By Bob Lancaster

Ex-Bro.-ex-Gov. Mike Huckabee, the Florida TV entertainer, was said last week to be icked out by some of the icky things that gay people do with their icky things.

I'm icked out by some of that, too.

And by some of the icky things that straight people do with their icky things. And bi people with theirs. And transies with theirs, before and after.

And double-jointed people. And lepers. And teen-agers. And drunks. It icks me out so bad when a drunk throws up on me that I almost want to go home and change clothes.

Make no mistake, as President Obama is always saying: I wouldn't want either straight or gay people jailed or deported or branded or infected with deadly diseases or forced into tragic-for-all-concerned parenthood because of their sometimes icky behavior. Just don't think you have to keep me up to date on the icky details. Don't feel like you have to share pictures or descriptions without express written consent.

Because I'm pretty easily icked out, and it's not one of my favorite things to be. It's not as bad as being kicked in the haunch with a hobnailed boot, but it's bad enough.

Quite a few things that the Ex.-Bro.-Ex.-Gov. does ick me out. And I don't just mean palling around with icky toesuckers like Dick Morris. Or his icky attraction to old-style pulpit humor that features farm animals screwing, or someone stepping in ca-ca, or someone else's richard going flaccid at just the notion of making out with Nancy Pelosi or Helen Thomas. Or his old Velveeta preoccupation, and all the icky Freudian implications of that.

Every one of his books that I read icked me out, each in a different way. Just the icky title of one of them was sufficient, I remember. And the shoddy binding of another. No prob with treatment or subject matter because predictable ick is tolerable ick. True ick requires at least a small element of surprise.

And so on. Just one ick after another with him, and they nearly all get back to the endless self-promotion and self-exalting of the most self-centered, self-righteous, self-absorbed public person of this epoch, who came to prominence as advocate of a faith whose very first order of business is self-denial. That kind of irony plays whaley on my ick hackles. Keeps me awake nights. Or used to. Some nights. Not so much anymore, I guess.

BTW, I don't give credence to the rumor that sometimes after turning out the lights and pissing on the fire he and Glenn Beck go behind the set and give each other noogies. Even if they did, it wouldn't qualify as icky, at least by my standard. It might if Greta Van Susteren got involved, but then again it might not. Greta doesn't need horseplay to conjure ick. It pretty much follows her around.

I don't mean to pick on the ex-ex, as there's no shortage out there of purveyors or curators or haberdashers of ick.

Case in point. On TV just now slimy old Pat Robertson advising matrons on how to recapture the lifted brows of their geezer mates who have gone to hitting on jailbait wait staff. If that doesn't ick you out, you might need new icker AA's.

There's something ineffably icky about pop-'em-out Duggary.

Zombies ick me out, but I guess that's what zombies do. They don't do anything else as far as I can see. I've never heard of one of them bowling or training for a place on an Olympics gymnastic team.

Coprophagy icks me out, and I'm really icked having just looked in on an Internet gathering of practitioners, who range from defensive to enthusiastic, and who number in their pantheon two big-name yesteryear movie stars and one of the giants of early TV comedy, none of whom ever uncloseted, or unwatercloseted, you might say in this context, as far as I know.

This is no precinct in which to dawdle, however — ick your ick and move along, as ol' Virg was always prompting popeyed Danny. The shades farther along might have Parmesan breath but that has to be an improvement.

It icks me out every time to see the clip of Rush Limbaugh doing the Watusi with his big old boobs flopping.

People ick me out who reek as Marilyn Monroe was said to, who apparently never in her life made even an across-the-room acquaintance with a tub of Mum.

I can't explain it but Jennings Osborne's Christmas-lights extravaganza always icked me out. Glen Campbell's DUI mug shot. Death Row groupies. Boiled okra. Parrots. The notion that his Peyronie's might have had Bubba meeting himself coming and going. On the other hand, I actually liked the Icky Shuffle, so you never know.

And I really need to sell those goats, the milking having become such an icky daily hassle.

The worst ick I know: one-ply TP.

Ick of the week last week was the local icky entertainment columnist using her local entertainment column to celebrate having safely escaped from a creepy Internet liaison with an apparent aspiring Mr. Goodbar. Reminded me of the old joke with this punchline: "I'm not sure I would've told that, brother." Like most experiences involving ick, most appreciated unshared.


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