I suppose it was inevitable. Last week my Fox News homies Bill “Luda” O’Reilly and Sean “Hova” Hannity finally got their chance to put their thing down, flip it, and reverse it to what we outside of the Beltway have long cherished as the mash up. Regrettably, I’m not talking about DJ Danger Mouse’s Grey Album, a so-obvious-it’s-genius soldering of two of the finest records of 1968 and 2003the Beatles’ White Album and Jay-Z’s Black Album. As you may have surmised, I’m referring to the Vermont medical community’s baddest gangsta, Howard Dean, getting peanut butter in his chocolate with Guns N’ Roses. And AC/DC. And Ozzy. And Aphex Twin. My kingdom for two turntables, ProTools, and a nonirreparably scratched copy of the “Rico Suave” 12-inch.

The Dean mash (or is it mash Dean?) phenomenon is yet another unpleasant reminder of what happens when rock and roll gets frisky with the government. And it’s a hella bad double standard. Consider Ah-nuld’s classic mid-gubernatorial campaign response to sexual harassment accusations: “I was on rowdy movie sets, and I have done things that were not right, which I thought then [were] playful, but now I recognize that I offended people. . . . I have to say that where there’s smoke there’s fire.” Now lemme get this straight: Dean steps into a Slim Jim, shares his best Randy Savage with the worldand I don’t mean the Macho Man’s debut rap LP Be a Man, criminally excluded from this year’s Grammy nomsand he’s not only “unelectable,” but a target of ridicule for the same interweb dorkazoids who pumped him up to messiah status just months ago. Fair enough. Now where the fuck can I hear “There’s some guys that like little breasts and there’s some guys who like big breasts” (courtesy of the T3 DVD commentary) slurred over Mystikal’s “Shake Ya Ass”? (Brief digression: In the most underreported bombshell of 2004 so far, Mystikal just got slapped with six years in the “slammer” for sexual battery, which officially vaults “Shake”check the rhymes at www.ohhla.com/anonymous/mystikal/ready/shake_ya.mys.txtup to Second Creepiest Yet Somehow Still Totally Krunk Booty Jam Ever status, right behind R. Kelly’s “Ignition Remix.”)

Yeah, Dean’s bloodletting has my official Darkness codpiece in a twist, not because I’m necessarily a Dem or even a regular voter or even remotely conscientious about the long- or short-term future of my country, but because I’ve been a little sensitive to meanies lately. Not nearly as brief a digression: Did I ever tell you about the time I contracted terminal breast cancer? Oh, yeah, I’ve left that one off the table ’cause I probably don’t have it, although I’ve recently been diagnosed with a little Halloween-sized Snickers bar that we in the biz like to call gynomastia, i.e., something in between “glandular male breast enlargement” and what Chuck Palahniuk introduced us to via Fight Club as “bitch tits.” Again, this is probably not remotely fatal, but kind of, um, embarrassing and gross and stuff, and has had me considering, um, mortality and stuff. Not so much in a “what has my life, or life in general, really meant” way, but in a “what bands could I get to play a kick-ass ‘Ready to Die’ party if I croak” way.

I’m thinking about this because, since I see these guys around town a lot and they don’t appear to openly detest me, it’d be the perfect excuse for Botch to reunite. I encourage anyone with a legitimate terminal illness to use the sympathy thang and compel another long defunct, preferably gnarly band to break off “one last show.” For the kids, you know? (Drive Like Jehu would be a decent co-headliner, although for some reason I never see those dudes on Pine.) Hell, if I really were to put the “death” in Death by Mixtape, I could drain my checking account and pay C + C Music Factory to reconvene and play “Things That Make You Go ‘Hmmmm'” in my basement, naked, while my friends throw lunch meat at them, Backstage Sluts 2-style.

Unfortunately, gynomastia is as gynomastia does, and you’ll probably have old Nixon to kick around for at least a little while longer, unless one of the many Clevelanders who want blood in the wake of my bitter Seattle Rocks, Seattle Rocks column a few weeks ago follows through on the proposal of “a severe beating” or “kicking [my] teeth in.” Geez, bitterly eviscerate the largest metropolitan area closest to your hometown and suddenly you’re a “metrosexual cunt.” (Actually, I think that was a compliment.) As long as I don’t have a debilitating infirmity to foist upon the less complimentary element of the readership, I’m wide open to these nasty ol’ feelings-hurting personal attacks. Life sucks!

Howard and I see eye to eye on this. We’re gonna start a band once this primary thing is over. Um, he can do vocals.

Send news, rumors, and unsubstantiated, feckless dirt to abonazelli@seattleweekly.com