Hello. I am Betsy Roth. My picture is above. I row every morning before tea. No, not Betsy Ross. ROTH! Betsy Ross has been dead a good ten years. Even in death she steals my thunder, it’s very irritating. I’ve been invited here by Sweet Mother. Below are my thoughts.
On Whitney Houston’s death:
What? Whitney is dead and Bobby Brown is still alive?! God, you make some interesting choices. And by interesting, I mean wrong. And tell that Bobbi Kristina to fix the gap in her teeth. She looks too much like him.
On the Susan Komen, Planned Parenthood scandal:
Wait, you mean it’s legal somewhere for a woman to do away with an unwanted child? I have 12 unwanted children. They’ve put me in an early grave. Can you abort a full grown child? What about a husband?
On a certain reality show:
So, these Jersey Shore members, they are explorers, yes? They explore the shorelines of the new world? No? Well, then what do they do? What do you mean no one knows? Tanning? Do you mean they process animal skins? No? Oh, my head hurts. Thank god I’m rowing this boat to take my mind off of it.
On Sarah Palin’s last presidential run:
She’s from Alaska? Do you mean Siberia South? Ok, Siberia far-east. Well, I don’t have a compass. Does she know she can’t vote? What’s the point of her running if she can’t vote?
Why is that chinaman throwing a watermelon into a peach basket? Taiwan? Racist? There are races? Do you mean like three legged races?
On Mitt Romney:
Mormon? A religion? The only religions I know of are the Presbyterians, Protestants, and the Catholics. The doctrine fell from the sky in upstate New York? Was the founder an indian? Well, I’ve only ever seen indians up there. I quite like them. They’re the reason I make a mean popcorn.
After watching Anderson Cooper on an iphone:
Your pocket-watch tablet is talking. It’s a phone? What’s a phone? You mean, like a talking letter? That fellow there? He looks like a dandy. No, we have one in town, John Adams, like the president – he wears his knickers too tight and he prefers the company of men. No, I don’t mind him. He makes a wonderful moonshine out of cornmeal. He calls it Sam Adams, after his son.
Well, I must go now. After all, I’m long dead and the b*tch behind me is hardly rowing at all. Yes, we’ll talk again soon. I’ve enjoyed it also. Toodle-oo.