So much for “Kum Ba Yah.” My affinity for spreading goodwill poppycock and hopeful hooey has officially gone the way of jobs in this country. So long, I say, to the days of slowing on the freeway to politely let a Mustang-driving, non-indicating co-ed with French tips cut me off simply because I'm inspired to be better than I really am. Screw it.
I'm not better. I'm small, and I'm angry. Bitch can get in line!
But it's not so much that I'm angry as it is that I'm psychotic—not unlike the chick who nearly ran me off the road the other day, which was probably why we got into our screaming match. Through closed windows. At 65 mph. I want to think this woman was listening to the same story on NPR about the Yes on 8ers suing to keep their campaign contributions private (cowards) and that indignant outrage blocked her blind-spot. It's more likely she was listening to Keith Urban on KSON, a nearly as forgivable explanation for her unbecoming behavior.
I've been on a ballistic tear for the last week. In one 36-hour period, I went from ecstatic to exasperated more times than a 3-year-old whose parent caves to the french fries but holds the line against dessert. I'm certain that the never-ending, modern-day news cycle is detrimental to one's health. It should probably have the Surgeon General's warning on it. Last week alone was so deadly, it should be offered on the menu at The Heart Attack Grill.
On the other side of the world, a man in a fancy dress and Prada shoes un-excommunicated a bishop who denies the existence of the Holocaust, a shocking move coming from the kind of upstanding organization that enables and excuses pedophilia.
Here at home, one of that organization's members—a vile woman famous for her stint on a reality show, who now shrieks from a pulpit called The View—smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand last week. Golly gee whiz, I di'unt know I was pregnant again! Silly girl thought she was suffering from something called “electionitis.”
Unfortunately for the planet, there is no inflammation of her election. Rather, she and her footballer husband will be bringing their third little Republican into the world come August. People: We need to make like the Kucha tribe and vote her off the island.
My head was already doing that crazy Linda Blair thing when I read about the financially bankrupt mother of six giving birth to eight more
puppies children. Too many expletives exploded in my brain at this one, but on behalf of the 800,000 children in foster care, I'd like to extend my heartfelt, curse-free congratulations. I'd also like to point out that we don't need funding for family planning in the stimulus bill; what we need is funding for stupid-people lobotomies, and the first beneficent should be the doctor who implanted a dodge-ball team's worth of embryos.
The mental fireworks display continued as I learned that U.S. automakers—the ones who just absconded with my great-great-grandchild's college fund—are suing the government over the proposed increase in emissions standards; that the USDA is now headed by a disciple of Monsanto, the mega-corporation that is doing evil, horrid things to our food; and that California is facing a drought of historic proportions.
I did have two tiny reprieves from stroking out altogether: Obama had to remind people that—hellooo?—he won (ha ha ha ha!), and then he gave a moving speech after signing the Lilly Ledbetter Act. In your face, Supreme Court! Alas, the mini-strokes resumed because even though Americans have ushered intelligence and reason into vogue, a New York madam connected to Eliot Spitzer was sentenced to jail time while the ex-gov gets off. Again. Yes, women can sue for disparity in pay, but we still make 75 cents on the dollar to our male counterparts and the johns still walk away.
Meanwhile, there's disgraced gay pastor Ted Haggard still living a lie. There's Blago and his hair and his uncomfortable goodbye. And then there are the Republicans. These dopes haven't missed a step in the race to re-brand their party. (To be fair, they deserve some credit: They've cornered the market on cynicism. I'm subsisting on crumbs, here—though I'm doing pretty well with the scraps, don't you think?) The GOP—God love 'em—they took Obama's talk of transparency to heart. They waved their magic wand, put on some blackface and look! Look at them! They're the picture of inclusiveness! Just like women who once supported Hillary ran to support the wolf slaughterer, so will black Americans flock to the Republican Party?
Mmm-hmm. Yeah. I don't know if they've heard the saying, but someone ought to tell them that you can't put makeup on a pig. Sure, they can dress it up, but their obstructionism speaks louder than does the visual of a black man at the helm.
The scales have tipped since the days following Jan. 20, 2009. That higher angel of mine has gone missing and is probably too afraid to come back. I'd like to say I'm going on a headline diet, that I'll take only small portions of HuffPo and Maddow, The DailyKos and The Daily Dish. I'd like to promise that when I get cravings, I'll binge on The Daily Puppy, but I'm more likely to sup on Fuck You, Penguin. The fact is, I hate diets and I'm a gluttonous wonk. I do promise to try to keep my rage in check. But just in case, I suggest you indicate when you decide to merge into my lane.