Stop That Girl by Elizabeth McKenzie

REVIEW: Stop those similes.

PHONE: “Is Mr. Champion there?”

ME: “Who may I ask is calling?”

PHONE: “I’m from the Republican National Committee. Do you have a few moments of time?”

ME: “How did you get my name?”

PHONE: “Are you a Republican?”

ME: “I asked you a question first. How did you get my name?”

PHONE: “Are you a Republican?”

ME: “Wow, you’re a one-trick pony. Look, I’d like you to take my name off your list and never call me again.”

PHONE: “Sure. Obviously, you’re a Repubican.”

ME: “What makes you say that?”

PHONE: “Obviously, you’re a Republican.”

ME: “If you say so…” (hangs up)

Like 99.99% of the blogosphere, I’m white and I’m male. Sometimes, I get an erection. In fact, it’s safe to say that writing long libertarian screeds on copyright and the horrors of government regulation (get off my lawn, G-men!) gets me hotter and friskier than the Jenna Jameson videos I rent from the video store (also white, also male, also libertarian, but perhaps a scad dirtier).

Why, if it weren’t for the power of the blogosphere (which is more truthful than those Communists writing for the New York Times), it’s safe to say that I’d be giving speeches at my local Rotary International chapter about the Important Issues of Our Time and inviting other white men for cocktails at the Elks Lodge to discuss the merits of how to wiggle out of paying too much capital gains tax. (Damn government!) Some of you fools in the peanut gallery haven’t lived until you’ve spent six hours of your life figuring out legitimate ways to trademark the crack of your ass. And, by golly, you’ll find my asscrack on file in the U.S. Patents and Trademarks Office. Why? Because that’s what America is all about!

We practice actual journalism out here in the blogosphere. We’ve sent our people out to the conventions to sit around and do nothing. What more do you want of us?

If these pesky minorities or those cute little intellectual chicks actually wanted to blog, then by the Good Grace of God, they’d be doing it! If the impoverished masses actually cared enough about their opinions, then they’d quit one of their two jobs at Starbuck’s and climb into the saddle, riding out the magic with other good Americans.

And if they cared enough about popularity, then they’d be ingratiating themselves with the likes of Jeff Jarvis and Glenn Reynolds, aping every opinion with the gusto of a Trekkie fawning over Leonard Nimoy. If they knew what was good for them, they’d spend all of their spare time tying the Number of the Beast to Dan Rather.

I may not read blogs that disagree with me, largely because my guidance counselor has suggested it might spike my blood presure. The last thing anyone needs in this golden age is differing opinions. But out here in the electronic frontier, we’re creating a democratic elite. The kind of sensible realm ruled by white males who all agree with each other. So why won’t you put away your silly Noam Chomsky books and join us?

I wish to apologize for my speech this morning at SXSW. Had I known that my revelations would send shockwaves through the weblogging commnity, I would have, of course, been honest and forthright about the night I spent with Nicolette Sheridan playing touch football and the resultant FCC investigations.

But no matter. Now that you all know that Dr. Mabuse is an online persona that I adopted out of manic depression and that Edward Champion does not in fact exist, now that you know that Champion was modeled after an autistic cabana boy who spent twelve years of his life trying to read William Gaddis’ The Recognitions, only to die at the age of thirty-one while cleaning an Olympic-sized swimming pool with a small toilet brush, I realize that I will have to return my Bloggie Award for Lifetime Achievement While Staring at a Laptop.

I can accept this. I am a prevaricator and a married woman. I have deceived you. And I say again, without a jot of guilt, that I am, in fact, Ayelet Waldman and have been engaged in morose thoughts since 1995.

All this time, I thought I could make a solid living writing Mommy-Track Mysteries and have a quiet life of privilege contemplating the benefits of muesli. But when I started this blog and the other one, I got a little carried away. I couldn’t stop describing how good the sex was with Michael every time he came home from writing a comic book movie. You would too if you saw how nice his ass was. I think we can all agree that Pulitzer Prize winners, particularly ones that you’re married to, can make anyone feel all tingly.

Hopefully, this does not mean the end of Return of the Reluctant. My therapist has suggested that turning this weblog over to the Unitarian Universalists is a start. Dennis, a suicidal young man who first saw God in a pastrami sandwich, has agreed to step in as we all come to terms with the disturbing truth. I hope you can all invite Dennis into your lives as readily as you accepted “Dr. Mabuse.”