THE NO SIN ZONE

Our First Lady Laura “Pickles” Bush is just as dynamic a public speaker as sleepy, old John McCain. Whenever he isn’t screaming and red-faced, I’m never sure if John will remain interested enough in what he is saying to actually finish any given sentence. And I can’t watch this video of Pickles without thinking that the some staffer shoved the wrong speech into her tranquilized hands just before someone turned the camera on. Surely, she was supposed to give her usual “Reading stuff is real keen!” speech instead of scolding a country currently coping with ten times the deaths New York witnessed on September 11, 2001. And I’m sure I’m not the only who thought, when she bemoaned the incompetence of the government in responding to the natural disaster and how those in power are illegitimate and ignore the constitution, that she was talking about Katrina and cabal much closer to home.

Jesus wanted to help them — truly, He did — but He answered Kanye West’s prayer for better reviews instead.

Honestly, what a vulgar question! Of course, the answer would have been equally shocking if Mr. McCain had not scrupulously skirted it by pretending to be above such profanity.

In his 1992 Senate bid, McCain was joined on the campaign trail by his wife, Cindy (who looks as if she used to be a stewardess on Pan Am), as well as campaign aide Doug Cole and consultant Wes Gullett. At one point, Cindy playfully twirled McCain’s hair and said, “You’re getting a little thin up there.” McCain’s face reddened, and he responded, “At least I don’t plaster on the makeup like a trollop, you [UNCHRISTIAN WORDS THAT STARTS WITH A C].” McCain’s excuse was that it had been a long day. If elected president of the United States, McCain would have many long days.

Charmed, I’m sure!

I want to introduce you to my dear friend Elaine Donnelly. I adore Elaine, truly I do. Yes, she stole my look, but she’s such a mousy little thing the shameless identity theft only serves to underscore how effortlessly I pull it off. As President of the Center for Military Readiness, Elaine is absolutely determined to make sure there are less men (and, BTW, no women) available to serve in Iraq — and less men and women available to replace those who are serving. Yes, it does seem an odd approach to supporting our worn-out troops, but the dear thing realized that the one thing that is most important to our tired, over-extended, under-equipped, often-killed troops in Iraq is that they aren’t protected from insurgent gunfire by anyone who bought a copy of Madonna’s new CD this week.

She feels rather strongly about this. Indeed, she is obsessed with the issue, in that somewhat unsettling, crazed way some people get about hating other humans. To wit, Elaine and I were watching the news together the other night. As the faces of young men who had fallen in battle last week appeared and faded on my obscenely large plasma screen, I succumbed to unbecoming, if patriotic, sentimentality by allowing tears to well in the corners of my lovely eyes. Elaine had a somewhat different reaction. She screamed, “I hope a few of them were homos! There are fairies in our military, you know! Right this very minute! Going about their mission with a head full of Sondheim — or worse — Jerry Herman! I don’t care if our troops are maimed — but I get pretty darn tooting angry when they get Mamed!”

It was a peculiar show of passion from a woman who is known to keep her opaque support-undies in the freezer to assist her in tamping down any stray twitches of errant carnality. As anyone who has met her will tell you, it’s a rather unnecessary precaution.

. . . or a weak stomach for pointless bickering: If you are not up to speed on the current Democratic American Idol competition, knock back a fistful of Ritalin and watch this helpful primary primer:

Hallelujah! Today is the fifth anniversary of the end to all that tedium and bloodshed in Iraq , the day when we accomplished our mission. As it turned out, our mission was apparently to begin a spirited Viet Nam reenactment, only this time a bit more sandy and with religious nuttiness thrown in to the mix just to keep things interesting.

What amused me most about the carefully produced May 1, 2003 spectacle — other than the wardrobe mistress’s saucy decision to dress our President in the most shameless “look at my dick!” costume ever seen outside of a Lycra t-back thong at Chippendale’s — was how quickly the famed “Mission Accomplished” banner became an orphan.

From the use of a two word scrim for a presidential speech, right down to the font and jingoistic background image, the banner had the White House’s crafty choreographers’ fingerprints all over it. Of course, when that set decoration became the source of pointed mockery, the President did one of the few things at which he truly is accomplished: he lied. Supposedly, you see, the ship’s crew had, in a moment of wild spontaneity, made the banner! How convenient, since they were a sea, that the ship has full-service Kinko’s on board!

This week, the White House finally owned up to the fact that its staff had actually made the sign. But it still blamed the seamen for the premature ejaculation of celebratory champagne. Yes, the White House is always willing to support our troops by throwing them under the bus. Which isn’t as bad as it sounds, as it is one of the safer places Mr. Bush has thrown our military.

The White House also clarified that the use of “accomplished” was meant in the sense that Jessica Simpson is an accomplished actress.

Last night, on the otherwise dreadfully dull American Idol (come on, singing the cheesy, bombastic songs of a guy who wrote the lyric “I am I said. To no one there. And no one heard at all. Not even the chair.“) a medicinally-addled Paula Abdul provided the show’s solitary moment of genuine entertainment by negatively critiquing a performance that had yet to occur.

What I found rather curious about this is that Paula was not relying on that swirling stew of half finished sentences that compete to escape from the relentless confusion in her cranium. Instead, she was reading from prepared notes. This struck me as odd, as the judges were told that they would only critique after each contestant had sung two songs. The fact that she had notes prepared to critique both songs after only one song — and that her comments were as close to accurate as the poor thing can ever be — makes one wonder how scripted this increasingly tedious show really is . . .

While the Lord Jesus may have churlishly withheld the gifts of being able to sing a song — or articulate a thought — from sweet, muddled Paula Abdul, He has apparently made it for this deprivation by giving her the uncanny ability to see in the future.

Of course, He also gave the rest of us the abilities to see into her future — and it’s not pretty. It involves either rehab or being found on a sidewalk, vomiting up pain pills and bromides of effusive, confusing encouragement.

Just when you think the Mormons are really bringing the crazy, the Scientologists, in a ferocious spirit of oneupmanship, prove that people who believe in latter day saints that aren’t even movie stars are hopeless amateurs when it comes to devoting themselves to foolishness.

Listen to this fascinating interview with Mark Headley, who was in the cult for 15 years (leaving in 2005) and served as the executive producer of Scientology’s propaganda arm, Golden Error Productions. (No, on second thought, I think the name is Golden Era Productions.)

As befits such a wacky organization, its pocket-size leader David Miscavige (pictured above in a wholly gratuitous photo-op with fellow midget cultist Tom Cruise) comes across as a completely unhinged despot. He allegedly physically assaults people who make snide quips (thanks for the warning, Mark!), requires slave-wage staffers who offend to sleep under their desks for months and is in the habit of “throwing people overboard” (i.e., shoving them into filthy lake). Why, it’s like a weekend at Faye Dunaway’s!

In comparison to this psychotic tyrant, Tom Cruise comes across as not only tall, but also almost flirting with sanity. Mainly because Tom had the fleeting good sense to leave the cult when he found that his millions of dollars in tithes only entitled him to hear the ludicrous, “secret” tales of Xenu and his soul-snatching intergalactic DC-9s, something as implausible as Mr. Cruise’s Irish accent in “Far and Away.”

Now, you know I only gossip to save a soul — or a conversation — but this interview is deliciously scandalous, especially about Mr. Cruise. Apparently, he is infertile (everyone face in the general direction of Suri and say, “Who’s your babydaddy?”) and became incensed when Nicole pulled a Mary and became pregnant with another man’s child. Spurned by Nicole, he fell back into the arms of Scientology, which returned the favor by launching a casting call for his new iWife.

Hearing the interview, I couldn’t help but think of the cult compound in Texas that was raided earlier this month. In that case, the births of children were what got the crazies at the asylum in trouble. Rather proactively, Scientology is making sure their Sea Org Compound isn’t similarly sullied or troubled by the inconvenience of births. According to Mr. Headley, every woman on the compound who becomes pregnant is immediately driven (what a lovely, thoughtful touch) to an abortion clinic. Why, it’s like a weekend at Jack Nicholson’s!

This interview is a window into a very sick and shoddy world. In other words, it’s wonderful! What is most heartening about it is that Mr. Headley [Lamar — sorry, I couldn’t resist] says that the cult is leaking members faster than a Clay Aiken Fan Club.

Now your whole family can joyously sing along to Betty and Jesus’ inspiring song.