(I'm not making light of the tragic events in Connecticut, but there's one brain-breakingly twisted mental image under the cut. You've been warned.) I know a lot of you are upset about what Mike Huckabee said about God and those poor children. I understand that because it was a horrible thing to say, so what I'm going to do is make up a nice Mike Huckabee story so you can feel a bit better.
Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.
::cue folksy voice::
Mike Huckabee, you know, he was the Governor of Arkansas for eleven years. Worked out of the governor's office in Little Rock, lived in the mansion right there on Center Street. Eleven years. And the thing is, for all those eleven years, he couldn't ever work easy at his desk or sleep easy in his bed. Never ever ever. On account of how he knew who'd had that job a few years before. Bill Clinton. Remember him? (Don't say "no" like that, child, you'll make your poor drunken aunt feel so very old.)
Now, Mike Huckabee, every time - every single time - he sat in a chair or brushed up against a wall or closed a door or leaned against one of those fancy Greek columns or put something on his desk or bent over to pick something up off'n the floor, a small still voice in the back of his head would say, clear as a bell, "Bill Clinton probably had sex on that." Or in that, or against that, or under that, or screw it, you're old enough to fill in your own blitted prepositions. Imagine that for a moment. Eleven years on the job and whether you're at work or at home, you can't ever lay a hand on any object without getting to thinking that Bill Clinton like as not came there. Can't ever.
That kind of thing can build up after a while. Probably won't do a body good. Let that kind of thing prey on your troubled mind too long, might be that all your groovy good feelings inside get pushed out by the horrorguiltshame and all you want to do is take a bath in pine-scented cleaner without taking your clothes off. And if you're Mike Huckabee and brought up in fundie ignorance of how human bodies work, you might worry whether the ubiquitous, um, genetic material could get you pregnant with Clinton's baby. And oh, what a pregnancy and a baby it would be!
So when you feel the hatred rising in your heart, just imagine Mike Huckabee in a great big gold-and-white bathroom in that mansion in Arkansas, weeping on his knees because he's gained five pounds and doesn't know how he's going to explain the appearance of the chubbiest, rosiest, cheeriest, most dimpletastic baby south of the Mason-Dixon Line to his wife.
Feel any better now?