On my recent trip to Dublin with my unforgettable sister, KP, I was thinking about how I had never been so comfortable with my American accent abroad. I hadn’t been overseas since 1999. Maybe it’s getting older that makes you just not care. I didn’t apologize for how I talk or feel bound to explain it or anything. I am who I am.

We were looking for the next haunted church on our packed “Death and Drag Tour 2008,” standing kind of in the middle of an intersection. An old man with a forest-green wool coat and cap, wearing three-day stubble and dried soup speckles on his chin, carrying a cane, saw us hesitating over our map and asked if he could help us find something.

At first his impression was of the kindly, gallant, avuncular Irish bloke with a pipe in his mouth of postcards and legend. This guy said “’tis” and was Straight from Central Casting (“We need a ‘Twinkle-eyed Old Irish Sod’…stat!”). The stereotypical Irish brogue that people use humorously outside Ireland to imitate the Irish is not exaggerated, they sound exactly like that.

But then on a dime, he descended into a curious, unmotivated assholishness, repeating back to us the name of the street we said we were looking for, but corrected (we said “St. James St.” to which he responded in that “uh, you’re an idiot” tone: “Ah, yes, James’s St.”), then offered to show us how to get there.

Pointing around the bend with his cane, he gave us the usual bullshit British Isles–style directions (everything is always “just here, ’round the corner there” but in reality it never is, it’s always hideously, fiendishly far away) that really didn’t even make sense. He invited us to follow him instead, but he walked at about five steps per minute, causing us to feel an awkwardness about… where to stand while he was “leading” us.

“Where ye from in Europe, then?” he asked. I said, “America.” His demeanor changed immediately, on the final “a” in the word America, from that odd disdain covered with phony kindliness … to rage.

“How many millions has that bastard – excuse me, young lady [more fake gallantry] – Bush, killed? Hmm? How many millions?” he bellowed. I wanted to answer *maybe* 200,000 – that would be Iraqis and American-coalition soldiers combined, plus some Afghans and miscellaneous. That’s an unforgivable sum. But not millions, and not killed personally by Mr. Bush, though I understood what the old man meant. Not answering him engendered more awkwardness, because after all, I’m a stickler for facts and I’m not going to take the “respect old people” thing into the realm of trafficking in wild hyperbole with them.

After a few more shouted questions it became clear he wasn’t getting the answers he wanted, but then we didn’t know what he wanted. Did he want us to say, “Oh, you’re so right. We and all Americans are just demonic warmongers from hell. Thank you, sir.” Or did he want a debate? Out of a lingering deference to his oldness, we put up with his ranting, though frankly I was getting a little put off by being reduced to a baffled whipping boy for Mr. Bush’s misdeeds, and not being believed when I protested that I DON’T SUPPORT MR. BUSH OR HIS POLICIES.

“We didn’t vote for him,” I insisted. “That’s what ye all say!” the implacable old sod yelled into my face.

Then he demanded to know why the Supreme Court had handed the 2000 election to Mr. Bush. Why. Why? We didn’t have a good answer for him. KP said, “They’re majority-Republican-appointed” or something like that. Then we moved out of the intersection and he gestured over to the right, around the corner. “Here, come ’round here, I want to talk to you about politics,” he said, looking around suspiciously like we were being followed.

I said, “We’re voting for O’bama!” To which he replied sourly, “Who’s that, the Republican?” This sounded the final gong on our abortive “political discussion.”

He kept turning again and again to the side as if to try to compose himself, yet he found he just couldn’t control his exaggerated, 19th-century-actorish indignation. But I think he sensed we were disturbed, bored and annoyed. My patience was worn to the nubbins by our failure to connect with this old man, and even old leprechauns with dried soup on their chin can pick up on that when it happens.

So, with no real segue except an implicit “here’s another outrage!,” he closed by asking us in a doomsday voice did we know what the Irish government had just done to the pensioners (or somesuch)? It was, of course, something “political” and infuriating to him. He ominously dared us to read it for ourselves, whatever it was, which, like the ugly American swine that I am, I don’t care about.

Moving himself backward and away at five steps per minute, he waved his arm in disgust at us and muttered out to a dwindle, leaving us only with those initial dubious directions and an earful of bombastic brogue: We equal Mr. Bush because we are Americans. All Americans are Mr. Bush. No grays here, just blacks and whites.

We were still in the process of shrugging this ugly incident off when, 10 minutes later, across town, we were again looking at a map… and, oh look, here’s an old woman saying, “Whar ye tryin’ to go? The river?” (The river was plainly visible about 100 feet from where we were standing.) I told her we didn’t need any help, but thanks ever so much, in a nice tone of voice. She said where ya from we said America and in the same unhinged howl as her soup-splattered countryman she lit into us about the evils of Mr. Bush. I really wasn’t listening this time. I made my own dismissive hand gesture at her.

In an apparent reference both to him and to the fact that I had declined her help with the map, she sputtered, “Yer the second American that’s let the Irish down!” It was such a clever, thought-provoking line that I couldn’t tell if maybe she was wowing us with her comedy, but when she turned and rejoined her friend and gestured back at us as though we were something horrible, then with broad stage mannerisms tried to “warn” another group of passersby that we were American, trying to incite a riot, really, I realized she was serious. “Don’t get lost in Ireland!” she hollered back at us from down the street, a veiled threat. I felt like we had time-travelled into a medieval village and were about to be rounded up and put in the stocks then burnt at the stake.

I’d read about the ferocious anti-Bush sentiments people encountered in foreign countries. Now I’ve experienced them and obviously it hurt my feelings, because I’m berating, in writing, these two old folks.

But I loved Ireland, and found everyone to be lovely except these two. They can go rot in whisky barrels buried under the River Liffey.

They’d probably like that.

I’m sure when I go back — and I will, because excepting these two rude old clueless Celtic cranks I was charmed silly by Ireland — I’m sure I’ll get my Yankee ass kissed, because we elected a biracial butterfly in the USA, so all is forgiven. But I don’t deserve any special credit for that, just as I don’t deserve the wrath of the leprechauns for Mr. Bush’s stuff.

Read more SM SHRAKE at You Wanna Know What? and The Shrake-tionary.

Pt. 1: Why We Are Cousins

EXPECTATIONS MANAGEMENT NOTE: This is not a parody like others you’ve seen on UsedWigs. It’s not supposed to be funny. This is real.

Fact: My grandmother’s maiden name was Heath. Fact: Sarah Palin’s maiden name is Heath. Republican-style fact synthesis: That makes us cousins!

Jealous?

From having a shared last name to being cousins might sound like a stretch, I know. From PTA to small-town mayor to ceremonial governor to leader-in-waiting of the free world sounded like a stretch, too, a month ago. Stretching is in. Don’t worry.

Fact (true, non-Republican kind): The Heaths in both my family tree and Sarah’s can be traced back to England in the 1500s, and came over to Massachusetts in the 1600s, right at the founding of this great U.S. America.* In case you don’t understand: Our ancestors were also cousins.

As if the family tree weren’t enough proof: Just look at the noses of my Great-Great Grandfather Heath (Nose 1) and her dad, my Uncle Chuck (Nose 2). They’re clearly the same. Cousin Sarah and I share a nasal heritage. Maybe that’s why we talk the same, too!

I wasn’t surprised when I seen my cousin up there next to John McCain on August 29. I knew she was ready. Well, I was a little surprised. I was surprised before I wasn’t surprised, let’s put it that way.

I was also surprised that she was my cousin. But she clearly is.

Why did I wait till this moment to announce this fact? Because we Heaths like to surprise ya.

Now that I’ve established to everyone’s satisfaction that Sarah Heath Palin and I are cousins, how do I feel about it?

I feel AWESOME about it.

Mostly I’m excited that when (not if!) McCain/Palin wins in a landslide (FOUR MORE YEARS!) and the Palins move in to the vice president’s house at the Naval Observatory, which is, like, a mile from my apartment, that she’s going to be calling me to baby-sit Pillow and Trog or whatever their names are! My little cousins.

I don’t know nothing ’bout no baby-sitting! LOL. I guess it’ll be okay, though. I can watch the little special-needs baby, no problem. What could go wrong? Cousin Sarah doesn’t have much experience doing a lot of things, either, like whatever it is that VPs do. Who needs it? Everything will be fine.

In exchange for baby-sitting my little cousins, though, I expect to be handed a cushy government job from Cousin Sarah when she gets to Washington to clean it up. And I’ll say “Thanks,” but NOT “no thanks”! I’ll just say thanks, in other words.

Good luck in your debate tonight, Sarah! OMG you’re gonna do so good! But you wanna know what? No matter how good you do, you’ll still be my cousin.

Coming Soon: “Sarah Palin Is My Cousin, Part 2: First Cousins Putting Country First!” in which I discuss how Sarah and I are going to remake America. As a family.

*Shortly after that, the Supreme Court introduced the Constitution. But more about Sarah, Todd (hint, hint! Who’d be a good Supreme Court justice, huh?) and I and our place in history in Part 2.

Read more SM SHRAKE at You Wanna Know What? and The Shrake-tionary.

Penicillin, duct tape, Snow White, Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, nylon, TV dinners are just some of the things younger than Mr. Temper Tantrum himself, John McCain. Yes, I’m an anti-Republican ageist. I’m also an anti-Democrat who dislikes young people, so there. Relax and enjoy. {via 9 to Fried}

Website: Things younger than Republican Presidential candidate (oh, and did I forget to mention war hero?) John McCain

Our D.C. Insider Scott attended the White House Correspondents Association Dinner last night and snapped some fun photos of celebrities you know and some you don’t. It’s great to see a pic of the lovely Padma without Tom Colicchio’s fat head next to her for once.

"Noticed how people that are "sort of famous" are so grateful when you take their picture. And how hurt the "not even sort of famous" people look when no one takes their picture."

Read More and View Photos: Huffington Post

In the third act of the classic motion picture drama “Mommie Dearest,” an aging Joan Crawford (Faye Dunaway) is shown at a meeting with the all-male board of directors of Pepsi-Cola, where her last husband had been president until his recent death. After expressing their condolences, the board tells Crawford she will have to repay the debt her husband incurred borrowing against his salary to rehab their 5th Ave. apartment, and they imply that once that is done, she will no longer be associated with Pepsi. Here is the dialogue* that follows:

CRAWFORD: You think you’re very clever, don’t you, trying to sweep the poor little widow under the carpet? Well, think again. I’m on the board of directors of this lousy company.

MALE BOARD MEMBER: We assumed that you would no longer want to be on the board.

CRAWFORD: Al and I helped build Pepsi to what it is today. I intend to stay with it.

MALE BOARD MEMBER: We appreciate your devotion and contribution, Miss Crawford. But we have retired you from the board of directors.

CRAWFORD: You drove Al to his grave, and now you’re trying to stab me in the back? Forget it! I fought worse monsters than you in Hollywood for years. I can win the hard way!

MALE BOARD MEMBER: (Nervously) We don’t want any hard feelings.

CRAWFORD: You don’t know what hard feelings are until I come out publicly against your product. You’ll see how much you sell.

MALE BOARD MEMBER: It’s hardly necessary to make threats you surely don’t mean.

CRAWFORD: (Ferociously) Don’t f*ck with me, fellas! This ain’t my first time at the rodeo. You forget the press I delivered to Pepsi was my power. I can use it any way I want. It’s a sword, cuts both ways.

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IXZ4Kd-faoM[/youtube]

MALE BOARD MEMBER: (After a big sigh) The board has failed to realize the extent of your interest in the company. We… misjudged. (With forced smile) We shall be pleased to have you stay on.

CRAWFORD: Thank you, gentlemen. Now, let’s get to work.

*Writing credits (alphabetical): Christina Crawford (book); Robert Getchell, Tracy Hotchner, Frank Perry, Frank Yablans.

Now I know some people don’t like strong women. But I for one was ON JOAN’S SIDE throughout the movie. I remember during the Lewinsky scandal, one of Hillary’s friends was asked on “60 Minutes” what she thought was going on in the White House between Bill and Hillary. After they pestered her enough, she finally said, in exasperation, “What do you want me to say? Is she capable of throwing a lamp? YEAH, she is, okay?” Let’s rewrite this “Mommie Dearest” scene for Hillary:

Monday, March 3, 2008

CLINTON: You think you’re very clever, don’t you, trying to sweep the poor little woman candidate under the carpet? Well, think again. I’m still running for president of this lousy country.

THE MEDIA: We assumed that you would no longer want to run against such a formidable opponent as Senator Obama.

CLINTON: Bill and I helped build the Democratic Party to what it is today. I intend to lead it.

THE MEDIA: We appreciate your devotion and contribution, Mrs. Clinton. But we have decided Mr. Obama is going to be the next president.

CLINTON: You drove Bill to quadruple bypass surgery, and now you’re trying to stab me in the back? Forget it! I fought worse monsters than you in Washington for years. I can win the hard way!

THE MEDIA: (Nervously) We don’t want any hard feelings.

CLINTON: You don’t know what hard feelings are until I come out publicly about the real reason behind your pro-Obama bias. I’ll tell the whole country how you guys in the “left-wing media” are really part of the vast right-wing conspiracy, and that’s why you want Obama as the nominee: so he can lose to the Republicans.

THE MEDIA: It’s hardly necessary to make threats you surely don’t mean.

CLINTON: (Ferociously) Don’t f*ck with me, fellas! This ain’t my first time at the rodeo. You forget that the scandalous stories I gave you all through the ’90s was my power. I can use it any way I want. It’s a sword, cuts both ways. Bill and I don’t have to provide you ANY fodder if I move back into the White House in ’09 despite your efforts. I’ll give you a very boring presidency, and that’s a promise.

THE MEDIA: (After a big sigh) The media have failed to realize the extent of your interest in the presidency. We… misjudged. (With forced smiles) We shall be pleased to have you stay on in the campaign.

CLINTON: Thank you, gentlemen. Now, let’s get to work. I’ll see you in Ohio.

“BITCH” IS THE NEW BLACK! GO, HILLARY! You’re bigger than him, you’re stronger than him, and you “WILL ALWAYS BEAT HIM”!

Read more SM SHRAKE at You Wanna Know What? and The Shrake-tionary.

[NOTE: This quessay is cross-posted on HuffingtonPost.com]

*Big ups to Crispin Glover, who really should’ve run for president this year, and who once wrote an “essay” called “What Is It?” composed only of questions, with a subtly discernible anti-Steven Spielberg thrust to it. Subtly discernible, the way the media’s anti-Hillary Clinton bias is subtle. I’m paying homage to Glover’s genre*** and giving it a name**: Quessay (question essay). (Actually, so no one accuses me of stealing anyone else’s words, according to Google as of today ONE OTHER person, someone named Rockin80sChick4ever, has used the term quessay. And I think she meant something else.)

Why have we seen Chelsea Clinton but not Bill in the audience at the recent one-on-one debates, and why don’t Michelle Obama and her daughters ever appear at them?

Isn’t it strangely prophetic that Barack Obama, in his 2006 book The Audacity of Hope, after admitting his own “unusually — and at times undeservedly — positive press coverage,” (p. 120) cites only these two people as an example of right-wing bias in the media: “A vote or speech by Hillary Clinton that runs against type is immediately labeled calculating; the same move by John McCain burnishes his maverick credentials” (p. 124)?

What would you say if you knew Hillary’s mom’s married name and Barack’s mom’s maiden name both end in “-ham” (Rodham and Dunham respectively)? Are the Rodhams and the Dunhams related? Isn’t Barack Obama distantly related to the current vice president, Richard Bruce “Dick” Cheney?

Was Barack Obama’s maternal great-grandfather named Ralph Waldo Emerson Dunham? Did he die on October 4, 1970, the same day Janis Joplin died? Wasn’t Janis Joplin a drug addict?

Were rock stars Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison (rumored to have been) killed by the U.S. government?

Do Hillary Clinton, Mamie Eisenhower, Spiro Agnew, Laura Bush, Ralph Nader, Pat Buchanan, the late Bobby Kennedy, Michael Dukakis, Howard Dean, Bill Richardson, Joe Biden, Scarlett Johansson, Condoleezza Rice, Billy Graham and Maria Shriver all share a zodiac sign (Scorpio)?

Do Barack Obama, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, Rosalynn Carter, Marilyn Quayle, Tipper Gore, Lynne Cheney, Bill Clinton, Phyllis Schlafly, Anita Hill, Fidel Castro, Loni Anderson, Caspar Weinberger, the late Jerry Falwell and Arnold Schwarzenegger all share a zodiac sign (Leo)?

Do scorpions sting themselves to death when cornered by an enemy, rather than be killed? Do lions roar a lot (“variations in intensity and pitch, rather than discrete signals, appear central to communication”****)?

Is it interesting that Barack H. Obama Sr. went to Harvard and earned a doctorate in economics, making Barack H. Obama Jr. a “legacy” student at Harvard? Did both Barack and Michelle Obama receive law degrees from Harvard, and did both Bill and Hillary Clinton receive law degrees from Yale? Who else went to Yale? Did any of Bill or Hillary Clintons’ parents attend Ivy League schools? Am I an Ivy League graduate? Was Bill Clinton the only person in his family of origin to attend college?

Is Barack Obama allowed, constitutionally, to pick Bill Clinton as his running mate?

Did Bill Clinton and Barack Obama’s fathers both die relatively young as a result of automobile accidents?

Do William J. Blythe III (Bill Clinton), John S. McCain III and Barack H. Obama II have numbers after their names that, all together, add up to eight (8), which is the same as the total combined number of books the three of them have been the top-billed authors of? Eight?

Does it surprise you that Hillary Clinton’s house in Washington, D.C., is the only one on the block with no house number displayed anywhere?

Where does Barack Obama live when he’s in D.C.? What’s his favorite restaurant? Is it the same restaurant favored by Richard Bruce “Dick” Cheney? If not, why not?

In their youths, didn’t Bill Clinton meet John F. Kennedy and Hillary Rodham meet Martin Luther King Jr.?

Will Barack Obama respond to those calling for him to pick Bill Clinton as his running mate?

**When I was in grad school I would make up words all the time, but one of my sour-faced professors (a German) tried to rid me of the habit by writing in the margin: “It’s not necessary to invent a new word for the purposes of a term paper.”

***I’m also paying homage to the lists of intriguingly paranoiac questions that certain commenters from both fringe ends of the political spectrum like to insert into comment sections (again and again). Except my quessay is different because I can spell.

****Schaller, George B. The Serengeti Lion: A Study of Predator-Prey Relations. University of Chicago Press, 1972. pp. 103-113. Via Wikipedia.

Read more SM SHRAKE at You Wanna Know What? and The Shrake-tionary.