Sanity Maintenance Detour

Okay, I can’t help it. It is beyond my control. I’m visual. And, so, I make no apologies. Or is admitting that I can’t help it, because I’m visual, an apology? Let’s pretend it doesn’t matter.

It’s Rush Limbaugh. And Larry King. No, they aren’t the only men with much younger, sizzling-hot wives, but they’re the two whose images are looping through my head. I try to picture a large “STOP” sign, but that sign tilts, falls, and, suddenly, there they are, in my optics—3D, too, these older guys who spoon and WHATEVER with women who are sooooooo much younger than they, so much younger, in fact, that the women could be their offspring.

I see Larry and Rush with their younger halves “under the covers” and, maybe, “rolling like thunder.” I’m wondering if the women are faking “rolling like thunder under the covers” and if the guys, uh, need pharmaceutical assistance? Not that there’s anything unacceptable about that. Actually, probably, they could use Dick Cheney’s mobile ambulance. And it’s here, at the end of this particular paragraph, that I place a tidbit of info: Rush received a 4-F military classification, avoiding Viet Nam, because of a pilonidal cyst. Google for imagery, please.

There’s no good reason for me to emphasize the blondness of these women, or that they resemble one another. Yes, I know that Mrs. King is 50, but yeesh, Larry King, married eight times, is going to be 78 in November and Rush is 26 years older than Mrs. Limbaugh. There’s nothing unattractive about being blond or choosing to be blond. I write this with total sincerity. I am a brunette, though, and I have never once wanted to be blond. I’ve never dreamed I was a blond. Yes, I once dreamed I had blue eyes. But that’s IT as far as wanting to look different from what I am and I even have a face speckled with freckles.

Okay, okay, I’d like to be ten or, maybe, twenty years younger, but not because of the way I look or used to look. It’s because of the time that remains or what remains for me.

A male friend once said about a woman he’d dated, “She didn’t have the body type I liked but I realized that when you get right down on it, it’s all pretty much the same.” For some reason when I think of Rush Limbaugh and his pretty, young, pretty-young wife and Larry King and his blond wife whose rack appears to be greatly enhanced (but what do I know and what’s wrong with that, anyway?), I have to question my friend’s opinion. I just can’t imagine that either of these women would agree with this opinion. Yes, I’m seeing Rush’s pilonidal cyst, here.

There are apocryphal events occurring, as my imagination runs amok with age-marked flesh rubbing against younger, more vibrant skin, wrinkles hanging under those buttocks, juxtaposed with firm booty, and the aroma, or odor, of medicinal, ripened sweat mingling with purer perspiration. Oh, and aftershave overdoses dueling with pheromones. So, I have to ask, “What’s wrong with me?”

I think I know.

It’s that, despite their repugnance, Rush and Larry with the trophies, are a little easier on my psyche than all the Dante’s Inferno catastrophes, slamming against my consciousness. US foreign policy/imperialism/Zionism/war. The dead civilians in AfPak-Iraq. The children of war, both, here and abroad. The war displaced. The drones that incinerate wedding parties. Gaza. The war against poverty wage earners in our country. The number of Americans who die every single day because they can’t afford health insurance. The “Ninth Circle” Gulf of Mexico freaking planet-shattering disaster with estimates of up to 2.5 million gallons of crude oil exploding from the hellhole, daily.

In other words, “abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

Oh, how I wish I could relax for a change, be hopeful, and pay attention to something lovely, like the flowers in my yard. Instead, I play an icky video in my head of Rush and wife and Larry and wife. Sure, I know Mrs. King may soon be Larry’s latest ex, although after a little research, I’ve learned that, for now, they’re trying to work through the difficulties. However if they split, I can see marriage number nine. Drum roll, please—another blond. And more little Kings to populate our polluted world. Little Kings and, from Rush and wife, little Limbaughs.

These visuals of connubial coupling and marital comings and goings, are insignificant, I know but, maybe, they’re necessary detours for sanity maintenance. Because the images of the alternative are the atrocities perpetrated by our corporate-owned government, treacheries too hideous to bear.

MISSY BEATTIE has been writing political articles since her nephew was killed for US imperialism in Iraq in August of 2005. Contact her:



Missy Beattie has written for National Public Radio and Nashville Life Magazine. She was an instructor of memoirs writing at Johns Hopkins’ Osher Lifelong Learning Institute in BaltimoreEmail: