Posted by: Mike James | July 2, 2011

Fear and Loathing at the Republican Convention

For almost 30 years the Ocean Beach Geriatric Surf Club and Precision Marching Surfboard Drill Team and Gidget Patrol have been paid thousands of dollars to attend convention soirees to perform for ten minutes and then proceed to drink the conventioneers sponsored booze, devour their buffet and chase after their spouses (It’s in the contract).

In 1996, the Republican National Convention was held in San Diego. A year earlier the Grand Old Party gained control of both houses for the first time since the 1950s and they were looking to party like it was 1999. Who better to party with than the Ocean Beach Geriatrics.

Junior Congressman Brian Bilbray, a surfer and Corona drinker, was a big fan of the club. So when the Young Republican Congressional Caucus were planning a fundraiser for the convention, Bilbray suggested the Geriatrics be part of the entertainment. Apparently the event was not vetted by the Republican National Committee or the FBI. Not only did the club harbor a few liberal Democrats but a contingent of commie pinko hippies as well.

On the night of the party, club members were herded into a storage area to await their grand entrance. This was also where the guest’s ample goody bags had been assembled. The room was still full of leftover elephant shot glasses, Jack Kemp miniature footballs and the very cool Bob Dole rubber puppets. Not wanting to see any of these historical trinkets to be tossed into a landfill, many members of the club procured a Bob Dole puppet as a souvenir.

At 8:00 the club did its required ten minutes on the dance floor, twirling surfboards and flipping beach chairs, as the band (made up of freshman congressman) played La Bamba. Then quicker then you can say Ba-Ba-Bamba the Geriatrics pounced on the open bar and the greatest buffet they had ever laid eyes on. Within minutes, four dozen fresh Pacific Oysters, ten dozen jumbo Tiger Shrimp, two cases of Dos Equis beer and a bottle of 1800 Tequila Reserva Reposado were consumed.

Satisfied surfers and gidgets then filibustered the dance floor blocking out any right wing maneuvering. After further annihilation of the buffet and the bar, the crew decided to head back to Ocean Beach. As they squeezed into the back of Papa Z’s dilapidated old bread truck, bellies full and a dozen prized Bob Dole puppets in hand (or hand in), a voice was heard to exclaim “You Just Can’t Trust Em.”

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