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"She's the kind of girl you take home to meet your parents when your parents ain't home." -- My father, Eugene Dion, who probably heard somebody say it in a bar.

Oh, Lauren Boebert, R-Back Row, The Prairie Rose, blushing first flower of spring in the Colorado mountains, a flower drooping under the weight of a holstered pistol.

Lauren, who once owned a bar called "Shooters" because what the hell would you expect?

High school dropout, lover of the Jesus who blesseth both the AR-15 and the back-alley abortion, pin-up girl of the heavily armed and lightly educated.

How much do I love her?

Well, when I read of her gropery in a Denver theater, my first text to a colleague was so obscene that I deleted it and then left the room in shame.

If that's not love, I don't know what is, Praise Jesus!

In the spritely, high-caliber Lauren Boebert, I find the dreams of my youth and the reality of my 30s, when every girl I dated had an active restraining order, an open unemployment claim and a willingness to help fill in the dull parts of any theatrical performance.

Yes, when I went to a party, my date's hair always smelled like weed.

I've been writing, mostly about politics, for about 30 years, and it grinds a man down. Who can be an outlaw when, once a week, seriousness becomes his business and an editor waits out on the coast?

But Lauren is IN politics, and so is the perfect union of salacious and serious. Well, a lot of her opinions can't be taken too seriously, not until you realize she is the actual, by God, U.S. representative for Colorado's 3rd (and hopefully last) Congressional District. It's one thing to believe a bunch of weirdness. It's another thing to be able to vote the weirdness into law.

She is just another of the political toadstools growing out of the rotting corpse of the Republican Party now that it's no longer a real political party but just a convenient way for inexperienced, uneducated hustlers to get elected to offices whose duties they don't understand.

If you can get to your feet, pump one fist in the air and shout "Guns!" or "Gays!" you are now part of the Republican Party's super-American thought machine. The only thing you have to remember is to smile like an idiot when you shout "Guns!" and drool like a werewolf when you shout "Gays!" Everything else is weakness or flip-flopping or communist or socialist or race theory of the most critical kind.

And even as she pats her boyfriend down in a theater to see where he put the ticket stubs, even as he unbuttons her blouse to find the Skittles she said she'd bring from home, even then, Lauren is thinking about how to overthrow Colorado's liberal abortion laws and how to keep gussied-up drag queens from publicly reading filth like "Bobby the Bunny Likes Girl Clothes."

The children! The bunnies! Oh, the humanity! Kiss me hard!

To find out more about Marc Munroe Dion, and read features by Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit www.creators.com. Dion's latest book, a collection of his best columns, is called "Devil's Elbow: Dancing in the Ashes of America." It is available in paperback from Amazon.com, and for Nook, Kindle, and iBooks.