REYKJAVIK, Iceland – On our last day at the Republican National Convention, I was standing with my colleague David Bender Friday morning at the complimentary coffee display at the Marriott Courtyard, Bloomington, Minnesota’s finest caravansary, politely voicing my objection to the selection and very notion of flavored coffee creamers when a woman who I later found to be a Republican delegate or just a Republican apparently overheard David and I muse anent her Aggrandized Old Party and our vey disgust with same. She walked away and entered the PC-appointed internet(s) facility where my inamorata, Frusheda, was already seated.

This termagant turned to Frusheda and asked if she were with those “twits,” viz. David and me. This harridan muttered something about why don’t we go and blog, or words to that effect, and when she heard of our affiliation with Air America, her rage was off the chart. Frusheda asked her whom she was with and she snapped, “I’m an American.” To this harpy’s shock, Frusheda jumped to her feet and hummed angrily “L’Internationale.” The self-styled cackle-broad ran away in disgust.

This woman was the prototypical Republi-con, a person who enjoys the general perceived trappings of Republican/conservative platforms, all the while failing to understand the gravamen of her alleged disagreements. We were the enemy. We deigned to question the GOP ”plan.” We didn’t see the brilliance or message of Madame Mooseburger, Wasilla’s Marcia Brady, nor did we buy Old Man Potter’s purloined promise of Change.

Next: The hematophagic conventioneer.