By CHRIS PACKHAM
Over my usual breakfast of coffee, Hydroxycut and a fistful of creatine powder, I learned that the Dow has jumped up 11 percent this week. So, the econocalypse is obviously over. You can all emerge from your underground armageddon shelters, y'all, it's totally starting to smell like a gym towel in there. I guess gym-towel-smelling Ayn Rand was right! Maybe we should start herding up all the poors and the olds, now, and sequestering them in "Happy Camps" on the outskirts of Enlightened Self-Interest. "Circle today as one of those days that the fundamental issues trumped panic and fear," says one fancy fucking know-it-all analyst. Meaning, "circle yesterday," he was totally talking about yesterday. The Dow is not the economy, though, just judging from my net worth, which tends not to fluctuate at all, so I'm still planning to celebrate a frugal Christmas festivus this year by giving all my friends URLs to funny websites as presents.
After the jump, some discussion of national politics and fun shows on the teevee. Click here or here:
Mark of the Beast, y'all: As the clock runs down on John McCain and his horrible Alaskan spouse — and I'm referring to the "election" clock, not the "mortality" kitty cat clock with the creepy eyes that move back and forth, counting down the days until the ends of McCain's DNA strands run out of precious telomeres — Barack Obama enters the competitive fray of prime-time broadcasting with a 30 minute infomercial broadcast on every channel in every household in the entire world and his birth cry will be the SOUND OF EVERY PHONE ON THIS PLANET RINGING IN UNISON, HE IS THE LAWNMOWER MAN, y'all.
Or the "Antichrist," according to conservative punditry and aficionados of the Dianetics of Christianity, The Bible, which is also kind of like The Lord of the Rings in terms of density, Peter Jackson-esque epic sweep and sheer unvarnished nerdism. I have to admit that as a born-again Christian eschatologist, I find apocalyptic political analysis totally compelling, y'all, and while we're on the subject, I've been looking for some new ways of warding off the "evil eye" when I'm walking down the street. If you know of any good countermeasures, please leave them in the comments. I'm particularly interested in methods of reflecting the "evil eye" right the fuck back on the bitch who tossed it, like some muthafuckin Kung Fu shit or something. According to the tenets of my crazy faith, a vote for Barack Obama is probably, like, a vote to re-crucify Christianity's L. Ron Hubbard, Jesus, so I'll be making up for it with some "tithing," whereby I give away candy to poor children who can't afford clothes and have to dress up like the Joker.
You gotta keep the devil way down in the hole: Massachussetts State Senator Dianne Wilkerson was secretly videotaped by the FBI stuffing bribe money into her bra back in 2007, HAHA! For a few months, I've been reading political news through the lens of The Wire, it's not TV, you guys, it's HB-fuckin-O. And with its charismatic but corrupt politician, East Coast urban setting and secret wiretap, this story feeds right into the game I play where I pretend I'm a character from the show, up to and including drinking until I vomit on the curb and also secretly buying a handgun totally unbeknownst to my girlfriend.
If I wore glasses, I would constantly be peering at people over the top of them with fatherly sarcasm just like Detective Freamon. On the show, Detectives McNulty and Bunk are always going down to the railyards late at night, drinking beer, and throwing bottles at boxcars. Just one more way in which my life is unsatisfactorily unlike The Wire.
One night, we were watching The Wire, and I turned to my girlfriend and said, "Why don't we ever go drink beer down in the railyards?" And she replied really slowly, the way a speech therapist would talk to a special-ed student, "Because. We. Don't. Have guns." I pointed out that we could remedy that with one seven-day waiting period, or quicker if there's a gun show somewhere, and she pointed out that if I enjoyed having a girlfriend, I wouldn't be bringing any guns into the house. "Right, right," I said, and then I told her I just remembered that I had some totally unrelated business in the bedroom, and I went and tugged at the .22 I'd duct-taped to the bottom of the bedstand. I pulled a little too hard, and long story short, my foot will be in the fucking cast for the next two months and I'm sleeping on the couch. Also, if Mayor Mark Funkhouser were a little bit more like Mayor Tommy Carcetti from The Wire and a little less like henpecked Leroy Lockhorn, whose wife Loretta is always hitting him with a rolling pin and slinging racial slurs around his office, maybe Kansas City could be more terrifyingly like Baltimore.