Stop Slapping Schlapp!

(By Cyril Blubberpuss, Conservative-American) 

You have to admit, it takes a real man, one who's secure in his masculinity, to let his mother take point in defending him. I'm speaking, of course, of Matt Schlapp, whose name, admittedly, brings to mind a wet, dead mackerel hitting a butcher's block in a Wuhan wet market.

    Schlapp, of course, is the brains behind CPAC, where conservatives gather once or twice a year, sometimes in Nazi-lite strongholds like Hungary, to clump together like overcooked rice. Matt, of course, was also accused of fondling the genitals of a campaign worker for arch liberal Herschel Walker, who no doubt has gone back to pulling over unattended white women with his fake police badge in Macon County.

     Lord only knows how and why his driver was able to force his crotch into Matt's left hand. Maybe he wasn't wearing his seat belt in his quest for that unholiest of love (or why Matt didn't simply move his hand out of the way. Sweet man that he is, Matt perhaps didn't want to crush the poor, misguided boy's heart by rejecting his profane advances). But, as his mother put it at a Republican's woman's gathering in which they fool themselves into thinking they actually have a say in the party of ideas advanced only by old, white men, Mrs. Schlapp was there to defend her little boy.

     “Any of you who knows my son knows that it’s total BS,” she said with unassailable logic, knowing damned good and well that Matt doesn't have many female friends.

    Absolutely! For many years, I've known Matt and his lovely wife, Mercedes, although most of my time with Matt was largely confined to the all-male Bohemian Grove getaways in California in which Matt spent hours a day cultivating intimate relationships with the young waiters and cabana boys who worked there. Matt always was a champion of the lower, vulnerable middle class.

     I'll never forget my first CPAC convention, which was also the first time I ever met Matt. It was at the Gaylord Hotel, a name and venue that Matt relished. In fact, Matt even said with convincing sincerity he chose the venue because of its name, although I'm sure he was just kidding about that. 

 

 

    My kid brother, Cecil, almost got the chance to meet Matt until I told him that, no, there wouldn't be a surfeit of junior high male wrestlers and gymnasts at CPAC and that most of the attendees would be between the ages of 65 and 90. So, I went it alone and left Cecil and Bertha home alone in Manhattan.

     I walked into the main ballroom, right in the middle of a panel named, I think, "Lee Atwater: Why We Need More Ratfuckers Like Him", replete with a giant picture of Atwater in 1980 setting fire to a bag of dog shit on the stoop of Carter's campaign headquarters. I also remembered meeting for the first time Grover Norquist, who was already loudly declaiming that gratuities to the hotel staff amounted to armed robbery, and Karl Rove, then a blubbery-lipped young man from Utah who still had barely enough hair to comb over and desperately wanted to be the next Atwater.

     This was in the 90s and when Rove announced that he would make a champagne flight fighter ace named George W. Bush president, we all laughed at him. But that CPAC was most memorable for my first meeting with Schlapp. I'll never forget that first time. Matt was preceded by a young waiter staggering out of the cloak room, tears in his eyes, quickly followed by Matt.

     "Cecil!", he said, his full face ruddy and florid with good health, "Glad you could make it! Look," he continued, lowering his voice, "do you know how to get styling gel out of the crotch of my pants?" I confessed that I had no insight on the matter.

     What most people don't know was that CPAC was preceded by a forerunner called the NSDAP, which stood for the "National Society for the Destruction of All Progressives". It was formed right after the end of the second World War and my father Ambrose was one of the first attendees just before his run for Congress. In fact, he used an NSDAP shindig to announce his candidacy, in which his slogan, "A Wienerschnitzel in Every Gas Oven" was hugely popular, especially with Strom Thurmond, who was himself about to launch a bid for the White House. (Good old Strom was a staunch believer in Southern Heritage and had even chaired a panel that year entitled, "The KKK: Misunderstood or Underappreciated?")

   So it only follows when you get a bunch of Republicans together in a convention environment, especially in a rowdy town like Pulaski, Tennessee, things will sometimes get out of hand and the events will be misconstrued by hazy liberal minds minutes and hours after the fact.

    That was when this impressionable young man first met Henry Cabot Lodge, Jr., a man who'd ridden his father's good name harder than Old George W. did his father's. He was about to wind down his career in the US Senate by allowing himself to get defeated by a liberal named Kennedy or something and was plainly looking for a good time, to cut loose.

    He'd just fallen out of favor with Joe McCarthy, who was there but was plainly on the way out himself and drank grain alcohol infused with orange juice behind some potted plants, keeping his beady eyes peeled for communists.

     Anyway, my father Ambrose was there testing the waters and looking for support among the august assemblage before making his congressional campaign announcement. Lodge didn't know who he was until Father showed him the canceled checks from his previous campaign contributions to Lodge's last Senate run. Then, his credentials established, Father told me to wait outside while he and Lodge walked into a room at the Gen. Nathan Bedford Forrest Hilton. A series of black waitresses and barmaids was brought in and I don't recall seeing them leave. No doubt, they went on to better-paying jobs.

     Perhaps what I originally thought were screams were tears of joy for the largesse of those great white men.