For fuck’s sake. I’ll blow kisses to anything that moves.
Sorry. I’m having the kind of week when you’re still doing the Tuesday crossword on Thursday, when both sides of the bed are wrong every morning, and you keep spilling coffee all over your socks and underwear. Fuck me. This is the last time I let one of those interns tell me what’s hip in world affairs. And those fucking nitwit correspondents. Don’t even get me fucking started.
Language. I know. I should try to keep this cleaner. But my wits are pretty damn far from me right about now.
So, I’m getting gunned at all the time. I know. O'Reilly's camping happy. It’s cleaner to be a mess sometimes. Getting found out is a gem in a manure truck’s load at times like these. Oh, Samantha-Bee me for a day. Fuck. No. Bad-pun me to hell and back too. These times? Maybe I’m just not as on-edge as I should be. I don’t know. It’s hard to say. I don’t mind getting plunked for my own team’s troubles, but I’d rather have at least an iota of say-so in the matter, you know? Interviewing these cunts four nights a week. Holding up their shitty books for the camera and feigning interest in them. It’s all a sham and a shame. I used to say I wouldn’t quit it for the world. Now? It’d be a horrible gamble to feel any other way about it. And this suck-up Oliver guy? His southern accent is shit, as is just about his whole onscreen persona. He’s funny, though. He’s a damn funny guy. I guess I’ll go ahead and admit that. What a fucking pansy though. Though, well, I’m one to talk, huh?
Yep. I’m hung out to soak, or tied to the mast at least, like in Draper’s Ulysses And The Sirens. Oh, the fucking cuteness of it all-- I’m not being…at all. Nope. It’s hurtling greener lights than these at the sky’s dunked purple. It’ll take more than some hardcore chuckling to get through this shit storm. My copy machine’s been sold for scrap. Well, I guess I’ll be Instagraming my ass to anybody who cares, for now. Maybe it’s juvenile pranks that’ll keep me going through the darkest of this. Maybe I’ve been too old for too long already. Shit.
I keep taking pictures of myself. For some reason I’m compelled to know what I look like. Selfies? Shit. That garbage is for the dipshit kids of this hashtagging self-absorbed generation. Let them have their pathetic naval-gazing games and their smart-phone pockets and their flinch-heavy lifestyles. I’m okay with being shunned by it all. I really am.
A full moon in the trades. I keep thinking about that as all the gorgeous girls in town head downhill in a hurry. Eugene O’Neill. Who reads O’Neill anymore? Shit. Not even me. I don’t have time to read. And I hear they’re wheeling out a color chart for prose now. Probably get it all labeled and categorized so they can file it away in some fucking Google doc file, or something, or whatever that means, or is, or…fuck. Language, Jonny Boy. Language. Got to keep it as clean as possible before these grubby Prism ass wipes come for you. Probably try to wash my mouth out with kerosene. I’ve got a few razors though. And I’ve been (excuse me) sharpening my nails.
The Mets can’t hit for shit. My face looks like used moist towelette. And I’m stuck here in a rat’s paradise, some sloppy excuse for a poor man’s cellar, or a rich man’s generic version of it. There’s no such thing as hitting bottom anymore-- just living way less than dangerously. Hell, I don’t even want to make myself laugh.
Ok. Ok. So I’m supposed to describing here the ways in which my wonderful job was taken from me, at least one would suppose so from the title of this thing. Maybe I’d rather get sidetracked by plangent griping. Anyhow, that Oliver, he’s not so bad really. He’s motivated by that Limey perseverance that grinds and mulls and stews until the time is riper than a wrestler’s unders. And then he snaps and locks his jaws onto what you’ve got until you’re forced to let go or get maliciously mauled. I mean, the show has got my name in the fucking title! It’s The Daily Show With JON STEWART! And he’s sitting there hosting the damn thing with my name still on it. God. That sounds like a line from some Tori Amos song or something. Is that what I’ve become? Some trite, cliché-shouting lunatic? Twenty-five bucks and a cracker. Fuck. What a dumbass I’m turning out to be. Must be all that time I spent on Remote Control, thrashing through the early nineties with more chips than a Mexican restaurant on my shoulder, reeling into howling fantods of furor at wanna-be hip types with bad haircuts and souls to match. Fuck the dangling modifier of it all. Bash me all the way to the motherfucking moon. I’m through being funny, and I stopped being nice before Clinton’s first term was through. Hell, I want silent thunder too. And all of my goldfish are belly up.
Yeah. Yeah. I know you all want to hear about how I got hoodwinked out of my job, out of my celebrity status and those steady streams of ironic jabs at the piranha pundits of the world of network news; how I morphed into a media pariah right before your very closed eyes. But really, it’s just basic cable, and the show came on after that Tosh Point Zero guy or crank-calling puppets or cussing cartoon kids or that chubby and horrible unfunny woman who thinks her takes on sexual taboos are comical to anyone but herself; or whatever Comedy Central was trying to plug to spill them some more cash for cheap. It’s all a bullshit world ruled by commercials and tacky hoaxes. And me? Shit. I’m about as subtle as a bow tie on a banana. I want sweeter dreams too, you know? I want…Fuck. I know. Can it Stewart. I want. I want. Maybe that’s all there is: to break away from this endless desire to want. Shit. Maybe I’m on the right track after all.
Fuck it. Wish that Oliver kid the best. Give Colbert my record collection. Slap Denis Leary around a few times for me. And tell my wife and kids that do I love them very much.
PS-- I’m moving to Aeaea.
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