Senator Ted Cruz (R-Cancun) has penis envy – for Elizabeth Warren. I can’t believe I just wrote that sentence, but consider the Senator’s comments during a recent appearance in Nevada. “Elizabeth Warren told reporters that a guy came up to her and said, ‘I would have voted for you if only you had a penis,’” he commented, then added: “In today’s Democrat Party, how do we know she doesn’t?”
In today’s Republican Party, how do we know he does? But I digress.
“How could you possibly know?” he continued. ‘My name is Elizabeth. Call me Bob.’” Or you can call me Al. Or Sal. Or maybe Ted’s a gal. Perhaps he needs a pal. A pal named Bob who is really a gal. Or maybe not a human at all.
A mere four months ago the Senator admitted fantasizing about cartoon characters having sex. His erotic animation dream was triggered by the Disney Corporation’s opposition to Florida’s so-called “Don’t Say Gay!” bill, which incorporates censorship of information about sexual orientation and identity into an otherwise unremarkable parents’ rights bill.
“I think there are people who are misguided, trying to drive, you know, Disney stepping in saying, you know, in every episode, now they’re going to have, you know, you know, Mickey and Pluto going at it like, really?!” Cruz told his podcast audience. “Thank you for that image, Senator,” replied his podcast guest, undoubtedly checking his watch and edging toward the studio door.
Do the math: in the last four months, the Calgary native and junior senator from Texas has fantasized about Mickey Mouse copulating with Pluto (presumably dog-fashion) and Elizabeth Warren having a penis. And that’s only the part he said out loud.
Ted Cruz has issues.
But he’s not the only prominent Republican politician with a disturbing fascination with penises. Take the Arizona Republican candidate for governor, Kari Lake (please). She displayed her fascination with male genitalia during a recent appearance with Florida’s Republican Governor, Ron DeSantis.
“The guy has bigger … Wait, let me think about how I want to word this,” Lake told the audience. “My staff always says, ‘Whatever you do, do not say balls.’ So, I’m not going to say it. That guy has a backbone made of steel.”
She didn’t say what she thinks his balls are made of. Brass? Cotton?
“I’ll tell you what he’s got,” she added. “I don’t know if you’d heard of this. He’s got ‘BDE.’ Anybody know what that means? Ask your kids about it later.” In case you don’t know – and bless you if you don’t – “BDE” stands for “Big Dick Energy.”
Wouldn’t you love to be a fly on the wall when all those MAGA-loving Lake supporters ask their kids what “BDE” stands for? Family values, folks.
“I call it ‘Big DeSantis Energy.’ Right?” said Lake, pretending to be clever. “He’s got the same kind of BDE that President Trump has. And, frankly, he’s got the same kind of BDE that we want all of our elected leaders to have.” Including Elizabeth Warren?
Since Kari Lake wants to be an elected leader, she apparently aspires to “BDE” herself. Presumably, she doesn’t have a penis, although, to quote Ted Cruz, how do we know she doesn’t? How could she acquire BDE? The easy answer: she needs to borrow a penis. But, from whom? Fortunately for Lake, given the state of today’s Republican male leadership, that’s an easy problem to solve.
If Kari Lake needs to borrow a penis, she only has to travel to Bakersfield. That’s where Kevin McCarthy lives. She can borrow his; he hasn’t used it in years. But she can’t have his balls. They’re still at Mar-a-Lago.
In an already peculiar political environment, the GOP’s fascination with male genitalia is the oddest turn yet. Who knew the elephant’s trunk was a metaphor?
We have serious issues to confront in 2022. Climate change is the most critical. Here in the west, we are dealing with the worst drought in 1200 years, as well as record heat waves and wildfires. The Covid-19 pandemic still warrants attention and inflation is eating a hole in the pockets of many American families. Vladimir Putin has launched the most serious ground invasion since World War Two and Xi is recklessly rattling China’s swords. To quote Crash Davis, “We’re dealing with a lot of shit.”
Democrats believe they can retain control of Congress by emphasizing accomplishments, such as legislation addressing veterans’ health, infrastructure, semi-conductor manufacturing, drug prices and climate change; and foreign policy, including strengthening NATO and arming Ukraine. They’re telling voters, “Vote for us; we get things done.” Republicans, on the other hand, have a far simpler message:
“Vote for us; we’re bigger dicks.”
Is that a sensible campaign strategy? I dunno. Ask your kids about it later.
© 2022 by Mike Tully
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Goodbye, Siouxhima
It was the view that sold us. In 1986, Kris and I decided to upgrade from the modest home we bought before I enrolled in law school. We looked at several houses but ended our search and made an offer when we saw the view. The house was small for the neighborhood, but big enough for us. The floorplan was efficient and well-designed, but we were captivated by the view. The house has a large, partially covered deck on the north side. The Catalina Mountains loom over us in that direction. The view to the west, toward the end of the deck, stretched to the western mountains, unimpaired except for a single tree.
The tree was a Shoestring Acacia that towered over the deck. It didn’t block the view as much as it enhanced it. The Moon Valley Nurseries website describes the Shoestring Acacia as “an almost perfect medium-sized tree with a weeping habit and long and narrow green leaves that provide filtered shade and also help give it its ‘shoestring’ appearance.” It’s native to Australia.
Our tree had a double trunk, which gave it a heart-shaped profile. Its green tendrils didn’t cast much shade, but also didn’t block the view. It was part of the view. From the flaming sunsets of monsoon season to the grey clouds of winter, from the bottomless blue sky of Spring to the appearance of distant city lights at dusk, the tree was like an actress on an ever-changing stage.
Life is riddled with uncertainty. I think that’s why many of us find solace in the stability and permanence of mountains and trees. Mountains are solid and reassuring. So was our Shoestring Acacia, posing before the western sky, there to greet us every morning, still there to kiss the evening goodbye hours later.
Our daughter, Meg, was a little girl when we moved into the house with the Shoestring Acacia and regarded it as a member of the family. She named it “Siouxhima.”
Siouxhima stood just outside the deck perimeter. The tree had many visitors over the years. Mourning doves would softly coo in her branches. Bright red cardinals would happily chirp and sing there as well. Majestic hawks rested in Siouxhima. Even roadrunners were attracted to her lofty, wispy branches. One day, to my amazement, I saw a juvenile bobcat in her arms. The bobcat was paralyzed with fright while our dog, Penny, robustly barked at it. I pulled Penny away and the little bobcat gingerly clambered down.
The historic drought impacted many local plants as it tightened its grip on the Southwest. Siouxhima was not immune. One of her trunks died, but remained in place. It was like a symbol of life and death, two opposites collapsed into a common entity. The heart-shaped symmetry remained. Siouxhima stood proudly on one side, humbly on the other.
We eventually hired an arborist to remove the dead portion. Its fragility had made it potentially dangerous, especially during monsoon season. I’ve seen large, healthy branches ripped from trees and sucked into the sky. Siouxhima’s brittle dead portion would not put up much resistance.
Siouxhima looked like half a tree, but we watered and nurtured her and she eventually regained her regal symmetry. Siouxhima had suffered and changed, but endured. She was emblematic of the region in that way. From the devastating flood of October 1983 to the Aspen and Big Horn fires in the Catalinas, the community has survived. We have been burnt, broken, submerged and humbled. We have lost pieces of ourselves, bent under the weight of events, but continue on our way, damaged, scarred, and defiant. Just like Siouxhima.
On July 30, 2022, a violent squall passed over our neighborhood. The rain overwhelmed our gutters, creating a waterfall where the water poured off the covered part of the deck. I took a video of the impromptu waterfall. As I did so, I slowly panned left, capturing the ferocity of the storm. All I could see was shrubbery flailing violently in the wind, the rain whipping sideways and a turbulent, boiling grey mass where the mountains used to be. It was a classic monsoon storm, the kind I have loved, feared, and photographed all of my life.
As I panned farther left, I heard a loud, sickening, cracking sound. I continued slowly panning from right to left. I didn’t turn to look at what had caused the ugly sound. I didn’t have to; I knew what the sound was.
It was the sound of Siouxhima dying.
I panned farther to my left, toward the west, toward Siouxhima. She was broken in two, her upper part dangling helplessly over the lower part. My eyes brimmed with tears as I momentarily froze the camera on her carcass, then zoomed in for a closer look. No tree could survive a catastrophic break like that. Siouxhima was gone.
On Monday, I hired Jose Leal of Angel’s Landscaping to remove Siouxhima’s remains. She was cut up and hauled away in less than an hour. The tree was beyond survival and the dead remnants could tear loose and become projectiles in the monsoon wind.
We had a vibrant sunset that night, as if the sky had painted a visual elegy to our lost friend. I took a photograph. The western view was unimpaired, with nothing between me and the distant horizon, a stunning sight.
But so horribly empty.
© 2022 by Mike Tully
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