Sometimes, I wish I were Catholic / I dunno why”
-David Lowery of Cracker
Nice try, Dave. I know why- at least for myself, anyway. See, the idea of self-sacrifice, though usually repellent to rock stars such as ourselves, and especially non-denominational ones like me, is becoming unusually attractive to me in this, the Foul Year Of Our Lord 2008. Don’t laugh- it’s true. Mocking my newfound convictions will only make them stronger, but fire away if you must, because I’ve come to believe that the best offense is a solid defense, especially during the unbearable stretch from the Super Bowl to baseball’s Spring Training. But never mind all that. What I really wanted to talk about, before that ridiculous tangent, was Giving It All Up. So indulge me, because if you don’t I’ll indulge myself anyway, albeit perhaps for the final time.
So what the hell? Let’s just say it: By the time the polls close tomorrow, Keir DuBois will be going off the political websites, cold turkey, until perhaps November. “Oh sure,” you say, “Just like the last time you tried, dumbass?” To which I reply, “Well, I’ll have to, won’t I, if I want to figuratively participate in this idea the Catholics call “Lent.” It’s too hard on the ticker these days- all these crashing waves of abject stupidity rolling across the land. I’ve tried before, of course, but if I can’t hack it even now, well, that’s just tough tacos, isn’t it? When I come back to politics, you won’t recognize me. I’ll be even cooler, prettier, and dumber than before. Just you wait. It won’t even be that long.
“But why, Keir, why?” clamor my three lonely fans, huddled together against the cold winds of February. Why? Because it was there, that’s why. Because I can. If it was good enough for Bill Clinton, it should be good enough for anyone, and there’s an appropriately not-so-slim, coronary-risking chance that The Syphilitic One will be back in the Big House again, whooping it up on his wife’s dime, this time with feeling, baby. On the one hand, it makes me giddy with anticipation- recalling the virulent, vicious hijinks of my political youth in that Wild Party for Rich Kids known as the 1990s. Thatcher 2.0 and her acid-addled Prince Phillip will no doubt inspire me to newfound feats of lyrical and musical poetry, and it may even be worth it.
On the other hand, it makes me cringe with overcompensatorily mature shame, because the return of Clintonism heralds the return of the DLC. Those initials, of course, stand for Debilitating Losers Central, stand for victories that would make even Pyrrhus weep with naked envy, stand for all those things that rile up those of us web-heads that Brian Williams, in a fit of slobbering hubris, forever christened “Vinny.” And screw Brian Williams, by the way. Cronkite and Rudd would have taken the switchgrass to him long ago. Now alas, they are as old and irrelevant as the Fairness Doctrine. Jeez, let’s get control of this bastard. Any more stupid digressions and the hipsters will stomp even harder on my virtual grave.
Right, and that’s where John Edwards came in. Oh yes, Mr. Jermack Bouceback himself. Johnny would have had my vote if he had the stones to at least give me the option to vote for him, if he could have stuck it out until tomorrow…but as many more important pseudo-pundits have said, perhaps that was his plan all along, the sneaky little weasel. John, I liked you- or rather, the you that you desperately wished us to believe you really were- but obviously none of that matters now, because, after due discussion with the rest of my family who will even bother to vote this year, our choice is now embarrassingly easy. Yep, even the Baby-Boomer Women that raised me to be the arrogant ass that I am today. I ignored their jibes in 2000, I and my brother alike, and we have paid for that mistake for eight long, desolate years.
So, tomorrow evening after work, against my better judgment, and because all the other young- and wish-they-were-young peeps will be doing so, I shall take my useless Permanent Absentee Ballot over to the incongruous trailer park across the way and cast my California Primary vote for Barack Obama, instead of a silly protest vote for Johnny or Dennis the Menace or Mike or Ralph or Ronnie Paul or any of those crazed, rabid badgers running as Republicans. I will buy the entire Manilow and Celine Dion catalogues before defiling myself to that degree. I will vote for Barack Obama knowing that if he wins, now and again in November, he will waltz in like JFK and stagger out, after only one term, as Jimmy the Carter, Mark II. The Stagflation Economy Beast will have its way with ol’ Barry, even and especially if he’s able to bury all those chickenshit bigots across This Greedy Land Of Ours.
And after that? Who knows. I’ve got shit to do, man. Self-promoting aggrandizement may not be a new trick for this raging egomaniac, but after all, it’s the American Way. Many- nay, most of the guillotine-wielding freaks of the political web, do the Robespierre thing much better than I do, and who am I to stand in their way? Indeed. Fly those freaky flags high, punks. I’m right behind you, until the day that I’m suddenly not. See you all after the Resurrection. Or Restoration. Or whatever the hell the kids are calling it these days. Mahalo.
