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Monday, December 09, 2019 {{ new Date().getDay() }}

Mrs. Limbaugh’s diary:

I feel so bad for my precious Rush-Muffin.

Middle of breakfast, the man from Clear Channel calls to say that a bunch more advertisers have pulled out of the radio show — that’s 42 so far!

“Who?” I ask.

“Ha, small-timers,” my husband says. “AOL, Bonobos, Quicken Loans. And get this one: The Girl Scouts of Oregon and Southwest Washington.”

“All because you called that college student a slut for using birth control?”

My Rush-Muffin, he just shrugs and fires up another cigar. He’s trying to act so tough, but I know he’s worried.

“Netflix, Geico, J.C. Penney — who needs ’em?”

“Why don’t you make another apology?”

“Because I’m Rush Hudson Limbaugh III, and the entire Republican Party sucks up to me. Apologizing is for weenies. Why should insurance plans be required to pay for contraception? It’s Obama-style socialism! Every family, rich or poor, has the constitutional right to a financially devastating unplanned pregnancy!”

That’s when I say — my mistake — that I sure wish he would’ve talked to me before he said all those things on the air, like the woman was “having sex so frequently that she can’t afford all the birth control pills that she needs.”

“Don’t start again,” Rush-Muffin pouts.

“But, sweetie, you don’t seem to understand how birth control works. It doesn’t matter whether you have sex once a year or 300 times a year, you still take only one pill a day.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Didn’t any of your first three wives explain that to you?”

“I thought the stuff was like Vicodins — the more, the merrier.”

“No, darling.”

“So, let me get this straight. You take a birth-control pill every single day? Even though we only do it every third Saturday at 5 p.m. sharp, unless I’ve got a golf lesson –”

“Yes, I take the pill every day. I’m not a slut or a prostitute, am I?”

“Of course not,” says my husband, “although I do like that Naugahyde miniskirt you wore to Ann Coulter’s wine tasting.”

And he gives me one of those naughty Rush-Muffin winks that makes me tingle (my upper extremities, mainly), and I start thinking it might turn out to be a pretty good day after all.

Then the darn phone rings again — that annoying fellow from Clear Channel, calling to say that another radio station just dropped the Rush Limbaugh Show from its schedule.

“Which one?” I ask.

“Ha, nobody worth worrying about,” says Rush-Muffin. “It’s WBEC, some 75-watt garage operation in Massachusetts. Probably a nest of Romney liberals!”

See what I mean about acting tough? What a guy. He doesn’t want me to know how scared he is, but a wife can sense these things.

So I fix him another platter of bacon and start surfing the Internet, trying to find something to cheer him up. “Darling, look who just gave a statement supporting you — Sarah Palin!”

Poor Rush-Muffin slumps at the table. “You’re killing me.”

“Wait, look at this. You’ve been nominated to the Hall of Famous Missourians!”

He perks up. “Tell me more,” he says.

“They want to put a $10,000 bronze bust of you in the Capitol rotunda in Jefferson City.”

“Even after all this ‘slut’ talk?”

“The speaker of the Missouri House says he doesn’t care. Says you’re the voice of the American heartland.”

“Except we live in Palm Beach.”

“Rush, this is huge. Your big fat lovable head in the same gallery with Mark Twain, Walt Disney, Stan Musial . . .”

“Stan the Man?”

Now my husband’s beaming. He stands up, flicks his cigar butt into the creamed cheese and takes a big swing, like he’s smacking a fastball.

“Me and Stan Freaking Musial. That’s more like it!”

 

“Yes, darling. Along with Harry Truman, Charlie Parker and Emmett Kelly . . .”

“Whoa. What?”

Now the Rush-Muffin drops his imaginary baseball bat. “Emmett Kelly was a clown.”

“But he was a beloved clown.”

“Who cares? The liberal media will go wild with this. Can’t you see the headline? Limbaugh joins Kelly in Clown Hall of Fame. No way! Not this icon!”

Then he snatches a raisin bagel and stalks out of the room. I sit here for a while, listening to the phone ring, knowing it’s more bad news.

 

Stand by your man, that’s what the song says.

So I swallow my little pill, grab my favorite yoga mat and head upstairs to the gym. Seriously, who shops at J.C. Penney, anyway?

(Carl Hiaasen is a columnist for the Miami Herald. Readers may write to him at: 1 Herald Plaza, Miami, Fla., 33132.)

(c) 2012, The Miami Herald Distributed by Tribune Media Services Inc.

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