In the Catholic Church, today we commemorate the martyrdom of St. Jon the Baptist. You know the story. Bad grrrl Salome's mother was all pissed that John insinuated she was a harlot - which back in the day was, like, the "c" word, OMG - and so pimped her daughter by having her do a bit of the bump-n-grind in front of Herod. Since the dollar bill had not yet been invented, nor the g-string, Herod showed his appreciation by telling Salome that he would give her anything she wanted. And since MAC cosmetics had no been invented, nor malls, Salome - as clueless as any teenager - did what her mother said and asked for the head of John the Baptist on a platter. And Herod obliged.
Now fast forward to June 2001. I was studying law in a special program at the University of Bologna, Italy. On one of my Saturdays, I happened to head down to Firenze (Florence) with some of the others in the program to soak up some culture in the city known for Dante's 'nabe and, of course, Michalangelo's David.
I was gazing upon aforesaid sculpture, thinking to myself, holy shit, that has to be the biggest goddamn schwang every sculpted, when the room suddenly started buzzing and, despite the stern admonishments of old lady docents yelling, "No photos! No photos!", cameras started going off. I soon discerned - after tearing my eyes away from the four-foot one-eyed snake of David, that Arnold Schwarzenegger had entered the room. I couldn't get anywhere near the guy and as he moved to another room, I said to my colleagues, "I'm going to go up and meet him." So I followed him.
By the time I caught up with AH-nold, he was standing by a painting of . . . that's right, the martyrdom of St. John the Baptist. "Vot does thees picture deepict?" I heard him ask his guide. The heathen admitted she did not know. Recognizing my chance, I casually strolled up to Arnold and said, "Really? What kind of good Catholic boy are you that you can't recognize Salome dancing before Herod, before asking for the head of St. John the Baptist?"
He laughed, and said, "I guess not a very good one." I introduced myself, quickly adding that, like him, I was a Californian far from home. And then said, "And what are I thinking, saying you won't run for governor? Davis is ruining the state!"
Now Arnold was pushing away the members of the entourage approaching to hustle me away. "I couldn't agree more with you, Stephanie! Tell me, do you think I should run for governor?" I replied, "If you will bring the fiscal conservatism we need, you will have my vote. Run, Mr. Schwarzenegger - we need you!" He vigorously pumped my hand and promised, he would give it a second thought and yes, he would cut needless spending in Sacramento.
Lying sonofabitch. Bastard ran, won - with my vote - and turned into the biggest damn RINO in state history. So I skipped town and moved to Tennessee. After unleashing the Governator upon the Golden State's populace. Because I am sure Arnold necer would have run if he did not have the chance to go back to his hotel that night, and say, "Maria, my destiny has been foretold, for lo, a Californian spake unto me this day and convinced me I must unseat that piece of scheiss in Sacramento . . ."
Maybe I owe a apology to the people of California . . . naw, that guilt ended by the dumbasses voted in Jerry Brown again.
The lesson from all this? Only give your support to the pricks on statues because the living ones can't be trusted.