I’ve spent the last week trying to figure out a way to make fun of “Scooter” Libby’s pardon, but beyond the obvious dick jokes (“Scooter Relieved by Bush, Illegal Immigrant Labor Mops Puddle”), I’ve come up snake eyes. Besides, the whole thing is so Goddamned shameful and work-a-day it’s almost pointless to mock.
Don’t look at me like that. Some shifty, corrupt douchebags acted like shifty, corrupt douchebags: where’s the gag? They do it every day, and you can’t make comedy out of the expected. The President also breathed oxygen; it’s not like you can turn that into Confederacy of Dunces, either (No one can; even that joke became old fifteen minutes after the President said, “Brownie.”). At this point, you couldn’t even get fresh humor out of this dingbat if he breathed a pretzel. He’d have to breathe methane and shit Cthulhus before I could do something new and fun, and even then, I’d just be back on the familiar ground of animal porn jokes.
(That said, I’ve already copyrighted and trademarked the term “Cthulhufucker,” so back off. I’m a forward thinker, and it’s probably the only way the Bush administration is gonna make me rich like they promised me back in ’99.)
Making fun of the President these days reminds me of when I was a DJ and I had to make jokes about Courtney Love; after a while, it’s the same joke but with different words (“Today I’ll say she exposed herself in exchange for a Marlboro Light! Tomorrow I’ll say she exposed herself in exchange for a Lucky Strike! Because it’s got two ‘k’ sounds!“). It’s one thing to crank that shit out when a media conglomerate’s paying you fifty bucks a joke, you’re on a ten new jokes in an hour deadline, and the alternative to failure is eviction and / or repossession. It’s quite another when the deadline is “when I feel like it” and you have a Web site audience to keep happy; after all, if I piss you guys off and you all show up here at once demanding a beer, I’ll only have 40 beers left until the liquor store opens tomorrow.
Besides, I’m easily distracted, so I got derailed when I found out that Al Gore’s kid got popped by the highway patrol.
It’s a classic story of juvenile deliquincy: a sneering kid from the good side of the tracks, wearing a black, high thread count Polo shirt, goes blasting down the highway in his Prius, horrifying passers-by with the inaudible hum of his clean electric engine, when the CHP roars up behind. After a stomach-churning chase of over 500 feet, the cops toss the car and find some unprescribed Adderall. Realizing the jig is up and he has nothing to lose, the young punk looks right in the face of the arresting officer and asks to call his daddy.
(Don’t panic: that horrible sound of water rushing underground isn’t the polar icecaps melting like Al Sr. said. It’s just Marlon Brando and Lee Marvin washing their hands of the American Rebel forever.)
The aftershock of Lil’ Al’s bust is that everyone’s talking about kids abusing prescription drugs. “Why is there so much Adderall in the schools?” the parents moan. Because you gave it to them when they got a D in American History 2. Hell, if the consequences for failing in high school was my parents buying me drugs, you’d be reading about how tired and pointless it feels me to make fun of robbing the elderly, or the bugs under my skin.
“But my child needs Adderall, because he has ADD!” No, he doesn’t. Trust me: there’s a non-medical reason your child can’t pay attention in class: high school is fucking boring.
In high school, the only thing you care about is trying to get laid. Which you would know if you had paid attention in high school biology instead of trying to figure out the logistics of how to fuck a roll of duct tape because the only high school girls who’ll even talk to a guy with a Batman t-shirt and a Monster Manual are the kind of girls you couldn’t sleep with except after ten beers, which no one would let me have.
(Yeah, I’ve got some old, festering high school issues, but I was in marching band, so quit fucking judging me.)
Hell, I have fond memories of high school, but they’re all memories of trying to get one of the majorettes to touch it in the back of the band bus. No one has treasured memories of diagramming sentences. It’s easy to be nostalgic for playing Hide The Salami; but not so much for playing Find The Gerund.
“But we didn’t abuse Adderall in MY day!” It’s because you didn’t have it. Hell, I didn’t have Adderall, but I had No-Doz, and I would eat about ten of those fuckers every day in fourth period study hall to get enough of a speedy, tingly buzz to get me through algebra without soiling my shorts against the desk leg.
We’re voluntarily raising a generation of upper-fanatics with mediocre grades, shitty attention spans, perpetual boners and an unhealthy fear of street drugs. Which is great news, because if modern history is any guide, the only way they’ll be able to find someone comparatively mediocre enough to the to be President of the United States will be to find a Cthulhufucker, which’ll net me enough dough to retire. And maybe expatriate.
[tags]Scooter Libby, President George W. Bush, Vice President Dick Cheney, Al Gore Jr., commutation, pardon, Adderall, high school, drug abuse, prescription drugs, dark humor[/tags]
