Should All "Citizen Journalists" Simply Be Euthanized, Or Like Only Around Half Of Us?

I ask because I listened to this Nutroots idiot badgering James O'Keefe, with that voice and improperly deployed sarcastic whines and I despair of being part of this gruesome parade of attention whores.

Is this what I shall become?

Is this what I already am?!?

And the thing of it is, she uploaded this and presented it as something which, in her opinion, other people should watch.

I wouldn't have uploaded this. First, I would have observed my screeching-rat voice recalls Winston Churchill's retort, "And if I were your husband, madame, I should drink it."

I would then have undertaken a regimen of behavioral therapy to cure me of my neurotic flights into diamond-cracking agitation.

I would then talk to my friends to see how many times per day I manage the odd and off-putting combination of anger combined with superciliousness combined with whining. Dear Lord in Heaven, the whining.

Then I would conclude that I had also gotten no usable footage from this asinine exercise, and simply record something better over it, like, for example, Christina Aguilera's chubby-girl cleavage on The Voice. I would exercise a tiny amount of editorial judgment that an interview in which the interviewee confesses no fault, and also does not offer any indica of guilt like stammering, or evasiveness, or anger, but rather spends his time smugly mocking my desperation and erratic ability to control my emotions, is simply a failed interview attempt.

And I would decide that I should not magnify and amplify my own waste of fifteen minutes of my life by inviting unsuspecting innocent third parties to waste fifteen minutes of their lives watching video evidence of my failure.

This is what I would take away from this.

I would not be like that endless parade of Wannabe Internet Superstars on YouTube who think that everyone wants to see their own "kooky" rendition of Rebecca Black's Friday where they all wear funny hats and unfashionable ties and sing into overturned tennis rackets, because, ha-ha, see, it's a microphone, but it's really not.

Then, having done all that, I would go out to the garage, jam towels beneath the door to create a seal, turn the car on, and sink into the euphoric haze of cyanosis while drinking a coconut daquiri and listening to "Thunder Island" so I could at least pretend I was going out in a cool way, like blowing my head off in the Florida Keys, Hemingway-style. And Wikipedia seems to be telling me he did that in Idaho, but that's no fun.

I want to go out like in a Corona commercial. When I punch my own ticket, I want to be wearing some Jimmy Buffet-themed clothing or something, or at least I want to pretend I am.

Oh Lord: There's a reassuring thing about discovering someone is a multiple-offense asshole. Because then you realize that where before you thought you had two assholes, turns out, nope, just the one.

This always pleases me about life, when God grants me the gift of reducing my count of assholes.

So... just the one, then. Not two, but one.

Thanks to Joanie. But I'm still revving up the car.

Sing sha-la-la-la-la...

Your Poopies

Not all of them are fit for public adoration. In fact, probably only 10% of your poopies are so fit for public adoration. Maybe even less. Maybe like 8% of poopies.

posted by Ace at 08:42 PM

| Access Comments