Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Cindy’s Last Stand At Narcotics Anonymous



At a Narcotics Anonymous meeting in Tucson, Arizona, Cindy McCain (wife of presidential nominee Captain Queeg) has just arrived for a meeting. Her blonde beehive is bent and partially damp, as if she just spent the day passed out on Amy Winehouse’s bathroom floor. Long ago her waterproof mascara gave way, and has drizzled down her cheeks in long, desperate stains. In her left hand,Cindy is holding a can of Red Bull. Her wrist is overwhelmed with holding things upright, and so the can occasionally tilts and spills onto the floor. In Cindy’s right hand is one cigarette after another.

After listening to a droning Emo girl talk about Oxycontin and cutting herself, it is Cindy’s turn to speak. Let’s listen in:

My name is Cindy M., and I’m an addict. It had a little bit trouble last night and fell off the wagon... like a dumb bitch! Tha’s right. I’m a stupid bitch. My husband would tell you I’m a cunt. Go ahead – ask the bastard! He’s on the record with that one... New York Goddamned Times! I’ll show you cunt, you fucker!

Back in the day, you could bounce nickels off my ass. Now you can bounce them off my eyebrows! Do you have any idea how much Restylane I’ve had inject myself with since Senator McCunt Face decided to run for president?

I should never have screwed him. He was married. I thought, “Oh, he’s a handsome war hero and he looks like Daddy!” I was so young… The sex was mind-blowing – I won’t lie. He’d prop himself up on his mangled arm and fuck all night. He’d even eat me out afterwards. I fucking married him, okay? Right after he tipped over his wife’s wheel chair and filed for divorce.

I’m rich, too. I mean – like – totally rich. I can buy Egyptian cotton to wipe my ass with and pay Swedish body-builders to burn the sheets when I’m done. And guess who I gave 50/50 access to my bank accounts? Yup. I’m a stupid, stupid cunt. My family bankrolls his campaigns so he can live in DEE CEE, and fuck any piece of white trash, rode-hard BITCH lobbyist that he can get his creepy pink hands on. I’ve had seventeen STD’s in the last decade, at least. One of them was herpes. Thanks so much for the gift that keeps on giving, JOHN. I sure needed that, JOHN. What a MAN that JOHN is! I hate him.

I started taking pills from my children’s charity to numb myself. Before I knew it, I ate a whole warehouse full of baby painkillers that were supposed to go to children who lost their legs. They had ‘em blown off by landmines, I guess. Something really fucked up like that. I was selfish, but I never felt a thing.

Eventually I got caught – BLAH BLAH BLAH – rehab, rehab, rehab and what.ev.er. Then my piece of lobbyist-fucking, narcissistic, paranoid bastard whore of a husband decided to run for president. He got CREAMED. He never even made it out of the gate. I should have left him then and really twisted the knife in his heart. But NO. I hung in there and raised my kids. I was seeing a shrink. I was being a do-gooder. I was just glad John was in DEE CEE and not at home. As long as he wasn’t in my bed, begging for sex because he had a bad Vietcong dream again, no probs! He’s old. I was hoping he might die in Washington, and that’s the truth. I don’t care who knows it.

John is running for president again. Eight motherfucking years later. Yeah, this should go over like a wet fart in a Jacuzzi. Not only is he a dried up prick, but also he’s a lying asshole and he’s trying to win this thing against Jesus H. Christ Come Again as a tall, dark, handsome, brilliant black man. Like I said – wet fart, Jacuzzi - meet my husband John. He is screwed. I’m sick of this. I need a bath.



On top of all this pressure, now I have to compete with Obama’s wife. Michelle. She has a law degree, a loving hubbie and two sweet kids. And’s she HOT. I’d tap that! You know what I’ve got? A purse full of Lorazepam and decades of resentment. Michelle knows Oprah! I know Dr. Drew. I can’t compete with this. So here I am - off the wagon, and I don’t know if I want back on. That’s why I came here today. I need to be sober before I file for divorce.

Cindy finishes speaking and throws her empty cigarette pack to the floor. A guy named Duane P. is speaking now about his prescription forgeries, but Cindy isn’t listening. Two Secret Service Agents appear from nowhere and escort Cindy to a car waiting outside. "Where are you taking me?" she asks one of the men. "Your flight to Georgia leaves in an hour," he says.

3 comments:

Mojopo said...

Is it me, or did she totally sound bitter? Kick him to the curb, Cindy - it's never too late! Get well.

Minnie-sota said...

I guess this is Cindy's way of making a "a searching and fearless moral inventory." Of her hubby. ;-)

Tom said...

Brilliant. Scathing. I smell a Pulitzer nomination. Thank you, lovely writer person.