“Sean Hannity is the most unfuckable person on the planet,” she says.
My friend is a shepherd, down from the mountains for a visit.
“I feel that way about Ann Coulter,” I say.
“They could make an antiporn moving with those two,” she says.
I nod. “I’d watch them just to see them put their clothes on,” I say.
“They could threaten to NOT have sex with each other as a turn on,” she
says.
“The whole thing could be sponsored by Beano or Gasx,” I say and we
giggle like school kids.
“Watching Fox News makes me horny,” I say. “Not in an urgent adolescent
kind of way, but in a sheep-screwing kind of way. “
“I’m not comfortable with you talking about screwing sheep,” she says.
“I understand,” I say, but I don’t. I change the subject. I promise to never
mention fucking Ann Coulter or Sean Hannity or sheep again.
I am feeling the rawness of things. My head feels heavy. My chest holds the north wind and I can’t
breathe.
“Let me teach you breaking wind
pose,” she says, ever the yogi.
I want to slam my thick head into the floor.
We decide to eat waffles and bacon for dinner. I leave Fox News on.
“It helps my circulation,” I tell her.
“Oh”, she says, “I thought you were just lazy.”
She pretends to watch while we eat. We open wine and whisky and vodka.
“No booze left behind.” I wink. I am clever, I think.
“Would you do Greta Van Susteren?” she says. We go on discussing which Fox News casters
were fuckable and which were not.
“It’s a completely subjective topic,” she says when I tell her I have
science that proves they are unfuckable.
“Take Megan Kelly, for instance,” I say. “Even after sex… sometimes
during sex… you have to talk, right?”
“And?”
“And that would do it.”
“Do it?”
“Ruin it.”
“Ruin it.” I scan the ceiling,
wondering about echoes.
My head is cotton soaked in oil or no, mercury – a heavy viscous metal
causing brain damage at slight exposures. We are watching Fox News, waiting for
the fiscal cliff.
“Do you think it will coincide with the Mayan end times?” she asks.
“More important - do I need to dress and shave the day we go over the
fiscal cliff?” I ask back.
“I always raise my arms on a roller coaster – think I should do it that
day?” she says as a joke, but I mistake it as a serious consideration.
“That might cause a stroke,” I say, not believing what I am telling
her. I wonder where I got that fact from.
“Where did you get that from?” she says. She and I are my own worst
enemies. We challenge everything.
Later I make tea. I serve tea and a coffee ring cake because she likes
it. I like the irony of it.
“I like coffee cake,” she says.
“I know,” I say.
“But I’d rather coffee over tea,” she says after a pause.
I change the channel to Downton Abbey. That was more her speed.
“Now this is more my speed,” she says.
“I know,” I say. I watch too.
But deep in my concrete head I am making a mental list of people on Fox
News I could never fuck.
Brit Hume? Isn’t that necrophila. Shepard Smith? That shitstain? It’s
no good. I take out my laptop.
I begin to type every news reporter’s name on Fox News.
I think to myself, trying hard not to let on to my friend what I am
thinking, “I would never shag Geraldo Rivera. I might boink his mustache, but
that schnoz? And that ego? That would be a three-way at best.”
“What are you doing,” she says. I am silent. Then I say something.
“Not saying.” I just keep
typing.
I can feel my head sinking, lower, into the keyboard. My head is too heavy
to hold up. My poor bean sprout neck bends beneath the weight. There is a
pulsing. Like a nova – like a heart – like either one of those things that can
explode. Only my head is imploding. I am
feeling the rawness today.
“What about Sarah Palin?” she
says. “I know she doesn’t work directly for Fox.” In mid sip of my tea, I do a
spit-take. We talk for hours about not boning Fox News Reporters.
Then my laptop belches. A
serious looking message appears. A serious error has occurred.
“This looks serious,” I say.
“System is shutting down”, the message says. I try to shut down gracefully
and am advised that I have no authority to shut down.
I am speaking to no one. Maybe to the laptop. “But I had authority to
sign in?” I question.
“What kind of fuckery is this?”
I hold the power button for 30 seconds. The beast gasps, wheezes and
becomes dirt dormant.
“Fucking don’t tell me I don’t have the authority to shut down.”
My head begins to lighten.
