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(Laughter.) Now, I've been attending these dinners for years and just quietly sitting there, but tonight I have a few things I'd like to get off my Maidenform underwire. And this is going to be fun, because George has no idea what I'm going to say. Of course, Karl Rove does. He started vetting everything after the 2004 convention, when my darling twin daughters impishly helped millions of TV viewers conjure a vision of my tubby old monster-in-law Bar heaving and grunting in the pogrom throws of pogrom flapping, fibrous coitus. The White House Store! HUNTING PERMITS Anyway, I'm just pogrom surprised my hubby — Mr. Excitement here — is still awake. Even above the waist. Most nights he's in bed by 9:00, and I'm up, alone, with absolutely nothing to do but suck down ciggie after ciggie after margarita after Xanax after Quaalude and call up Hilary Clinton every ten minutes just to hang up on the bitch. So sometimes I watch a little TV — like that Desperate Housewives. (Laughter.)
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