;Who the hell am I? No sooner had I completed the ritualistic rifling through the legal files, campaign leaflets and head shots of myself strewn about my desk-like area, mere seconds after I had resigned my life to clipping intellectual toenails while scrolling through the blogosphere, when there it was: the answer.

;;"I'm totally Back to Basics!" I waved an arm, a CD and three elbows over the top of my cubic-hole. "It's me, Christina Aguilera! X-tina! Yes, yes, y'all!"

;;"How's Jordan Bratman?" Jessica's hair mumbled from across the room.

;;Ain't no other, no-no-no other-other. The only conceivable problem with my funky-fresh identity snatch, besides the obvious absence of silicone and vaginal means, was that I had an evening agenda already picked, one that didn't involve me hopping the red-eye to Tokyo to promote the imminent bonus-tracked dropping of my hotly anticipated double CD (Back to Basics, y'all). I'd already signed up to have no fun at all.

;;Which brings me, Christina, to the now. Pulling up to the Rachel Murrah Civic Center in between the strip malls that imply Winter Park, I felt like perhaps I should have chosen the black electrical tape for my nipples rather than the saucy red tube top with the rhinestone panties. A veritable graveyard of political signs covers the surrounding greens, and I'm sensing a second-single ballad coming on. I mean, I know politics is boring, but I didn't figure it to be like funeral boring.

;;Tonight's death of reason comes in the form of the Winter Park Mingle, an odd cattle call concept meant to incite the rubbing of elbows between potential leaders and their potential constituents, all ending in a straw poll on very important issues and the candidates that ride them. By some fluke of geography and demography, this particular event is to be dominated by the Republican variety (and the crazy variety; see Katherine Harris) because Democrats are barely even allowed in the city limits unless they're delivering a pizza. Because I'm a celebrity with a hotly dropped double CD on which I sing every note in existence, I shouldn't have any trouble getting in. X-tina, bitches.


;"Media?" a honey blonde sways her hair over one shoulder. "Talk to the guy over there. The one who looks official."


;Talk? I don't talk. I warble.


;"Just give him a wristband and no ballot," sterns the official guy, who doesn't currently have a top 10 single.


;Inside, somebody else who doesn't currently have a top 10 single is literally wounding "The Star-Spangled Banner." All of the overstickered mingleites are in full-on freeze-frame for fear that even the slightest irreverent wiggle would betray their hatred of God and country. Me, I've got a bit of the liquor shakes. Fuck God and country. What a girl wants is a drink.

;;Mingle resumed, I make my Dirrty way to the back of the house where a van with taps on it is disbursing some of the devil's juice, or carbonated hops.

;;In reality, I'm here for one reason and one reason only: to rip off Katherine Harris' wig and expose her for the miserable pile of collagen and old bones she really is. I figure that nobody will really know who I am, mostly because Republican politicians don't download my hot hits, so I should be able to maneuver my walking erection through all this political nipple tape tout suite.

;;Except it doesn't work out that way. Up on stage, each of the candidates is being pushed through a humiliation rotation of introducing themselves, stumping sweet nothings and sweating bullets while a moderator looms behind with a prop shepherd's hook (actually, a swimming pool device designed to retrieve life preservers). I'm not particularly interested in any of them, certainly not in this environment, but I do my humor duty and stick around just long enough to watch a couple of them fall apart. The crazy ones scream nonsense about a Sept. 11 hoax, deportation and, tragically, the FairTax, while the serious ones basically just say their name and wait for their ample bases to rumble in support. One American flag tie starts going on and on about AMERICA, squeezing vitriol up from his tightly wound neck, and I'm almost laughing. Then there's a hand on my back, presumably to rub the genie out of my bottle.


;"Hey, Billy," Orange County mayor Rich Crotty strokes. "I'll boo him off the stage if you will."


;And then all bets are off. Ms. Winter Park comes up and introduces herself, tiara slightly tilted, and Crotty explains to her that she is in fact "way better-looking than" himself.


;"Oh, Rich," I practically slap the jewels off her head. "No, she isn't." Bitch.


;Party-hopper Sheri McInvale fag-hags me with an offering of Andes Candies, noting that she's canvassed my house and seen my adorable dogs. "They love me!" she coos.

;;When Sentinel superhottie Scott Maxwell walks up in a pink tie (again!) I'm pushed into a huddle with him and ubiquitous politico Doug Head. "There's a picture," Head heads. "Billy and Katherine Harris!"

;;No sooner is it said than Lady Botox-and-boobs walks up, smile taped to the back of her ears. I am beautiful in every single way, but things are about to get Dirrty (again!).


;"Oh my god, Mrs. Harris," I grab her firm man-hand and crank it up and down. "You are very famous, aren't you?"


;"Nice to meet you," she fidgets.


;But not as famous as me, beyotch. Back to Basics, y'all. Dat's right.

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