The House Hotties

House Hotties
She’s never one to let me down.In full compliance with an iconic religious archetype mentioned in a past blog of mine, Hillary opted to play the Mother Mary card, airing her Red-Phone-Nuclear-Showdown-In-The-Middle-Of-The-Night TV skit. It seems that this asumptio personae went over well with Hispanic voters in South Texas, mostly women, who, finding time away from religious devotions turned out in force to sway the electoral tide in Hillary’s favor. Yet, for all their fervor and elective convictions, these soulful ladies seem to live in sleepless fear of the Big Chupacabra In The Sky; their kids dreaming away, blissfully unaware of dangers lurking in the dark.

And wouldn’t you know: It turns out that Hillary is just the person to protect our sleeping families, keeping all those nasty Chupacabras at bay (because there are, in fact, many evil Chupacabras out to get us), and only she, on day one (after dancing the night away at the inaugural balls), would know where these demons all reside, and which magic button to push to have them disappear.

I imagine the protective invocation at vespers would go something like this: Holy Hillary, mother of all us brown folks, voter registrar for the Mexicans, save us from terrors we do not comprehend, deliver us from the ominous darkness of those of darker skin, keep those bloodsucking turbaned Chupacabras away from the beds of our children, and please, dammit, answer that red phone before it’s too late.

Ok. Fair enough. She found her niche and she’s on message. Clap, clap, point, point and all that.

What really got my attention though, and what I thought was very effective, is the final excerpt from the film A Few Good Men, in the Rob Reiner/Jack Nicholson web ad supporting Hillary, where the Jackman says:

“There is nothing on this earth sexier, believe me gentlemen, than a woman you have to salute in the morning”.

You know… He’s absolutely right. I couldn’t agree more. Women in uniform can be very hot. Nicholson’s my kind of guy, but he’s referencing the wrong woman.

I’ve said before that this whole election thing plays out more like sophomoric pageantry, with dramatized, fay one-liners transmogrified into electoral hard currency. It’s like Donald Trump channeling Robert Goulet: Embarrassing, old hat, lame and passe.

I say we make it real… Mix it up!… Let’s make it sexy real!

The outcome of this election (and all others) should be decided on The Hot Spouse Factor, a reality show in which the American Public elects the Hottest Hottie on the POTUS stump. The POTUS candidate with the hottest spouse gets the big prize: Being POTUS. One heck of a show stopper as far and long as I can see.

Here’s how it goes:

Start by signing up a few hot-shot producers to devise the format for The Hot Spouse Factor reality show (TV and internet of course), enroll the contestants (only POTUS candidates’ spouses are eligible to begin with), hire a telegenic abrasive gayish merciless host, set up the phone banks and web sites, and get the whole country to cast their votes in one thirteen-show season. We all seem to do better voting for TV show outcomes than we do for our own political well being anyway. The process would take less time than regular elections, cost much less to produce, and through advertising and merchandising, would be a tremendous income generator; a quadrennial political Super Bowl. Plus, think of all the franchising opportunities!

The next step is to set up a XXX site for PSILF (POTUS Spouses I’d Like to F…) enthusiasts, a variant on the well known MILF genre. I guarantee it would get millions of hits every day, ensuring that all working Americans have a chance to vote, at work. By all accounts most of us already spend our working hours downloading porn from the internet, leaving us too exhausted to stand in line filling out electronic ballots at polling sites after work.

And then, The Spouse Girls, a musical group (allowing for the inclusion of husbands in drag), with their own reality show as well, made up from the hottest of the hottie choices in the PSILF club (think Posh Spouse, Nasty Spouse, etc,). Moreover, since the wives of POTUS candidates for the most part come from better finishing schools, actually knowing how to sing is not a handicap, unlike the case of many pop singers.

And finally -here’s the deal clincher-  the mother of all reality show sequels, The House Hottie (as in White House Hottie), where the reigning First Hot Mama (or papa) gets to traipse around the manse TV cameras in tow, hosting pajama parties with the runner-up hotties; with the Secret Service, cabinet heads, and foreign leaders added to the mix. This in turn would lead to The Upper House Hotties and The Lower House Hotties, a couple of pipeline shows where the most bodacious spouses (husbands and wives) of senators and congressmen vie for winning titles and a chance to join the White House Hotties in their pajama parties. This gives wide berth for even another XXX web site and After Dark TV series for adults: The House Hottie Swingers.

This puppy’s got serious legs! All in all a multiplatform series of events that would make of our elections a profitable worldwide hit. And loads of fun to boot.

So, in the spirit of moving things along in this direction:

Is it just me or has anyone else noticed that Michelle Obama’s got back? That’s a real booty back there. She’s one fine looking woman. Hot, hot, hot. World class. Ready for her close up. She’s got my vote.

Of course, there’d be tough competition from Cindy McCain, a major babe in her own right, in that cool blonde prom-queen kind of way. Sexy, sexy, sexy. She’d be my first dame any day.

And as a good example of how the electoral mix would change, consider Elizabeth Kucinich, Dennis’s hot-piece-of-ass wife (see YouTube for more references). Based on her sultry euro-babeosity looks alone, he deserves a shout at POTUS, if only to acknowledge his excellent taste in women.

Allowing for unbiased gender-equality, how would Bill (as in Clinton) fare as a hot POTUS spouse? We all know that for many women (older), he’s still a walking, talking, jivin stud-muffin, but he doesn’t have that Whoa!, traffic-stopping, political animal magnetism of fifteen years ago, when he was still POTUS (under this new election format Hillary would have fared poorly back then, and Bill would not have made POTUS). So just out of the gate, Bill comes in at a distant fourth, unless, unless he’s willing to don ye gay apparel, and drag it up (just for the sake of better TV, not like Giuliani, who has other issues), in the process courting and winning a substantial chunk of the gay vote. In drag, he could also do periodic saxophone cameos with The Spouse Girls, and host musical specials with Attorney General songbirds and rapping presidential strategists.

Of course there’s always a wild card. The saving grace in the Clinton camp is Chelsea. I’ve always considered Chelsea to be the First Babe. Now as a young woman she’s even more of a babe. Maybe, with the purpose of allowing Hillary a fighting chance in our contest, we should consider bending the rules to include POTUS candidate offspring in the reality quest for the Top House Hotties.

Can you imagine these first babes in uniform, as Nicholson suggested? Very, very hot. I’m sure Condi has a black leather outfit -short short skirt, jacket, cap, eight-inch-heel boots- studded with military insignia, and a riding crop, neatly  stashed in one of her closets. I’d salute and let her spank my skank all day.

The current metric for POTUS qualification, established by Dubya back in 2000, namely: Who would you rather have a beer with? is a less rigorous electability appraiser than assessing the POTUS candidate’s wife’s babe factor via a referendum on national TV. Anyone can buy a beer and pee it out. I seriously doubt someone could put a price on Michelle, Cindy, Elizabeth or Chelsea.

Bill on the other hand, is an easy get. Bless his heart.

But here’s the deal. The real metric, the ultimate test, and the only test that would carry any weight with all the Hispanic mothers that voted for Hillary because she answered the phone at night in a TV ad, would be determined at the end of the season of The Hot Spouse (and offspring) Factor, when the telegenic abrasive gayish merciless host finally gets to ask the Big Question:

If the phone rang in the middle of the night and you answered, and it was the Chupacabra, how would you deal with him/it?

The camera slowly pans over the contestants, lined up on the set.

(Drum roll and low minor-third note pizzicato on the cellos throughout).

Chelsea: I’d text all my friends and post a help IM on my blog, and all my friends would log on with their avatars, cutting the Chupacabra to pieces with their light sabers.

(Loud applause, cheers and hollers from the IM crowd).

Elizabeth: I’d seduce him and f… the daylight or moonlight out of him. He’d be so spent I could then flush him down the toilet. and he’d end up somewhere out in the Gulf Of Mexico, with the Gulf current dragging him away to the Bermuda Triangle, where he would disappear.

(Cheers, rah-rah remarks in French, and a dignified applause from the European cinema crowd).

Cindy: I’ll just straddle a chair, naked, and stare at him icily until his heart freezes and his boner goes limp. Then I’ll staple his limp boner to the side of a pier over a shark infested sea. Chupacabras have hearts and boners too, don’t they?

(Lots of hoo-has, cheers, hoots and applause as Sharon Stone starts a wave, a few folks brandish their ice picks).

Michelle: Yo you chupafaggot, I got me some black juju up my trunk, some happy junk that you ain’t nevah gonna see. That Chupacabra ain’t nevah going black so he’s nevah comin back.

(Shouts of amen sistah, hallelujah, you go gurl, hoot, hoot, right on, as a line of booty shakin gets going).

The cameras and spotlights pan stage left stopping at,

Bill: Hi, ya’ll. What I’d do with this fella is I’d get me a six-pack and…

The Chupacabra suddenly leaps onto the set, glares at the contestants, sidles up to Bill, and says to him in a low slung Tex-Mex drawl: Been there, done that; with Dubya. Even got a t-shirt with beer stains. Now, Dubya’s one nasty, temperamental, ignorant SOB, but I like having a beer with him. On the other hand, you Bill, you are toast; you talk way too much trash and your wife does not have good phone manners.

As part of the Producers’ Surprise for the show (there always is a Producers’s Surprise on reality shows) the Chupacabra has staked his claim as The Electoral Decider, the Uber-Superdelegate, on national TV.

(Music stops. A crisp gasp from the crowd is followed by a sepulchral silence as Bill is heaved over the Chupacabra’s spiny shoulders, about to get carried off to meet his maker).

A loud bang ensues, followed by the metallic clang of falling props, yelling, and the thumping of heavy footsteps. Hillary storms onto the set with a red phone in one hand, pulling down the backdrop of curtains in her fury. As the red phone starts to ring she grabs the microphone away from the gayish host, stridently announcing she is filing all kinds of lawsuits to have Bill reinstated to the show, and vows to change the definition of a hottie to be more inclusive of middle-aged, white male, former POTUS’s. And another thing, Bill should not have to be in drag just for the sake of ratings, it should be good enough that she has to wear the pantsuits all the time.

She comes from this place of hope and she wants the rules to change, by golly!

In a nutshell it sounds kind of what they want to do in Florida and Michigan.

Go figure.

Stay tuned for the season finale.

It is still in the making. Make it Yours.

Michael Mehl

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