Politics and Tijuana Donkey Shows

There's absolutely no reason why I should get along with my father-in-law. We are as fundamentally different as two people can be. I adore the man, but I'm constantly amazed that we're able to spend an evening together without one of us breaking a bottle over a table and lunging at the other with the shards.

To be fair, there are plenty of good reasons for me to enjoy his company. I love that he refuses to shower indoors, preferring to wash himself with a hose, prison-style, in the back yard. I love that he's the only military veteran I've ever known who owns most of Freddie Mercury solo albums. I love that he shares my affection for Florida biker bars where you can get sloshed on Rum Runners for less than a fin and watch ZZ Top's shorter, fatter twin play sloppy covers of Steely Dan songs. I love that he adores children almost as much as he despises cats. I've seen children of every race and creed gravitate towards him like he's the Pied Piper of Hamelin. But when it comes to animals, particularly cats, he couldn't care less. If a neighborhood cat wanders into his lawn, he'll come after it like a Beverly Hills cop after a Mexican. He's said things to me like, "Did you hear that cat screaming outside last night? Sounded like it was being torn apart by an owl." And then he laughed, and despite my better instincts, I laughed with him, because he said it in such a sweet, amiable way that it was easy to forget he was making a joke about a cat being violently disemboweled.



If it was just felines, cheap rum, and Queen - which, now that I put them all together, kinda sounds like the theme of the best gay pride parade float ever - I could fake my way through any conversation with him. The trouble starts when he starts talking politics.

KEEP ON READIN', IT DON'T COST NUTHIN'

I'm a liberal. I'm so far on the Left that I'd make Michael Moore scream, "Just shutup already, you fucking hippie!" My ideal presidential candidate would be the illegitimate mulatto (and if possible, lesbian) love-child of Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton, who would only begrudgingly enter politics after a failed bid to piss off her parents by quitting college to do poetry slams full-time. I don't just believe that abortion should be legal, I believe that abortion should be mandatory based on your IQ. (Score less than 89 and you're not allowed to reproduce.) I believe that the entire military budget for the United States should be slashed and the money should be used to fund homoerotic art exhibits for Berkeley galleries. I believe that Christians shouldn't be allowed to pray in any public building, and probably not even in their own homes, because prayer leads to superiority complexes, and the belief that you have the God-given right to bomb any nation of poor brown people that disagrees with you.

My father-in-law, as you may've guessed, is a conservative. He does not share my beliefs. In fact, he believes that people who call themselves liberals should be deported. I know this is true because he once said to me, "People who believe shit like that should be deported." He is as knee-jerk for the Right as I am for the Left. I blindly follow everything I'm told in an Al Gore documentary. He blindly follows everything he's told in a Rush Limbaugh radio show. If you want to see the veins pop out in his neck, just mention that you're considering buying a hybrid car, and he'll tell you exactly why you're functionally retarded.

His latest cause du jour is environmentalism - or rather, anti-environmentalism. He does not buy into global warming. He suspects that such conspiracy theories were cooked up by Bill Clinton, possibly while getting teabagged by any number of underage interns. He's so dismissive of global concerns that he goes to great lengths not to recycle. He ignores the blue trash cans provided for him by the city. And to show the "liberal elite" just how unwilling he is to be pushed around by their agenda, he creates more trash than the average person. He'll buy extra reams of paper just to throw it away. He'll go to the grocery store and ask them to "triple-bag it." He'll host parties for the neighbors with the sole intention of producing enough garbage to fill a small landfill.

The Dame, his daughter, (bless her pea-pickin' heart) doesn't buy into his beliefs any more than I do, but she's much better at hiding it. I've learned a lot from her. I've learned that you can waste your time yelling at somebody and explaining exactly why they're wrong, or you can just smile and nod and not say anything and then get them to bend to your will when they're not paying attention. On more than one occasion, we've visited her parents with the sole intention of stealing their recyclables. One minute I'll be enjoying a zinfandel in their back patio, and the next thing I know, the Dame has dragged me out to the garage and she's instructing me to fill our trunk with trash bags.

We've become the Underground Railroad of recycling.

Smuggling garbage out of your in-laws' house is far more frightening than it sounds. I'm never sure what the repercussions will be if we get caught. (Judging from the Dame's wide eyes and anxious whispering, I assume it'll involve leaving the state and undergoing a complete identity change.) And the Dame is nothing if not ambitious. It's not enough for her to pilfer a few discarded cereal boxes and newspapers. She has to haul away every last item that might contribute to greenhouse gas emissions.

"I don't think we have room for anything else," I've told her, as she shoves another trash bag into my arms during an otherwise uneventful family dinner.

"Just move, man," she'll bark at me. "He'll be back any minute!"

When I'm not turning my car into something that looks like Fred Sanford's back yard, I'm trying to avoid stepping on conversational landmines with my father-in-law. This has proven to be especially difficult as of late, since he's determined that the only plausible candidate for president is Rudy Giuliani. Strangely, it has little to do with 9/11, even though that appears to be Rudy's entire platform. He likes Giuliani because he cleaned up New York, so maybe he can do the same for the country. I happen to think that logic is flawed. For one thing, our country's biggest problem isn't too many strip clubs or porn shops. I'd be surprised if people in Bozeman, Montana or Middleton, Wisconsin are thinking, "I don't care if you raise my taxes or continue wasting lives and money on the Iraq War. Just please, somebody get rid of all these hookers!"

And besides, Giuliani cleaned up New York like Mussolini cleaned up Rome. The trains run on time, sure, but not without the occasional anal rape of a Haitian immigrant. (Okay, okay, that's not fair. To the best of my knowledge, Mussolini never anally penetrated a prisoner, Haitian or otherwise.)

I've sat silently as my father-in-law yammered on and on about Giuliani's virtues, and I've tried to listen with an open mind. I don't care about the former mayor's extramarital affairs, or his Disneyfication of Times Square, or his unapologetic racism. I don't even care that he's dressed in drag more than once. (Actually, that's the only reason I'd consider voting for him, but I'd need assurances that he'll be sworn into office while wearing a hot pink muumuu.)

My only real problem with Giuliani can be summed up in four words: He closed down CBGB.

I know that isn't technically true. But he did set in motion a series of events - namely, the political hostility towards underground clubs in New York - that caused CBGB to go out of business. Say what you want about Giuliani, but he's no fan of The Ramones. You might even say that he personally killed Joey Ramone. It might be more accurate to say that lymphoma killed Joey Ramone, but I'm not going to nitpick, or be the one to point out the obvious similarities between Rudy Giuliani and Hodgkin's Disease.

I'll just say this. As far as I'm concerned, Giuliani ended The Ramones. Where I'm from, that's like taking a dump in the Liberty Bell. And I'm sorry, but I just don't think that's acceptable behavior for a future President of the United States of America.

Of course, I've never said any of this to my father-in-law. I'm not stupid. When he talks about how Giuliani could save this country, I just listen quietly. I'm not going to tell him why he's wrong. That's like trying to explain to a firing squad why you're innocent. Sometimes, if I'm feeling generous, I'll even agree with him. Where's the harm in that? If he thinks I'm on his side, he won't raise his voice or pound the table quite so much, and he might even refill my wine glass a little quicker.

But lately, I haven't been able to resist throwing a grenade or two into the mix. Nothing so obvious as "I think Hillary makes some good points." But something that catches him off guard.

"You know what I love about Giuliani?" I'll tell him. "He's strong on national defense."

"That is so true," my father-in-law says, smiling at me like an ally.

"He's going to protect us from the terrorists," I say.

"You got that right," my father-in-law seconds.

"And he's the only candidate that's promised to destroy Mars by 2012."

"It's about time somebody..." But then he stops. Did I just say what he thought I said?

"What's Mars ever done for us?" I continue. "They just keep flaunting their molecular traces of life, like that's enough to keep us from imposing sanctions on them. Whatever, Mars. You're either with us or you're against us. We'll bomb their desert asses back to the stone age if they're not careful. Suck on a mushroom cloud, you Martian towelheads."

There's really no greater pleasure than saying something so utterly reprehensible that it makes your Republican, right wing, conservative father-in-law stare at you with slack-jawed dismay.

The only time he's come close to pushing me over the edge is when he talks about Barack Obama. I intend on voting for Obama, assuming he gets the Democratic ticket. I care enough that I try to avoid all discussion of him with my father-in-law. You don't have to be a regular viewer of Fox News to know where that's gonna lead. "His middle name is Hussein? Is he related to Osama bin Laden?" Ha-ha-ha-ha, that is sooooooo... not in any way funny.

My father-in-law's favorite criticism of Obama is that he's a communist. Actually, for a few months he thought Obama was a socialist, but then he heard some conservative radio commentator talk about Barack's man-crush on Stalin or Lenin, and now he insists Obama has crossed over into full-fledged communism. He's never told me exactly why he thinks Obama is a communist, just that it's obvious to anybody who's paying attention.

"He said as much in his book," he tells me. "The Audacity Of My Father or whatever the hell it was. Obama wants us to bow down to the hammer and sickle. If he has his way, they'll be teaching the Communist Manifesto at public schools."



I don't even know where to begin debating him on this. At first I thought it was just a flippant comment, based more on emotion than rational thinking - like when I call Bush a fascist. (He's not really a fascist, just an idiot from Texas with too much power.) But my father-in-law has said it enough that I think he might be serious. And that's... well, confusing, for starters. And in its own weird way, a little adorable. Accusing somebody of being a communist is like accusing them of being in the Whig Party. Are there any actual communists anymore? I mean besides Cuba and two billion Chinese? But that's mostly out of habit, right? I don't think even Fidel Castro gives a shit about communism anymore. Have you seen him try to give a speech lately? He's like a retiree at a freemason meeting. He's just happy to be out of the house. When your biggest public icon considers it a good day when he has a bowel movement, you're not really a political force to be reckoned with.

I could explain this to my father-in-law. I could tell him that "communist" is one of those antiquated terms like "beatnik" or "flapper" that doesn't really apply anymore. I could tell him that just because Obama thinks it might be a good idea to share some of our national wealth with those less fortunate, it doesn't necessarily mean he's a communist. What he considers communism, I call "not being a dick." But my arguments would fall on deaf ears.

Well, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. If my candidate can be so easily dismissed with an absurdly outdated political buzzword, so can his.

"I like John McCain," he told me during our last visit. "I just wish he wasn't so liberal on immigration and tax reform."

"That's right," I agreed. "And he won't come out and admit he's a Hun."

He gave me that look usually reserved for somebody who just farted in an elevator. "Come again?"

“Isn't it funny how the Liberal Media has never reported that? Like the rest of us can't figure out that he's a Hun. He's taken part in so much Hunnish activity."

"Like what?" He asked, the blood rapidly leaving his face.

"Oh, you know, the usual. Raping, pillaging, burning down the towns of his victims. If he wasn't so obvious about it, it wouldn't be a big deal. But that whole 'I will drink the blood of my enemies' speech he gave at the Iowa caucus? That was a little over the top. You have to ask yourself, do we really want a Hun in the Oval Office?"

It got ugly. He eventually figured out that I was making fun of him and, well, words were exchanged. When the Dame walked in, after sneaking away to fill our car with over one hundred empty diet cola cans, she realized that tensions had spiraled out of control. She managed to defuse the situation by separating us, and we retreated to our respective corners to cool off. But it was obvious that there was no turning back. We had crossed a line in the sand. This was a pivotal moment in our relationship. One of us would have to back down or we'd be locked in an epic and endless battle of political alliances that could ruin every family celebration for the rest of our lives.

"Happy birthday. Oh, and by the way, you're fucking wrooooooooooooooooooooong!"

We drank more wine and I listened to the Dame and her mom try to fill the silence with innocuous pleasantries. At some point, more out of accident than design, we were left alone in the same room, and I knew I had to say something. He was still furious at me, his arms crossed like a child in time-out. I cleared my throat and smiled at him, indicating that I was ready to offer an olive branch.

"So," I said, "I hear you saw a woman give a donkey a blowjob."

I was hoping he wouldn't remember telling me this story. He'd shared the whole horrific tale many, many times before. But I needed him to think it was new information, so he could start at the beginning and really get lost in the details. It was a gamble that paid off.

"I never told you about that?" He said with a chuckle, our disagreement immediately forgotten. "Well, you're in for a treat. Where to begin? Well, the year was 1949, and my father worked for a moving company..."

I could have recited the rest of it with him. Though he was only eight years old, he traveled across the country with his father, delivering furniture and lifting chairs and tables easily four times heavier than his own prepubescent body. One of their jobs required moving a three-bedroom home down to Tijuana, Mexico. And as all red-blooded American men are required by law to do when visiting Tijuana, they went to a donkey sex show.

"But you were only a kid," I said, feigning outrage.

"I didn't know what I was looking at," he said with a giggle. "My dad bought me some nachos, so I was happy."

"So you're eating a cheesy snack while a Mexican woman is blowing a donkey a few feet away from you?" I asked, filling in the blanks.

He laughed. This was his favorite part of our overly-rehearsed vaudeville act. "I guess so," he finally said. "Is that weird? It never seemed weird to me at the time. But maybe I was just too young to realize that I shouldn't have been there."

He loves telling me this story. And I love how much he loves telling me this story. It's not shocking anymore. It was the first time, but after so many repeat performances, it's lost some of the edge. He snickers too much during the dirty parts. It could've been the tale of lost innocence, but you can't lose your innocence if you're not paying attention to why all of the grown men around you are hooting and hollering like angry monkeys. I don't think he realized that there was anything unusual about watching donkey sex until he was well into his 40s. And at that point, it's a little late to cry victim.



"Wow," I said, faking enthusiasm like a veteran porn actress. "That's just crazy. You make me feel like I've missed out."

"Why's that?" He asked with a knowing smile. "You've never seen a donkey get blown?"

"I most definitely haven't. And certainly not when I was eight freakin' years old."

This was the part of our man-to-man talk when he would shrug and give me a consolatory pat on the back. "Well, maybe one of these days we'll go down to Mexico together and check it out."

I smiled at him like I did every time, with a grateful expression that said what neither of us wanted to say out loud. "Thank you for understanding that my idea of a father-son relationship means crossing the Mexico border to watch an unpleasant act of bestiality while eating nachos." Make no mistake, we had no intention of embarking on a field trip to Tijuana, but that isn't what true male bonding is about. Sometimes it's enough to agree that we both share the same childish sense of humor, that we're both just stupid and immature enough to think that donkey sex is the most awesome thing ever.

By the time the Dame and her mom returned, we were laughing like frat brothers, muttering filthy jokes under our breath to each other and refusing to repeat them to our respective lady friends. All talk of politics was forgotten, and I knew then that I'd be able to peacefully co-exist with my in-laws. Ever since, at the first sign that my father-in-law wants to talk about Rudy Giuliani's master plan for ridding the world of terrorism, or why Barack Obama wants to send all god-fearing citizens to the gulag "for the glory of the Motherland," I just mention donkey blowjobs and like magic, the unavoidable trainwreck is averted.

Maybe it's a concession. But when I listen to him giddily recount a Mexican donkey's sexual exploits, I feel like I've pulled off a minor political coup. After all, I've somehow convinced the most conservative man I know to tell me, in graphic detail, how the symbol of the Democratic Party would be orally pleasured.

It's a small victory, but I'll take what I can get.