Kuala Lumpur welcomed Condi with open arms, and in return, she made them cry, she made them hear, she made them feel. A lot of people have not-very-nice things to say about Condi, and they’re all true – the donkey show in Tijuana, the coke races in Colombia, the all-night slogging fest with the Minutemen (“Now I know why they’re called MINUTEMEN“, she quipped. “They only last a minute!” I was tempted to remind her of the old ‘if you have to explain it, it’s not funny’ adage, but I let it slide, cuz you don’t want to get on her bad side, and believe me, Buster, both of her sides are BAD!) – but I have to say, after the weekend getaway we shared on a little tourist-free compound near Shanghai (she can drive a rickshaw like nobody’s beeswax!), I had a new-found respect for her that I just can’t shake. I’m sorry, I tried, but I can’t. I just can’t. She’s my homegirl.

Her performance at the Asian security talks just has to go better than Colin Powell‘s Village People lampoon last year. YMCA? No thank you, I bathe alone, especially around men named “colon.” But, she was still nervous, I could feel it. “Fluffy Cotton Condi,” I said, calling her by my pet name for her, “What exactly are you worried about? Remember Colin last year?” She giggled again. “Yeah, what a fag-” she misspoke, quickly correcting herself, “-gettable purfowmance,” faking a heavy and poorly orchestrated East Coast accent.

Knock ‘em dead, Condles. Go out with a bang!