Considering the anonymous post about the one-night stand with Christine O’Donnell, isn’t it about time you opened up on the record about your night with Senator Barbara Mikulski back in ’88? - Harry Ness Oh gosh, that was so long ago. Let’s see if I can even remember. ’88…..summer…. yes, I recall it, now. I was just a kid. Fresh out of high school. Didn’t know my ass from my elbow. The Reagan years were winding down, and the Bush the Elder years were right around the corner, when A Thousand Points of Light were about to bloom. Or get lighted, I guess you’d say. I played this old beat-up guitar from the five-and-dime back then. Me and some guys from school, had a band and we tried real hard. If memory serves, Jimmy quit, then Joey got married. I shoulda known we’d never get far. But ain’t no use in complainin’, when you got a job to do. I spent my evenings down at the Chesapeake Bay Seafood House. And that’s when I met Boo (my pet name for Barbara Mikulski). She’d just been elected to the Senate from Maryland, and she’d come in for dinner. I was busing tables, and trying not to stare. But it was hard. Not only does she have those hypnotic, snake-charmer eyes. But they’d just dropped a steaming half-bushel right in front of her. And I really like crabs. I’m from Maryland. I was immediately enchanted by her grace and elegance. But that woman could also pick crustaceans like she was from the Eastern Shore. You couldn’t even see her fingers work, they were that fast. There was just a flurry of shells flying, the occasional flash of her picking knife, and then another white mass of sweet jumbo lump thrown on the meat pile. I didn’t know if I wanted to make love to her, or roll crab cakes with her. Or maybe make love to her on a bed of crab cakes, so that afterward, we could tenderly bathe each other in the Chesapeake Bay, where we’d maybe use our sticky, spent bodies and the crab smell to chum for rockfish (did I mention we’re from Maryland?) But back to the restaurant: all of the sudden I heard a yelp. It was Boo. Her knife had slipped when she was trying to pop the apron on a Jimmy (Maryland crab talk). She’d cut herself and was bleeding. The wait staff hadn’t yet brought napkins, so she had nothing with which to stop it. That’s when I went over to her table, and without saying a word, grabbed her hand, and pressed her bleeding finger to my lips, like a compress. She tasted like sweet nectar. And Old Bay seasoning. Also, like B Negative. I’m not gonna say what happened from there. A gentleman never tells. And I’m not like that sleazy creep who ratted out Christine O’Donnell for not shaving downstairs. So there will be no after-action report from me about what might’ve happened when I drove her home and removed my trousers, if I removed my trousers (see gentleman clause, above). Let’s just say it was a different time, okay? Yeah, it was the go-go ‘80s, and greed was good, and we were the young and restless, we needed to unwind. But the word “manscaping” had not yet even been invented, all right? Maybe I could’ve used a little trim around the ears. Enough said. A lot of years have passed since then. I often sit back, and look at everything that’s come and gone. Sometimes, when I play that old six-string, I think about Boo, and wonder what went wrong. Still, that summer seemed to last forever. And if had the choice? Yeah, I’d always want to be there. Those were the best days of my life. Read more: http://dailycaller.com/2010/11/02/a...-vote-through-clothing-choices/#ixzz148JPdeJD
