...Advises Him to “RUN FOR YOUR LIFE,” Provides Get Away Car, Gas Money and Snacks Just when you thought our relationship with Bill O’Reilly was out-the-door, done, finished, over, finito—there was an incident at a cocktail party last month, don’t really want to get into it—Papa Bear goes and does something that just reels us right back in to that big, furry, pundit o’ love embrace, hook, line and sinker. And you know what? There’s no place we’d rather be; it feels like coming home. On Tuesday, we reported that Rush Limbaugh—our Rush Limbaugh—had been detained in a Palm Beach airport, coming back from the Dominican Republic, for having a bottle of Viagra prescribed to someone else in his carry-on bag. And, boy, were we upset. No, actually, we weren’t upset—we were blood-boilingly livid.
You see, prior to this little incident, we’d been dating Rushy for quite some time (“dating” is a flexible, relative term, so LAY OFF). And recently he’d started acting pretty cold toward us, which stung pretty badly, though not nearly as badly as when he started dodging our e-mails, (conveniently) “missing” our phone calls, and just outright ignoring us, all together. We mean—it was just SO out of the blue. We’d thought we were having a great time and, being careful not to put all of our eggs in the proverbial one basket, believed that not only would he come around, but that he’d soon pop that big question (“Do you want to go halfsies on this 6-pack? Or should I get my own? You always say you’re only going to have one or two, but 30 minutes later, they’re all gone, you’re drunk and I’m standing here like a putz, stone-cold sober. So do you want to go halfsies? I should just get my own, right?”). But neither of those magical things ever happened and, in fact, when we stopped by—and let ourselves into—his apartment over the weekend, he was no where to be seen. And then we find out about this little jaunt to the Dominican Republic and it’s all we can do to fight back the tears, until we read about the Viagra and it’s just all over from there; we’re talking salty discharge just totally streaming out of our eyes, can’t get out of bed, can’t do anything, for like two days straight. It wasn’t just that he’d lied to us about where he was—that we can quasi deal with. But the Viagra? It’s our worst fear confirmed—that lowlife bastard is cheating on us! We know this because he’s never used Viagra with us; in fact, not to get into the details, but we were actually quite surprised with his virility, for a man his age and weight—guess that saying about bald men isn’t such an old wives’ tale, after all. Anyway, we were very much upset, as you know, and didn’t really know what to do with ourselves. And then we got to thinking: was he with Leonore Annenberg? Her Gulfstream V was just spotted in FL; were they planning on a rendezvous? Or what about Oprah? Rush’s always had a thing for her (he watches the show EVERY DAY, without fail), and some stalking on our part procured the fishy little fact that her plane flew to Ft. Myers, FL, just three days ago. Needless to say, our minds were wandering, and we were not in a good place, mentally, at all. And then, suddenly: Bill. There he was, a beacon of light, a voice of reason, an angel, really, in the middle of the night.
“No!” he said Tuesday night on his show, “Bull! That's bull!” to accusations that Limby* did anything wrong. At first we just thought Bill was trying to cover for him in front of us, like his lawyer, Roy Black always does. But the longer he went on, the longer we realized—Bill’s right! Of course it was “political persecution.” Of course it was a “setup.” Rush would never betray us like this! Bill then went on to tell us that “it was a malicious cheap, cheap tactic by the Palm Beach authorities, and they ought to be ashamed of themselves… You find a prescription improperly labeled and you call the [police]—come on. Come on!” “Yeah,” we nodded in agreement, “yeah, that’s it!” “Furthermore,” B.O. convinced everyone—us and America—that “In Palm Beach, where Mr. Limbaugh lives, they’re out to get this guy.” Truer words have never been spoken, we all reckoned. Billy then offered Rush some advice, which was to “move right on out of there. I’d get out of there,” he offered. “They’re after [you].” WELL—there’s a weight off our chests; Rush is the good guy we always thought he was! It's just a conspiracy by the cops and the media to take him down!
If our calculations are correct—and they usually are—Rush will be on the run by early tomorrow morning or late tomorrow afternoon at the latest. It probably won’t be in his own plane, because, obviously, the 5-0’s now onto it, but we’re pretty sure we heard a message on the answering machine last night from Bill, saying something about how “Rupes* said ‘yes’ to us borrowing the Leer and it’s all gassed up and ready to go; don’t forget the gum, you know my ears can’t handle the take-off/landing without it.” Sorry that today was more of a “Pre-Planespotting Spotting,” but we just had to let you know that everything’s good between us and Rush now, and, more importantly, between us and Bill. (However, if we should find out that Rupert’s plane ends up anywhere near Long Beach, CA, where the Hilton Hotels’ Gulfstream V landed on June 24, or Atlantic City, where lame-duck pardonee Marc Rich’s wife’s Learjet 60 was spotted, just this afternoon, you’d better believe there’ll be hell to pay.) (There also might be a catfight among DealBreaker, Paris and Denise, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves, just yet).
*Our pet name for Rush. Of course those snot-nosed liberals are now taking advantage of the situation at hand and referring to him as “Limpy.”
**Rupert, to you.