IRREVERENT Magazine - Features
Flog Your Blog
- Category: Some of the People
- Published on Monday, 13 November 2006 00:00
- Written by Tyrone Mercer
With the election safely behind us, and a rational system of divided government in place once again, my thoughts can turn away from a world in which I get paid for my work and toward a world in which there is no chance of getting a check whatsoever. Lucky you.
Now if you're waiting for scintillating analysis, cutting commentary, and insightful prediction about how the next two years are going to unfold, I'm afraid you're going to have to go read Sammon's column about his shrinking dick. A careful reading will tell you everything that Pelosi, Reid, and Bush are going to do to your pocket book between now and the time Iowa's Tom Vilsack becomes the next POTUS. The slogging will be hard, but, much like finding a vagina in the composition of Da Vinci's The Last Supper, or a Jew that Mel Gibson actually likes, the journey is more important than the destination.
So, no political insight, no great scam*, “Just what the fuck are you wasting our time with Mercer?” Well it's funny that you should say that. [That's good, something around this column should be funny.--Ed.] You see I woke up following an extensive round of post-election whoring and realized that what the Web TM was missing was a place for people to spew highly personal and self-reflective crap that nobody else could possibly care about. It seems to me that the time has come to create one. I mean it's all very fine and dandy to be able to watch funny little videos of dudes getting their nads kicked in, but if I want that I'll just tune into the NFL Network. No, what's needed is a place where one can log their feelings. A Feelings Log. A F-log.**
The F-log would work like this: You guys email us your rants, your eye-glazing posturing, your deepest most heartfelt inner thoughts and we'll review them and post them. What a Great Deal TM. You get a place to express yourself, and we get free and unique content. With sufficient donations, or purchases of IRREVERENT Merchandise, Scott may even allow you to post videos of you emoting to your little webcam. Just so you get an idea of what the vision is here, I'll go first.
This year my list of clients seeking either election, re-election, or young congressional pages was extensive. My crack staff of intern monkeys did yeoman service keeping most things running smoothly, but a couple of candidates required hands on attention. I won't talk about any names, hell I won't even identify the political parties involved. Let's just say that a bad muthafucka was needed and I had to be “the righteous man.” It's what I do, and why, when I'm not casting pearls around here, I make The Big Bucks TM. Unfortunately for me, steely eyed political operative that I am, I was about to be undone and forced to reckon with the idea that I do, indeed, give a shit.
The call came mid-September. The Candidate, who I stupidly had allowed too long a leash, decided that the battle for hearts and minds would be advanced if a -hunting he did go. Well so far so good, he was running in a relatively conservative, “Yoiks! And away!,” sort of district. No problems. Well none until he decided to “pull a Cheney”*** and shoot one of his hunting companions in the face. Sadly The Candidate didn't have any of the charm of The Veep**** and, especially sadly, this companion was one of the dogs, not a lawyer. Oh boy were we in trouble. Had I known how much worse it would get for me personally, the bastard would have found himself lonelier than a Sunni in the Mahdi Army.
I arrive on scene after catching a red eye from the coast where a certain stem cell loving governor owes me an attitude of gratitude. The time for damage control is nearly up, so we hastily call a press conference at the local animal rescue center. The advance team has already swept the area removing any small animals and their cages from the floor. The dude has size 15 boats and all of the grace of a Dancing with the Stars reject. We're already down one dog, I can't have him smearing Fluffy the Hamster like jelly all over the Florsheims. The press just wouldn't be good. And speaking of the press, there's an ungodly noise coming from one of the wings at the shelter. I open the door and greeting me are hundreds of tiny, squawking creatures. Had they not been so colorful, I would have thought CNN's crew had arrived. Instead I'm facing a bunch of parakeets that had been rescued from an abusive situation. One of them manages to escape its cage and lands on my shoulder. It walks up bold as brass and, there's no other word for it, kisses my cheek. To say it was charming would be like saying Monica Lewinsky was a hard working White House intern. At that very moment I become a sappy tearing crybaby unable to bear that thought that I simply couldn't take all of the birds home. To my chagrin, I'm suddenly unable to get through The Candidate's mea culpa presentation of a very large donation without breaking down like Edmund Muskie.*****.
Afterwards, I adopt my little friend, take him home, and let him run my life. He's a noisy little bastard, but not obnoxiously so. Hell, I've gotten more headaches watching Hannity & Colmes than I have from my parakeet. No the biggest drawback about this pet is that I'm occasionally seen actually weeping at all of those little manipulative ads that my staff turns out by the dozens. In fact late in the campaign season they started trying to out do each other making one that would turn on the waterworks. They lost interest when they found out how easy it was. Not that I care, I can still fire the fuckers if they slack off. Heaven help them if they even look crossways at me during a crying-jag. It's good to be the king.
Well that's my story. My F-log. A tale of feelings cast out into an unfeeling world. I don't know what the Internet TM is for if it isn't this kind of self-expressive naval gazing. Let's hear your story. Email it to me, just click on the “Contact Us” link. Hell do a good job and maybe you can make me cry like a little pussy. The gauntlet is thrown. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time to feed my bird.
Disclosure: In these post-James Frey days, when the line between memoir and fiction is fuzzier than the line between a male prostitute and an evangelical minister's massuer******, sometimes a writer's legal samurai will advise dropping in a little disclaimer. To that end I will confess that not all of the above account is true. What is true is that there's an animal rescue center sitting on about 200 parakeets and they really need some help. The other thing that's true is that budgies are messy, noisy, attention whores that, even if they were inclined to snuggle up to you, will shit on you when they do. For that reason please don't try to adopt one unless you're prepared for that sort of thing. Instead click this link and shoot the dudes 25 bucks. If you ain't got 25 smackers, then you really should re-evaluate where you are in life, stop reading this dreck, and get a real fucking job for a change. Hippie.
*After the last election there are no scams left.
**Yes, yes, very funny. Now take off the wrist cuffs and pay some fucking attention.
***No....he wasn't masturbating...that's “tugging a Dick”
****I know what you're thinking, but Kerry wasn't up for re-election this year.
*****If you don't know how to use wikipedia by now, I can't help you.
******I'm looking at you Ted Haggard.