.  And then something even scarier happened:

Marilyn Davenport, who’d been going back and forth silently in a rocking chair all evening, sat bolt upright with widened, possessed eyes, and announced:  “Scott Randall Baugh is the Antichrist, and I utter imprecatory prayers for his death thrice daily, using his full name.”

The room sat hushed for a few moments, until Tim Whitacre broke the silence with a soothing, “That’s right, Marilyn, that’s right.”  Then Dick Nichols raised a glass of whiskey and toasted, “To Chairman Whitacre 2012!”  And everybody cheered.  That would sure be the last time Bob would say anything nice about Scott Baugh!

He glanced over to the passenger seat at his stack of loot.  At the top was the (in)famous Obama Chimp Family Photo, blown up to poster size; he smiled and ran his fingers over the treasure.  Suddenly a strong feeling of resentment took him over.  How could such a ridiculous creature have been made leader of the greatest nation in history?  How could people be so offended by an image both so hilarious and so truthful?  And what was so wrong about a few white people getting together to feel special and enjoy some laughter and drinks?  What was the world coming to?

Suddenly Bob jerked his eyes back to the road and yanked the car back into his lane – shit, he was swerving.  Concentrate!  And, right on cue, a siren and flashing red light in his rear view mirror.  As he pulled over he thought, “Just brazen it out.  No, officer, I haven’t had anything to drink tonight.  Nothing, officer.”

The Anaheim cop strode up with his flashlight and Bob rolled his window down.  “License and registration please.”  The flashlight beam landed on the Obama-chimp poster.  “Oh, nice,” remarked the cop.  Bob smiled weakly, thinking, is this going to be good or bad for me?  “My partner will really like that.”  His partner?

“Hey!  Tyrone!” the officer called over his shoulder.  “Check this out, you’re gonna love this.”

Things went downhill after that, for Bob.

Mayor Dean Grose’s legacy: “I guess there’s no White House Easter Egg hunt this year!”

About Vern Nelson

Greatest pianist/composer in Orange County, and official political troubadour of Anaheim and most other OC towns. Regularly makes solo performances, sometimes with his savage-jazz band The Vern Nelson Problem. Reach at, or 714-235-VERN.