In Washingwood, where Hollywood and Washington D.C. collide there's an interesting spot for brunch, called Cafe Discontent. There's one catch, however: One can only dine at this spot if, and only if, one is or has been a candidate, fundraiser, adviser, or activist in the last four years of the The New Mutated Republican Party (NMRP). The party that currently controls the House and is vying for the Oval. Not being a member of the NMRP, I had to crash the place which involved telling a few harmless lies. This was not easy as I anticipated. I approached the hostess asking for a table for one. She looked at me suspiciously. The kind of look that one has when they think they're talking to someone who believes they have the right to affordable medical care and the right to eat . Simultaneously.
"You're new around here, aren't you?" she asked. I told her I had recently moved to Washingwood. Then, anticipating her next question, I explained I lost my NRA card the previous night. "Hmmm," she said. "Lost it, huh? Right." She wasn't buying it. I had to come up with something. Lie number two. "That's right, young lady. Lost it. My fault. Damn thing must have fallen out of my pocket while I was building an electric fence around my own home to keep out the illegal immigrants. You know, the ones that may try to gain entry order into to steal my job, eat my food, abuse my health insurance benefits and enroll their children in my children's school district... even though my kids go to a private school where they don't hand out birth control and force fantasies like evolution down their throats..." I was babbling, but to some effect, as her eyes registered a touch more empathy... just a touch.
"You built an electrified fence by yourself?" Hmm. She had me. It's not a one-man job. "No," I said. "I had the help of 50 undocumented workers. Not illegal aliens. Undocumented workers." She sighed. I was losing her. I caught her shooting a look to a big guy I assumed to be the manager. "Look, " I said. "I am not about to re-ignite the labor movement in this great country of ours by hiring... union electricians, union contractors -- anyway, table for one, please." She grabbed a menu, turned around and ask me to follow her. Finally, I was in! Or so I thought.
She forced a smile and then lightly commented, "Lovely day, isn't it? How about that table under the Elm tree?" I nodded my assent. "By the way," she casually tossed off. "When do you think life begins?" "Life begins at conception, of course," I said.
Before I knew it, she had signaled the manager, who, within seconds was in my face. Though at the moment I hadn't realized it, I was thrown... a trick question. This woman was good!
"What's the problem?" he asked.
"I think this guy is a faker, " she offered. " You know, a Socialist. A Democrat." The manager asked me for my birth certificate. I explained I don't normally carry my birth certificate around with me. Just at Tea Party rallies. And my Fourth of July Birther Barbecue. We went through the NRA card thing again, as well as the electrified fence. The manager was skeptical.
The hostess went on. "Get this! He thinks life begins... at conception!" Skepticism gave way to pure shock. The manager registered a look on his face that suggested Charles Darwin, Karl Marx and Richard Dawkins just strolled in and ordered mimosas. Then it dawned on me! The very essence of the origins of life itself has changed in the New Mutated Republican Party! How could I have screwed this up? How could I have been so intellectually lazy? I steadied myself and self-righteously attempted to set things straight. " Uh, excuse me, Sir! But your hostess didn't let me finish! I meant life began at conception, but NOT the conception we normally think of as conception. As in 'Hello, Sperm? ! I'd like you to meet my friend, Egg. Egg? This is Sperm. ' See, that's not conception!"
"Go on," the manager said.
I continued. "By 'conception' I, of course meant that life begins at the conception of the conception of the idea of conception. For example, John meets Jane for the first time at the local coffee house. He accidentally spills his beverage, some of which splatters on Jane. He apologizes. They chat. He decides he's going to ask her out. Who knows? Maybe she'll say yes. Maybe they'll end up falling in love and getting married. Then Jane will lose her virginity and have children. So, in that scenario, life would begin when John spilled his latte on Jane's running shoes. When John conceives the idea that one day conception may occur, he and Jane have, in fact, conceived, and life began."
They both nodded. I had them. Putty. Now it was time to close.
"So, what I was attempting to say is that I believe in the sanctity of life! And since life began in that coffee house, I believe in the sanctity of Jane's latte-stained running shoes. Now may be seated?!"
The manager looked at me and smiled. "I'm so sorry, Sir. Our hostess... is new here." He shot her a look. "Mary, will you seat this gentleman and then come see me?"
Anyway, a half-minute later I was seated. I ordered The Romney Omelette. It's a complicated process. They take you outside to an aviary as you swear your undying love to 15 different types of egg-laying birds. And if they love you back, they lay their eggs. Those 15 different types of eggs are made into an omelette. It was quite bland. However it does come with a side of whatever-you-want.