Well, I declare! What a day I've had! My cankles are not yet deflated, but I couldn't wait them out, particularly since I've been told that the solution to canklification is to take a brisk walk. Sadly, it's June in Las Vegas, and brisk is simply no longer an option. And do not even get me started on the subject of exercise. My sister is recovering from an abdominal bleed resulting from too many crunches. That's right. Fitness kills, people. Fitness. Kills.
Oddly, that's kind of the opposite message from the one Mrs. Obama and Senator Reid were preaching today. I was invited to the kickoff of a national fitness program called "Let's Move Outside," and I felt that I needed to attend, if for no other reason than to be the lone voice of sanity in a sea of fanaticism. Honestly, do you know how often that is my role? "Hey, everyone's talking crazy! Where is DeNae? We must have a lone voice of sanity!"
First, this lady got up and spoke.
I think her name was Suzy Snowflake or something like that. I wasn't really paying attention; we were sitting outside in a concrete amphitheater. You know, in Las Vegas In June. So we were a little distracted by the sound of our brains liquefying.
Anyway, Suzy said something so terrible, so hideous, so unspeakably wicked I began to suspect that the problems in this country run much deeper than economic collapse and Sarah Pallin's political aspirations. She said that Mrs. Obama has brainwashed children to the point that they now ask her for broccoli.
I don't even know where to start. My jaw hit the cheese danish I smuggled in under my blouse. Do you know where they make broccoli? OUTSIDE! It's true! I googled it and everything! And did you know that studies have shown that 87% of the world's dirt is produced outside? Also true!
Do I have to paint you a picture? And this lovely, sinister First Lady has convinced children that it's a good thing to crave! What's next? Leeks? Moss? Gravel, for Pete's sake?
Then Senator Reid got up to speak.
He was very concerned that he hadn't seen me in the audience yet. You can see the worry etched in his face. So I waved at him and hollered, "I'm here! This way! Third row, next to the lady who has passed out fr -- oof, ugh, hey you dumb Secret Service guy! Don't make me blog about you!"
He was visibly relieved to know that I had arrived, as were Ms. Snowflake and Mrs. Obama.
See? "DeNae's here," the senator is whispering. "The lone voice of sanity is on the third row. With cheese danish on her chin."
So then Mrs. Obama spoke. She said things like, "Look at those fat kids on the back row. We're going to run them out into the desert and make them live on Joshua trees and wild burros 'til they're good and skinny." Nefarious evil-doer. I had no choice: I stood up, turned to the fat kids on the back row, and shouted, "Don't listen to her! My kids are in great shape, and last night I fed them cake batter for dinner! Waddle with me if you want to liv -- oof, ugh, dangit you stupid Secret Service guy, that was my last danish!"
Finally, the speeches were over, my lawyer had me released on my own recognizance, and we wandered back into the building.
That's when the hostage situation unfolded.
Apparently, after they airlifted the fat kids to the wild burro preserve, all the politicos fled the scene in a commandeered BLM Range Rover. Of course, no one knew where they'd gone, so we weren't allowed to leave the Visitors' Center until someone tracked them down. (They were located at a Summerlin In n' Out Burger, scarfing down onion rings and eating mayonnaise straight out of the packets.)
Meanwhile, these four guys were creating a human barricade, defying us to rush the line and menacing us with their frothing, vicious, malevolent devil dog.
Isn't he terrifying? Just look at him, lunging at the trainer's leash, snarling and slobbering and coming thisclose to ripping our throats clean out!
Eventually, I started singing revolutionary songs from "Les Miserables," and, as often happens when I use musical theater as a weapon, the security team ran screaming to their SUVs. We had been liberated.
Of course, we weren't out of the woods yet. Once we all got to the parking lot, a new batch of security guys -- this time sporting gigantic ear plugs and therefore completely impervious to Show Tunes of Mass Destruction -- wouldn't let us drive away!
Fortunately, it was nice and cool.
Yes, that's me taking a picture of the thermometer on my rear view mirror. And yes, it says I'm facing west and it's ninety-seven breezy degrees.
So we all helped Kristina kill the earth by running our cars and air conditioners for half an hour or so, and all the while my cankles were inflating like crazy.
You have to understand: I normally have fabulous legs. But there isn't nearly enough tapering happening here, and I was getting pretty darn close to filing a civil suit against the fundamental rules of physics. I did take comfort, however, in the fact that those are dang near the cutest ballet flats ever to grace a puffy, water-retaining foot.
Finally, a fat kid riding a wild burro mowed over the security guys, and we all made a run for it. I was so happy to be back on the open road, I decided to celebrate. It was then that I laid eyes on the final and most pitiable victim of the afternoon's crisis:
That's right. The Snickers bar I always keep in my purse in case I'm taken hostage or a Secret Service guy smushes my cheese danish -- had melted.
That was the last straw! So young, so fresh, so full of potential, that bar of peanutty goodness was snatched away from me in the prime of its gooey life.
I wept all the way home. Not only had I learned that the First Lady hates kids, my face was covered in cream cheese and chocolate. (What? Like I was supposed to just throw it away?)
And I've learned my lesson. The next time someone from a US Senator's office e-mails me and says, "Hey, DeNae, I've got an extra ticket to an exclusive event with the First Lady of the United States and a bunch of fat kids. Wanna come?", you know what I'm going to say?
I'll say, "Yes! Yes! Sign me up! I'll be there!
"Save me a burro!"