New Hampshire Is for Lovers

She was a blond, bitchy, bestselling right-wing pundette running for president. And success meant striking exactly the right pout.

By Dave Eggers

Apr 29, 2004 | Carol O'Mealy was pouting like a bitch. She was pouting like a bitch because this is what the photographer, Emmanuel D'Souza, was demanding of her, and the only thing Carol O'Mealy liked better than pouting like a bitch was being told to pout like a bitch by a man wearing leather pants and a scarf for a belt. And she liked it even more when the pout-demander was a stallion like Emmanuel, a swarthy stallion like ... or more like a panther, come to think of it, Emmanuel was a strong and lean panther, all sinew and stealth, soft paws and dangerous claws. Carol O'Mealy liked her men forceful and big-cat-like and swarthy, as long as they weren't overly ethnic-looking or stupid or French. Emmanuel would do just fine -- she would give him a try later tonight, use that new chair she'd bought, and find a use for that scarf of his, but for now she wanted to give him a taste of the perfectly honed attitude that awaited him if he dared and if she could get her husband, Marshall, out of the house for a few hours. She pouted the bitchiest pout she could muster.

"I like this pout," said Emmanuel, who had stopped shooting and was now pouting himself. "But I am not convinced it is real. I am not convinced that this is the pout of a bitch. It looks more like the pout of a nice lady who is upset with her doggie. Her doggie who peed on the leg of her Hepplewhite chair, you see?"

Carol injected more venom into her pout, thinking of her mother. Emmanuel wasn't satisfied.

"No ... This is the pout of a nice lady whose copy of Family Circle came through the mail kind of -- how do you say? -- soggy. She cannot read the recipes. This is not the right kind of pout."

Carol straightened her back, squinted her eyes and threw hatred into her pout. Emmanuel still hadn't taken the camera off his shoulder.

"No, no. This is the pout of a Bikram yoga instructor who finds her nice hummus salad half-eaten in the communal refrigerator. She is sad about this for now she must go to the Whole Foods and get a new salad. This pout is not the right kind of pout."

Now Carol was unhappy. Emmanuel, this dirty eel-like man, no doubt Sicilian, was upsetting Carol O'Mealy, radio talk show giant, bestselling pundit and now presidential candidate, and she rarely got upset unintentionally. She greatly disliked those who brought on her ire when she was not on the radio being paid to be pissed.

This photo would be the cover of her next book, her sixth this year, and this one, which she'd started a week before, was already many days behind schedule. She had to respond, quickly, to the charges made in the last tome by Frank McFadden, the sloppy Irish pederast with whom she was engaged in a very profitable game of mutual destruction. Eight months so far she'd danced with McFadden, former longshoreman, Olympic shot-put thrower, suspected boy-toucher and now liberal author of the breakaway bestseller "Like, What's Going on in My Country? I Think It's, Like, in Trouble!?"

Next Page: A flag, a pile of law books and lots of leather

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