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Column Right
Wife Swap, Part Two
by Jolene Fystenbutt
October 15, 2004

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Remember when I said I wanted to devote my considerable talents to producing (and starring in) my own version of  “Wife Swap”? Many of you wrote in to say, “Jolene, as much as I support you, don't you think you should be using your immense talents towards something more useful than creating your own Christian based reality show based on “Wife Swap”?  After all, our nation is under attack by foreign Saddam loyalists who hate our freedoms. The terrorists who resist our attempts to democratize that worthless patch of sand covering our precious oil over there in Iraq are now plotting to remove our President and Commander-in-Chief with “elections” here at home. Jolene, shouldn't you be out there, setting fire to voting signs and making sure the unborn have a say in who's going to lead this great nation of ours?  “Parlez-vous my French” but I think you have your priorities all screwed up.  Do you really want to wake up in January and discover that the Pledge of Allegiance has been replaced with the Pledge to Jane Fonda?

Believe it or not, I have thought about it.  And the more I think about it, the more I realize how important it is to give the terrorists a little taste of reality, American style.  And if I bowed out now, it would just mean that the terrorists have won.  As head of the Homeowner's Association in our enviably upscale neighborhood, I can assure you that the “Clash of Civilizations” is something I'm up against everyday when I'm forced to take steps to preserve property values in our tolerant Christian community.  Lord knows, how many times I've come up against hostile resistance from those who would hang their unmentionables outside to dry, or loiter about their lawns with Mariachi music blasting nearby on a stolen boom box.  Just because it's never happened, doesn't mean it won't.  Let me just say, that as a firm believer in the doctrine of pre-emptive strike, anyone expecting to turn our streets into some Third World version of the “old country,” will “clash” with me and the itchy trigger of my pearl handled Magnum .357.

Still, if you don't believe me, just ask my husband Hamm, who says all my “yakkety-yakking about sh*t I don't know f**k all about,” keeps him up at night.  And that's why he's taken to doing his thinking at highway rest stops until the wee hours -- so he's not tempted to drive his fist through my “squawking pie hole.” In case you're thinking that Hamm is anything less than a gentleman, let me tell you, Hamm has a heart almost as big as this great country of ours.  Gosh, I don't think there's a flag big enough to wrap around it.  Why, just the other day, in fact, I was cleaning condom wrappers and empty beer cans out of the car when Hamm got back from one of his midnight thinking sessions. I'm ashamed to admit, while I'm tossing and turning on our adjustable, orthopedic queen-sized Beauty Rest mattress, fretting about the future of this great country of ours, that dear, sweet, selfless man is out there, giving the litter bugs something to lose sleep over. 

Hamm is a modest man, so he gets annoyed when I bring up the subject of his heroism and he especially doesn't like me to mention the time his charity work landed him in lock-up on wrongful charges of “solicitation.”  Goodness, I still don't see how the arresting officers came up with that one.  After all, it was a boy he was trying to get into the car with him when they snapped handcuffs on him -- a boy no older than Hamm Jr. is now.  It seems the uniformed heroes of our local police department weren't used to good Samaritans anonymously patrolling the streets, making sure that our young people were aware of the dangers of staying out past curfew.

Anyhoo, after making the decision to go ahead with my “wife swap” show, I turned to the only person I knew who could help me pull it off.  Of course you know I'm talking about the right Reverend Randy Shepherd, the pastor of our church and my long time friend and confidante. It was him I turned to when I discovered our twelve year old daughter Misty had been tunneling into the open sores on her cigarette burned forearms with the sharpened ends of my mascara wands.  Whatever he said seems to have worked: she now uses her own mascara. 

Well, as providence would have it, Rev. Shepherd's wife Dottie had up and left him that very morning, leaving the poor Reverend to raise their two adorable, recently adopted Thai-nese daughters, “Poon” and “Tang”* without the benefit of a Christian woman's guiding hand.  Forgive me for sounding a tad uncharitable, but I can't say that the Reverend Shepherd is any worse off without her. I, for the life of me, could never understand what this charismatic and virile man was doing with a woman who invited comparisons to a homeless version of Barbara Bush.  On more than one occasion, the police have been called in to pull her out of a dumpster, duct-taped and unconscious, with her own, queen-sized, control top pantyhose wrapped around her neck.  I'm afraid she's someone who'll do anything for attention.

So it was decided that I would “swap” places with Dottie while Hamm found his own temporary “spouse” to unsuccessfully fill my size 12 shoes. As luck would have it, Hamm, ever mindful of our sacred vows, used this opportunity to “swap” me with a troubled youth he had found loitering outside the Greyhound station.  Unfortunately, all the footage of Hamm and his boy bride, “Cooter” Ray* have been seized by the FBI for obvious political reasons. (I urge you to contact your local Congressman and demand it be returned to its rightful owner, Jolene Fystenbutt Productions, and send your tax deductible donations to the Hamm Fystenbutt Freedom Fund).  And whoever spray-painted, “Keep your fyst outta my kid's butt” on our heirloom Confederate flag, I promise you, I will hunt you down and bring you to justice faster than you can say, “Gitmo”. 

As for me, I spent less than 24 hours at the Reverend Shepherd's palatial home, where I quickly got down to work burning Dottie's frumpy, moth ridden house dresses, and scrubbing the stubborn, rust colored splatters off the tiles in the Master bathroom.  I had to call in our own housekeeper Consuela to re-grout the entire shower area since my manicurist strictly forbids me from lifting a finger for anything more labor intensive than turning on a light switch.

I'm sad to say Reverend Randy barely acknowledged all my hard work. He spent the afternoon digging in the cellar, mumbling something about me minding my own “g**d***ed business,” before he threw me into the hole as well.  Leaving Consuela to the re-grouting, I thought I'd use the time to acquaint myself with “Poon” and “Tang” who for some reason, stayed huddled together in their room, clearly ungrateful for the blessings that had been bestowed upon them by the good Reverend. Lord knows what kind of life he rescued them from. If I could speak Thai-nese, I would have told them how lucky they were to be living with this fine man in his beautiful home rather than some rat-infested sewer, clogged with the tiny corpses of girl babies just like them.

With the camera rolling, we formed a circle and closed our eyes in silent prayer.  When I finished telling them about God's glorious kingdom, which looked something like the campus of Bob Jones University as painted by the fine craftsmen of Franklin Mint, I opened my eyes only to discover the little tramps had wriggled out of their restraints and escaped. Rumor has it they made a tearful and joyous reunion with their family in New Jersey.  I say “good riddance” to both of them, although Reverend Randy obviously took a different view.  He chased me out of the house with a fire poker before hanging himself in his newly grouted shower stall. 

Unfortunately, things didn't fare much better at home.  For some reason, the locks have all been changed, and someone turns on the sprinklers every time I try to climb over the barb-wired fence.  All my attempts to communicate with the kids are met with a blast of Mariachi music, and a fresh barrage of Dobermans.  The nanny-cam is still hooked up to my cell phone so I know Consuela is in there as well, taking long, luxurious bubble baths and ordering the kids around, who don't seem to mind in the least. Still, I'm hopeful.  Why, just today Misty responded to one of my desperate, rambling text messages with one of her own:  “Get Bent.”  Call it a “mexed missage” if you like, but if that's not a sign from God himself, I'll poke my eyes out with the pointy end of my mascara wand.

(AP) The FOX network announced today that it would debut its highly anticipated reality series, “Porch Mom” on November 2nd, the night of the US Presidential elections.  The move was announced by Homeland Security director and recently appointed FOX Executive programming director Tom Ridge.  “Since we all know who's going to win the election, we decided live coverage of the event was a bit redundant and not in the best interests of our viewers.  We plan to broadcast all ten episodes of ‘Porch Mom’ instead.” The series revolves around beleaguered homemaker Jolene Fystenbutt, who has taken up residence on her own porch.  Each episode highlights her attempts to regain custody of her million-dollar home and her three children, who have barricaded themselves inside with the family's Mexican born housekeeper.  The actress Jane Fonda is rumored to be negotiating with Mel Gibson's Icon Productions to play Mrs. Fystenbutt in a feature length version tentatively titled, “The Passion of the Porch Mom.”

*Some of the names here have been changed for reasons of privacy.

Jolene Fistynbutt is a renowned Christian commentator and self-described Security Mom. Dissident Voice, in its efforts at fair and balanced reporting, is proud to include her token voice to these pages. Ms. Fistynbutt can be reached at:

Other Deliverances of His Word by Jolene Fystenbutt

* Wife Swap: Bitch Slapping the Liberal Media, Part One
* A Real American Boy Hero Weighs in on the Debate