politicians i have tasted
by Dolan Morgan


When he checked his coat at the fundraiser, I managed to take a quick lick of Joe Lieberman, right on the elbow. Pungent, with slow-burning oak and berry tones, he provided a warm and fruity kick, like kissing a drunk with great hygiene, crusted in scallions. Though his speech at the dinner was underwhelming and uninspiring, I headed home through the snow that evening with a nagging feeling that Joe Lieberman would be at his best and most dramatic over a bed of clam-sprinkled linguini.

Kathleen Sebelius, Governor of Kansas, walked into a dry-cleaners in Miami wearing only a sprig of parsley. I nibbled at her hip, which was a bit over ripe, and then moved onto the kneecaps. Drenched in hollondaise, the joints were too rich for me. Over all, Kathleen Sebelius can be summed up in one word: indigestion.

While shearing sheep in an Australian meadow, I managed to sneak away with a small niblet of Antonio Ramon Villaraigosa, former Mayor of Los Angeles. He continued the day's work of collecting the wool into baskets, and I hid behind a tree to sample him. Instantly I recognized the subtle almond mixed with rich butter so common to West Coast politicians. Antonio's spin on it? A twist of lemon. He must have marinated in a zesty citrus reduction for weeks to get it so infused. Needless to say, when he wasn't looking, I snuck another piece. Despite the long wait-list for reservations, Antonio Ramon Villaraigosa is a fine fusion cuisine—and well worth the effort.

Today I burped up a little Kucinich.

Mounted on a swift filly, I made steady gains on Nebraska Senator Chuck Hagel. It was a long hunt across the autumn mountains, but early on a Sunday I overcame him. I gave him a letter written for Greenpeace about the energy crisis, but as I slid it into his hand, I also peeled off a morsel from his wrist. He made his way back into a ramshackle hovel as I prepared a fire and brought a pot to boil. Consumed this way, Chuck Hagel's natural flavor of cypress and smoke comes through like a northern wind. And chased with Miller High Life or Genesee Cream Ale, you retain a bit of his salty film long after the meal is over. It's Chuck Hagel season—and the crop is good.

The water buffalo idly surrounded us while we huddled by the bush. Through the weeds I saw Bill Standley, Mayor of Farmington, NM lapping water from the river. My brother, Hahn, sharpened his spear on a rock, the smell of sweat and dung filled my center, and then we charged. The lot of us came bounding from the brush, screaming, as the buffalo scattered. Dumbfounded, Bill Standley stared at us like an empty sky. Just as we were closing in on him, falling over his body with spears and bows and rocks held high, Mayor Standley made chase. Bolting across the plain, he shot for the nearby woods. Hahn, sensing finality, tossed his spear through the air. I flung my rock just as we passed the fanning pole. Our weapons slowed him, but he was still bucking. We tussled across the dirt and sand, our loin cloths flapping and coming loose. Hahn blew a help-wail through his goat horn as he punctured the beast's ribs with his spear. Bill Standley fell, the stone tip nearly gutting him, but he was still breathing. We thanked him for his dedication to working class families and raising the minimum wage. The sun set, and as we dried Mayor Standley's thigh meat over the fire, the woolly mammoths walked against the wind.

I sat in the marsh with water up to the top of my wader boots, rifle poised and ready, while across the auburn dawn swarmed a flock of Congressmen. Arms flapping and ties blowing, they flew through the sky on their way to the capitol. Patiently I waited for the right shot, but the wind never blew in my favor. Pelosi passed me by. Boehner got away. Trent Franks slipped through my fingers. All of Mississippi's representatives got past, one by one, cawing and screeching with drunken lust and jiggling bellies. And then came California's Mary Bono, Republican—young, beautiful, naked and alone. The wind died low, only a slight breeze over the reeds—rustling, keeping my cover. She came down like a bag of sand, a heavy feather, a crest of hope. I dragged her from the pond and slit her open right there on the banks. Mary Bono, Republican, dripped from my mouth, raw and unseasoned, and it seemed as if—while the sun arced above the marshes—every breeze blew in my favor.

Oh! 3/4 teaspoon rosemary, 1/4 teaspoon basil, 1/2 teaspoon thyme, salt and pepper to taste, Tony Blair, 1 tablespoon olive oil, 1/4 cup minced shallots, 1/3 cup aged balsamic vinegar, 3/4 cup chicken broth, and 1 tablespoon butter: sounds like Friday night to me.

While I sang Just A Closer Walk With Thee in the choir, Senator Larry Craig of Idaho flew straight down my throat. I immediately began choking, ruining the piece for the whole church. While unsuccessful attempts at the Heimlich were made, Father Ephron called 911. EMTs managed to get Larry Craig out of my lungs, but most of him had gone down into my stomach. If something wasn't done, and quickly, he would enter my blood stream, travel to my heart and kill me right then and there. Not in God's house, I thought, not in God's house. The EMT induced vomit with a foul chemical and I hurled bits of Larry Craig all over the alter and sacrament. Weeks later, I'm still tasting his support of the immigrant guest-worker program—like salted garlic and ham.

Indiana Republican Richard G. Lugar made a toast to my recent speech about the Iraq war and its agricultural impacts. Laughing, our glasses barely connected and my cloth napkin, embroidered with a state seal, fell to the floor. We chatted until the waiter brought our food, and then we prodded, cut and nibbled bites while keeping up the banter. I was eating a wonderfully seared halibut, and Luger was downing a rib eye steak. As the waitress with the big ass walked by, Lugar pulled her into a conversation with one of his trademark racial jokes. While they giggled, something got stuck in my teeth. I used my fork and my fingernail to pry at it, but it was really in there. When I finally got it out with a knife, I was a little surprised: it was Richard G. Lugar, in miniature. He squirmed in my fingers and bit the tips. I looked up at the big Senator Lugar, then down at the one in my hand, still dripping in my saliva and coated in a tart, red wine reduction. The waitress was just getting ready to leave, and Richard G. Lugar would no doubt turn my way any moment—I had no idea how to handle this. Should I show Lugar himself? My face flushed with anxiety—even if I hid the mini-man, the problem might come up again later. I resolved myself to this plan: the miniature Senator was crushed between my fingers into a rubbery mass and tossed lightly onto Lugar's side of vegetables. Without blinking an eye, I went back to discussing foreign policy and racism, and Lugar never said a thing while he swallowed himself whole.

Nevada's John Ensign most likely entered my body through my rectum while on holiday in the outskirts of Cusco, Peru. I imagine he slithered into me whilst I suffered the consequences of foreign water, alone in the bathroom. Senator Ensign has been growing inside me for weeks, but I only just noticed recently—when his skinny arm reached up the back of my throat and onto my tongue. What was he reaching for? His sweaty palms were like creamy nougat, and I was taken aback by the sweetness. His steadfast voting record simmered in my belly and marinated him into a wrinkled, juicy tenderloin. I could feel his fatty flanks and loose thighs putting gentle pressure against my colon and kidneys. Senator Ensign lives inside me and I will always taste him, so long as I may live.

We ducked into the wine cellar and cracked open my George Frisbie Hoar, a delicate and raspberry-hinted Senator of 1882, then enjoyed him one sip at a time with a fiery bowl of Crab Rangoon.

I wiggled through the waters with a new found pride: I had just beaten my best friend David in a race to the mouth of the river. The rest of the school would be floored by this fact, perhaps not even believe me, but today I felt happy and satisfied simply to know that it happened. Perhaps my confidence blinded me to the danger that afternoon, too distracted by glory to put two and two together. Either way, when I bit down hard on Harlan F. Stone, just dangling there in the water, it was already too late. He tasted oh so good as his body crushed in my mouth and struggled to get out from my throat, but the hook had pierced all the way through my gills, and I was already headed toward the surface, the bright sun glimmering on the other side of the waves.

Having a gnaw at Barbara Cubin is embroiled in strict sectarian tradition, and it can't be done without traversing the right channels—channels which change often and without notice. While scouting the area in search of legal documents for an early summer salad, I befriended a local store manager and organic produce specialist headed to the capital for an annual Cubinbuffet—a rare treat, I do say, and one I would have missed had the distant associate not needed a ride. We arrived at the courthouse a little under-dressed, but gained admittance nonetheless. We were ushered into a curtained room, dimly lit and given lush red pillows to sit on. Among the other attendees were all the usual Republican hob knobs smoking cigarettes and jostling whiskey drinks. Cubin emerged like a duck from the oven swathed in ribbon and festooned with barnacles. Her belly swayed and dripped like foaming soap on a loose string. She performed a dance centered just as much in her hips as in the bawdy curl of her lip, and once the ceremonial herbs had been smudged and sifted, we each were given a single nibble of her left flank, fatty and fetid like an elite Parisian cheese. She tottered off squawking and hemming, leaving us all to lick our lips as her plump ankles shuffled beyond the curve. Suffice it to say, I never did find those legal documents and the salad was just alright.

What is love? It's Governor Chis Christie sliding right off the bone. It's his conviction record on corporate fraud melting in your mouth, slathered in a blackened barbecue sauce, roughly smeared on napkins and dragged across cheeks, his 90-day housing freeze soaking everything like a deep southern storm, torrential and heavy and quick. Real love is a flavor mountain burying your whole body in its slow cooked geology. Imagine the eruption.