Riding In Cars With Weiners, Part 1 of 2
~A Real* Conversation With Michael Savage~
(Dedicated to Neal)
I’m still not entirely clear about the circumstances that led to my driving through the middle of Chicago in a rented convertible with Michael Savage riding shotgun.
I was driving through Wrigleyville on my way to the Cubby Bear to meet some friends. As I sat at the light at Addison and Clark, I started to hear what sounded like an angry mob.
Assuming that a Cubs game was going on, I ignored the sound and casually turned my head to get a better look at the girl in the car next to me and a little behind. To my surprise, I saw that the sounds of an angry mob were in fact emanating from an actual angry mob that was making its way up Clark, chasing what looked like Dom DeLuise if Dom had been a KGB agent out of a noir spy thriller.
I was weighing the risks versus the rewards of blowing the red light to get out of the way when the round black-clad gentleman leapt into my backseat from behind, cannonball style. He shoved his face between the two front seats and said, “Rat stinking pinko verminist journalists!”
“Is that who those people are?” I asked.
Instead of responding, he heaved himself up and into the passenger seat, his legs dangling out the side of the car.
As he tried to right himself, he frantically motioned for me to drive. I was about to lean over, open the door, and shove him out when a hardcover book sailed right past my head and cracked the rearview mirror.
“Dammit! This is a rental! You’re paying for that, jackass!” I screamed at the mob. Then I saw the cover of the book, and I understood.
“You’re Michael Savage!” I accused my new passenger, who had managed to pull one leg into the car while at the same time wedging his head under the ashtray.
“I am a visionary,” he grunted, grabbing his headrest to pull himself up.
I started to kick him in the ribs, trying to force him out.
“Get out of my car! Crazy people are not welcome here!”
Since I was sitting down, I wasn’t getting much leverage, so he managed to grab my leg and hold on.
I started to panic, because the mob was closing in. I repeatedly tried to pull my leg back to hit the gas, but his fear gave him strength, and he desperately clung to the leg with all fours, resembling nothing so much as a massive black-coated mutant Chihuahua in heat.
When I woke up that morning, I hadn’t planned on having my leg humped by Michael Savage while a kill-crazy mob howled for his blood, but sometimes life gives you little surprises like that.
After careful consideration, I decided that I really didn’t want my friends and family to open up the papers the next day to find the headline “Young Man Performs Deviant Act With Right Wing Radio Host In Public, Torn Limb From Limb By Righteous Citizens” with my driver’s license photo next to it. That’s a bad way to go out.
So I hit the gas with my left foot, and away we went.
After much swerving and avoiding of pedestrians, we were out of sight and far away from the mob. I pulled over.
“Get off of my leg.”
His only response was a hog-like grunt and a snarled “Pinko!”
Given the circumstances, I wasn’t thrilled about having this man associate my leg with the color pink, so I grabbed the tire iron that was conveniently laying on the floor of the backseat and proceeded to pry him off of me.
Once we were both situated in our own seats with a comfortable two feet of space between us, I asked him what had started the riot in the first place.
“Damn judges side with the perverts instead of the boyscouts.”
Deciding that this was the most coherent answer I was going to get from him, I left the matter alone. I was thinking about calling the police, but with a speed that I would not have thought physically possible for him, he grabbed the tire iron from me, waved it in my face, and demanded that I start driving again. I did.
“You have to escape, huh?” I asked.
“There is no escape,” he replied, “Today in America, we live in a she-ocracy where a minority of feminist zealots rule the culture.”
“I see. So, what is it you want me to do, then?”
“Go to your nearest CD store and buy some crack music. Just put some crack music on about raping women, killing police, and burning down houses.”
“Um…I have Disco Inferno on a CD right here in the car. Is that close enough?”
He was distracted then by something we passed, so I decided to comply with his request, trying to soothe his nerves. I popped in the CD.
“Look at the bisexual clothing stores,” he sighed, “Look at the multi-colored condom stores. Look how the young mallrats rush to assume the Calvin Klein waif-on-drugs or Abercrombie & Fitch lesbo of the month club persona.” He sounded tired, like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.
“Back when America was still moral and whole, our meatballs were big, soft, and tasty. Today, thanks mainly to the Demoncats, the libs, and the Commu-Nazis who rule the courts, America’s meatballs are small, hard, and tasteless. In other words, we have replicated the Swedish meatball, which is what Socialism brings.”
I definitely did not want to be discussing balls of any sort with this man, so I tried to change the subject.
“How about that Pledge of Allegiance, huh?” I said.
Brandishing the tire iron, he muttered something about the “Ninth Jerk-it Court of Schlemials.”
Thinking of how heavy that tire iron looked, I laughed nervously, and tried to sound convincing when I said, “That’s a good one.”
“Comedy is what I sometimes do,” he shrugged. “That’s what God gave me the gift for.”
“Sure did!” I said, too loudly.
He looked at me suspiciously, then continued.
“You know, the kind of stuff you see at comedy workshops, where they talk about bodily functions – that’s not comedy. That’s just stupid vaudeville. That’s what passes for humor and comedy.” He paused. “It’s like one of those Turd World countries.”
I thought perhaps he was being ironic, so I chuckled.
Bad move. He started hitting the dashboard with the tire iron, screaming about “certified, dyed-in-the-dung liberals.”
Burn, baby burn… went the radio.