At first I demurred, lukewarm to the idea of hauling it back across the Atlantic to give the Republicans their due. But in the end, adventure called, orange threat level or not.

So it was that Roberto and I made our way at an exclusive luncheon held in the penthouse garden of the Temperance Club, located on the Upper East Side. As luck would have it (and here I'm led to believe that perhaps something I have formerly written might have offended the powers that be), we were seated inauspiciously at the Southern-branch-of-the-Taliban table with such luminaries of conservative ideology as Senator Cornpone of Mississippi, The Reverend Feelwell of Virginia, and Miss Liddie V. of Raleigh.

For such Bible-thumping teetotalers, the lot sure did have an unquenchable thirst for Mimosas, which they took to be hormone-enhanced OJ doled out from Jeb's private orchard in Florida.

What little can be said of Miss Liddie is that crisp, canary-yellow suits, no matter how convincingly faux-Givenchy they might be, can't completely cover up the urgent need for a voice makeover. Dare we say speech therapy? Elsewhere, the Rev. Feelwell's Botox evidently came from a set of diseased Holsteins, given that he's left with a slimy ecclesiastical smirk plastered perpetually upon his visage. At least Senator Cornpone had the forethought to come with a bomb-proof doo, one that he claims is real, and not the worst toupée the world has ever seen. To add a little shine to an otherwise dull affair, he chose a flame-retardant navy polyester suit purchased at the anti-terrorism department of Wal-Mart in Jackson.

Midway through her second flute, Miss Liddie drawled in her hillbilly patois. "Lawsy. I can't git a moment's rest since Mr. V. started taking those pills. Before it was just his limp wrist. Now I feel like Daddy's old mare - run hard and put up wet. I'm wore out."

"Praise the Lord!" exclaimed Rev. Feelwell. "We need more men like Mr. V. - Power, Performance, and Pride. That's the message. Poor Rush - he got on the wrong kind of dope, and just look what happened. It's a slippery slope from getting it from the maid to getting it on the street corner."

"Speaking of slipping," said Senator Cornpone. "What's this I hear that Dubya might be in trouble in Virginny?"

"My Aunt Genny!" yelled the Reverend. "It's the fault of all that liberal-biased media smearing bad news all over the TV. So what's a few car bombs anyway ? It's no worse than 'Nam. And just look at those yahoos over there, running around with rags on their heads and insulting our good name. People ought to start saluting Dubya and get on with the whoopin. I don't understand why all the good ol' boys have suddenly gone soft. After all, it's our Christian duty to spread the missionary position to EYE-raq. "

"Huh?," said Miss Liddie, coming out of her stupor. "Are ya'll going over to the Waldorf tonight? Dubya's gonna show his pistol - you know Saddam's piece."

"You don't say!" exclaimed Senator Cornpone. "I wouldn't mind seeing that. I donna how they sawed it off him." He drew his bushy eyebrows close together, and frowned. "You don't suppose the Secret Service is gonna pass out gas masks? Just in case, I mean."

"I carry a plastic one in my wallet," chimed the Reverend. "You can never be too careful anymore."

"Prevention is the best policy," Cornpone agreed. He began to look nervously about the room. "I hope nobody is filming this." And then his gaze landed on Roberto. "You know, they made such a big tussle over that birthday toast for Strom, but it got blown all out of gal derned proportion. I've always liked coloreds, really."

"Shhh," whispered Liddie. "You're not supposed to say that C-word. Call them blacks."
"Well, I was trying to be nice, I didn't want to say."

"These helpings sure are niggardly," interjected Reverend Feelwell. "You'd think they could come up with more than a tadpole of Mahi Mahi over arugula. After all, I've personally committed to the crusade."

"That's trout caviar sprinkled around the edges," insisted Miss Liddie.

"Call me queer, but I don't know whatever happened to a good ham sandwich. I never much liked eating things that swim in their own dodo. Well, at least this juice sure is sweet. Amen."

"If I could get back to the point," insisted Senator Cornpone. He fixed his icy gaze on Roberto. "This party needs more like you, boy. What are you anyway?

Roberto spoke right up, "I'm an escort."

"For the love of Pete," bellowed Cornpone. "What do you escort?"

"Cash."

"I knew it!" cried Reverend Feelwell. "The boy's in finance. He must work for Wells Fargo. We need more of your kind Pedro. Less of these pansy-waisted moderates that swill white wine and jabber about being inclusive. I say there's nothing finer than a hard working Rican-American who's climbed on top."

Indeed, I assured them, Roberto had all the right stuff. A hush fell over the table just as another round of Mimosas arrived. Eventually, it was Senator Cornpone who broke the silence.

"Who's supposed to be speaking today anywho?"

"They asked the Terminator," explained Miss Liddie. "But he said the Vice President had already stolen all of his lines. Then they tried to hog-tie Colin, but he had to take Alma to the chiropractor. So, the best they could come up with was some Imam named Mohammed."
"Aint' that just what we need," muttered Cornpone.

"Are you sure he's one of us?" queried Reverend Feelwell incredulously.

"He's supposed to haul in the Muslim vote in Michigan," replied Miss Liddie. That's all I know."

Senator Cornpone had just pursed his lips when he was cut off by an announcement on the PA system.

"Attention fellow Republicans. This is Tom Ridge speaking. We are winning the war on terrorism. We must all remain calm. Unfortunately, we've just been advised that today's guest speaker, Sheik Mohammed Ben-Mohammed, has been found listed on the AG's top ten terrorist watch list. This interdepartmental mix up is not the fault of this office, nor the reelection committee, nor the White House, nor the CIA. As the sheik has just cleared security downstairs, the terror alert is hereby raised to red, and I'd suggest that we all skeedattle."

"HELL-lo Katie!" cried Reverend Feelwell whilst pulling a plastic surgical mask from his wallet. Senator Cornpone and Miss Liddie dove under the table, and in the ensuing mayhem, I accidentally stepped on Rummy's big toe while rushing towards the emergency exit. Moments later, as Roberto and I made our way down the iron steps of the fire escape that winds along the exterior of the Temperance Club, a great light nearly blinded us. This was not, as you might imagine, some apocalyptic blowout coming from on high, but the burst of paparazzi flashes from below, capturing unforgiving photos of the unseemly exodus. The Republican Garden Party set viewed upskirt, and under the influence of Mimosas, is not a pretty sight in anybody's telescopic lens.

FL: Bimbo, what is a fashionable French aristo like yourself doing rubbing shoulders with American politics? Don't you really consider this all beneath you?

Well, you know, France has always been long on ideology, but short on cash. I like to do my part to encourage transatlantic commerce. This August marks the 60th anniversary of the Liberation of Paris - can it be that long since the Americans came to our rescue? It seems just yesterday that Hemingway was tippling martinis at the Bar au Ritz, and that Coco Chanel feigned amnesia when questioned about her assignations with the German High Command.

FL: Is it true that President Bush Jr. prepared for his first ever European trip by drinking General Foods International Instant Coffee while consulting with his father, President Bush Sr., who was knocking back Gringo Margaritas? Or is this just another one of those terrible smear campaigns?

I've been told that Jr. was pretending to drink instant coffee, while Sr. was having the real thing. 43, whose attention span is slightly longer than that of an escargot, has never really listened to 41. Perhaps that explains why he is so widely respected the world over.

FL: Do you think Governerator Arnold considers President Bush Jr. a non issue in his own political aspirations? Is this why the Governerator has been so quiet in his support of the Bush campaign?

Listen, Hollywood flows thicker than water, and while Governorator might autograph the incumbent President's frathouse paddle, his lips translate into argot that would give the right wing the vapors.

FL: What about those little twin girls, Jenna and Barbara---assets or liabilities?

One drinks and the other models, though neither has developed even the slightest skill in dealing with the press. Normally, one would say those attributes were liabilities, but given that their Papa would likely be 10 points down in the polls if he was running against anyone besides an un-Jolly Giant with lots of stepmoney, perhaps Jenna and Barbara are the high point of Dubya's entire illustrious opus.