Roach on the wall

October 1999
Roach on the Wall
By Ravenel Roach and Bob Coskrey

Well, this is my first article for “East Cooper Monthly.” I have been reading some of the back issues, so I could get a geel for it, kind of get an idea of what these people are trying to say. Finally, about 20 issues later, I have concluded that if the inpatients of a mental institution—let’s just use that group from “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest” for mental imagery purposes—were to publish a paper, it would probably bear a remarkable resemblance to the “East Copper Monthly” (and I mean that in a good way of course), though the former get its issues out on the street in a more timely manner due to a slight number’s superiority in obsessive-compulsive staff members.

Therefore, figuring that if the readership really enjoys this rag, they must be at least equally as loony as the staff, I thought I might as well follow the “E. C. Monthly’s” writers’ preparation regimen: Stay off any anti-psychotic medication the week prior to beginning an article. Unfortunately, thought, being a roach, I don’t need to take any mood-altering drugs. Despite the unrelenting and unspeakable oppression by you so-called humans for over 4.5 million years, we roaches are a very well adjusted species.

Enough! The readers are asked to disregard the last paragraph, just as you juries do when instructed by your reality-challenged judges.

Having observed over the years that you guys are so abysmally insecure that you really get off (sometimes literally) over learning about the humiliating and sometimes painful misfortunes of the rich and powerful, I have decided to give you not what the doctor or Nurse Ratchett ordered, but rather exactly what you want, in the form of excerpts from the entertainment column of our own daily newspaper, the “Roachly Reader.” There will be quotations from our eminent critic, Rex Roach, taken from his column, “Roach on the Wall,” based on the often quoted human phrase, “If only I were a fly on the wall,” but in this case, strengthened by our supernatural ability to read negative thoughts (see my interview in “East Cooper Monthly” August ’99 issue). Needless to say, the world is teeming with Rex’s correspondents, so we can dig up dirt on anybody, anywhere, and anytime we feel like it—which is frequently. You people, especially the ones you worship as your icons and role models, are, euphemistically speaking, very interesting to say the least, and you have the nerve to call us disgusting.

In this article, we will reprise a conversation our roach on the wall correspondent overheard recently at the home of Warren Beatty and his actress wife Annette Bening, where the former was elaborating on his decision to become a presidential candidate:

Warren: I am very concerned about the disgrace Bill Clinton has heaped upon the office of the presidency.

Annette: Yes, I am afraid he has left an indelible stain, figuratively and literally.

Warren: (flashing mild anger in his Beatty eyes) This is not a time to make cute remarks, Annette.

Annette: (consoling) Okay, okay, but I thought you went along with most of his policies and felt that his personal life, no matter how morally revolting, was irrelevant to his being qualified for the job.

Warren: That’s true for the most part, except for one thing that really bothers me…(long pause)

Annette (finally getting tired of Warren to finish his thought): And-that-one-thing-is? (Thinking: My God, it’s no wonder no one invites you to do talk shows.)

Warren: It’s…it’s…it’s his grotesque taste in women, or better, his taste in grotesque women. Just look at that gaggle of gruesome political groupies—or better, gropies—that bevy of big haired trailer trollops, and assorted bow-wows who’ve been lighting up his Tiparellos over the years. What must the American people think?

Annette: About his indiscretions? Absolutely nothing, just like us.

Warren: No, you’re not getting the point. The part about Americans accepting his moral lapses-

Annette (interrupting): You mean collapses.

Warren (continuing, irritability once again showing in his eyes): -is a given. The crisis is that they are mortified that their elected leader would have such atrocious taste in the women he chooses to have affairs with. JFK set the standard with Marilyn Monroe, Judith Exner, and others of that ilk, but this guy hasn’t even come close. You see, if you will allow me to speak briefly in Sternian (Howard) parlance, both guys and chicks dig a guy who can score with hot broads, whether he’s married or not. When Billy the Boinker-

Annette (interrupting) Oinker Boinker.

Warren (continuing): -When Bill the Oinker Boinker ran the anchor leg of the great presidential philanders’ race, he fumbled the baton hand-off from JFK.
Annette: Maybe he was just confused or perhaps he was simply the victim of one of JFK’s practical jokes when the presidential prankster stuffed his baton down his pants, prompting the Boinker to respond at the crucial moment, “Jack, is that your baton or are you just happy to see me?”

Warren: Whatever. He’s no JFK, that’s for sure.

Annette: Okay, we’ve established that already. Now what?

Warren: Now, I announce as a candidate for the presidency.

Annette (dumbfounded): You what? Have you been drinking that funny tea with Shirley again?

Warren: No, dear, not at all. Listen to me. What this country needs is a-

Annette (interrupting): Good five-cent cigar, but they’re not going to smoke any of his.

Warren (continuing): If I may continue – president with a proven record of amorous conquests of world class babes. And that man, my dear, is none other than yours truly. I’ve got a record that nobody can top for the past 35 years, from Natalie Wood to Candace Bergen to Julie Christie. I could list 20 or 30 more of them, if I wanted to, right off the top of my head.

Annette (thinking: Which one?): Don’t bother, why don’t we just record the names you always shout while we’re making love?

Warren: Oh, for “Heavens’ Gate”—I mean sake—that’s all in the past. Nobody’s better than you, honey. After all, you’re the one I married.

Annette (thinking: Yeah, because nobody else was interested in you. Who else would put up with a used up Lothario who wears Depends under his Bikini underwear.): Okay, you may be right, I guess I could put up with the rehashing of all your old affairs, since it is, after all, for a worthwhile cause.

Warren (a bit meekly): Well, my little Benin Cookie, that’s not quite the whole plan.

Annette: Let me guess. Charlie Sheen’s going to be your running mate?

Warren: No, but that’s a damn good idea. Actually, what I’m thinking is that my sexual resume, though impressive, reads like ancient history. It needs to be updated.

Annette (affecting a Clint Eastwood glare): Meaning what?

Warren (unconsciously making himself smaller and blinking nervously):

Meaning I-ah-need to have a – an affair. I can’t smugly live off the glories of my past. The American electorate needs to know that I still have what it takes.

Annette: And just what patriotic prostitute will you be enlisting?

Warren: It will be nothing like that. Actually, I’m thinking more along the lines of simultaneous affairs with 3 (thinking: Lucky) women, but not just any women. They would need to be beautiful and classy. Specifically, I’m thinking about Gweneth Paltrow, Cindy Crawford, and Halle Berry. I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but I won be going this for any base, libidinous reason. You and I will be doing this for our country. With the knowledge that their leader is a discriminating stud, once again, Americans can walk around with their heads held high (thinking: As will I, heh, heh.) Well, what do you think, honey? It’s a chance to serve your country.

Annette: Right, Mr. Lion King. I serve and you service. You’re going through a middle-age—or rather old-age—crisis, and is simply an elaborate borderline psychotic scheme to satisfy your needs. There’s a better chance of a studio coming to you and begging you to make Ishtar II than there is of my agreeing to this screw ball idea.

Warren (sheepishly): But you’ve got it all wrong, Bunny butt-

Annette (interrupting): I’ll tell you what, why don’t you get Shirley to channel up some of your old dead girlfriends through Hillary, then you can do your public service bit by satisfying that poor soul, and I’ll go take care of Billy the Oinker Boinker personally? Not to brag, but I think his liaison with me will be sufficient to elevate the prestige of the office to the JFK standard. Now, you get back in your office and start sublimating some of that pent-up sexual energy into doing something rational like making a new movie. In fact, how about one about your and Hillary’s affair. Your trysting place could be Blair House, the vice-president’s home, and then you could call it “The Blair Bitch Project.”

Warren (patronizingly): Honey, I get your point loud and clear. Actually, I think an affair wh Gwyneth along will suffice. (Suddenly, Annette grabs a nearby Tiffany lamp and hurls it violently. It smashes on the wall next to Warren’s head.)

Warren (frightened): Wha--?

Annette: Oh, calm down, you big fruit. There was a roach right there on the wall. You know how I hate those damn things.

Warren (still a bit anxious): Well, you missed. He just disappeared into an air conditioning register. AT least, it wasn’t a fly on the wall. That’s probably where the tabloids get all their information.

Annette (displaying a dominating Hillarian glare): Why don’t you call Shirley now and get things started, dear?

Warren: Right away, baby (thinking as he fumbles with the phone: Just my luck, she’ll only be able to channel Eleanor Roosevelt).

Suddenly, a stern female warden-like voice thunders through the receiver: Hillary Rodham Clinton speaking.

Warren slowly begins a fetal fold, as he feels his manhood shrinking. He’s only able to manage a tiny gurgle.

Hillary: Monica, if that’s you, you bloated bimbo, you stay out of my life ‘til I become a senator. After that, you can have the whoring hillbilly!

A click is heard on the other end.