Who Are These Beeches

Oh, I'm supposed to be politically correct and not suggest that women, no matter how they behave, "should" not be deemed "beeches." Well, no, they aren't "beeches." That word doesn't exist in the dictionary the last time I went on a word hunt (aside from those beech-ey trees). However, I'm doing my very best to be polite and not call out the women who are running for political office in the uber-enhanced, ulra-modern, hedonistic world (of the heavily enlightened USA) a low-down dirty word so often misused in the common vernacular. That's right. You know what word to which I'm referring - "Beaches." Yes. Those sandy white, salt-water soaked, pollution choked places of once-luxurious sun and sea worship; the bastions of the rich and poor.

Ah, but now we have another kind of "beach." Pristine O'Gosh-Darn-It in Dela-beware doesn't want anyone to dig for loose gems hidden within its sultry subterranean private places for fear it will offend the Sand Gods should one locate a spectacular orgasmic G-spot of pleasure therein.

Mega-Whitewoman in Californi-vacate-'em dug and found so much gold as a top baying "beach" that she has tossed over a billion deblooms to the Sea Goddess to rule a coastal King-doom, whilst the sand-splattered gold may have been used to save lives rather than spew lies.

Carly Fee-&-Reem-yo' (another from the "Beholden State") is a "beach" with a yacht attached for rapid deployment to China where the products of her former Queendoom at HP were sent for manufacture shortly before she gave herself a treasure chest which may have been too heavy to be considered a "golden parachute," although light enough to bring a smug smile to her smirky de-meaner. She did come off a bit mean, didn't she? Now she wants us to gain immediate amnesia and toss the de- in front of "mean."

And then, sigh, there is that frightening specimen of what the difference is between a true "beach" on a real coast and the dry dust of a barren desert. The non-sharing Sharron of-the-speechless-Angle has a frightening way of saving her own hay. Dare I say this specific "beach" is as musty as an old sponge in a kitchen left untouched since the 1950's? This tight-lipped shape-shifter is akin to the faux "beach" in the state of Never-Hadda-Chance for Hairy Rust who may experience the curse of Lost Wages quite fast. The main truth in this race could be as simple as "What happens in Wages stays (or returns) to Lost Wages." (Yeah. Gotta think about that one for a minute.)

Isn't it a pity? Or shall I be "pithy" to remark that as women rise from the ashes of a former ghost-like presence on the national political stage, we find ourself at the height of a supposedly futuristic enlightened 2010, watching women who know only greed and puritanical beliefs standing high on a box marked with soap from another era.

Perhaps I'm being too genteel after all. You know what I mean:
It IS the Season of the Bitch.