Friday, September 30, 2005

You Love Me! You Really Love Me!

Yeah, I know I said that my hiatus was due to school, wingnut all-star research, and rice-harvest related activities. But that was a lie. And you bought it, suckers!

Actually, I left blogging to chase my dream of becoming an internet supermodel. The American dream. And I've made it.

Yes, I, RETARDO Montalban, am a blogzine supermodel.

I have a pile of Canadian money big enough to burn a wet moose. Fame, fortune... all that was left was women.

So I began to survey the field, knowing full well that net supermodelness is cachet these days. Anybody I wanted, I could have. Right?

Wrong! My first choice was Jenna. Liberal, from the Pacific Northwest: I was certain she was a coffeehouse girl, and everyone knows they are quick to hook up with liberal boys for some fun abortioning, dope-smoking, atheistic action. But no! I waved her into an elevator thinking, this is gonna be sweet. Then she kicked me in the 'nads, and as I lay prone, spat on me. I didn't even get her phone number. Later, I learned that she exclusively dates wingnuts. Like Judson Cox. If only I'd worn a flannel shirt!

After applying an ice-pack to my sack, I resolved to try again. I set my sights on Lauren of Feminste. I said, "Hey, Lauren, put down that Betty Friedan tome for a minute and let me tell you how I strut my stuff on the catwalk for exclusively pro-choice causes." I had her. She was interested. But then I fucked up. "I'm thinking of getting pectoral implants, moving to Venezuela, and trying out for the Mr. Socialist Universe pageant." Suspicion was in her eyes. "I think you're in it for the fame, RETARDO, and that's the wrong reason." So I never did get to join Lauren's clique where, like Pat Robertson says, they practice witchcraft, teach children to be homosexuals, and spend their quiet moments sticking pins into the groin regions of male voodoo dolls.

Needless to say, after these events I was considerably dejected. But then I checked my email. In it was a message from a "M.J.", consisting only of a string of cute little lovehearts which I will render an example of here using my superior computer skillz: <3.

Since I was on the rebound from rejection, I quickly replied (rather too ebulliently): "Hi, if you are a female fan, would you like to join me for some pagan fun? I'm thinking, we could redistribute our incomes, abort some fetuses, toss projectiles into the George W. Bush poster on my dartboard, and engage in anal sex beneath my altar to Bill Clinton. What say you?"

Almost immediately the response was in my mailbox: "Sounds devign. I'll be righte over, M.J."

I had, as they say, butterflies in my stomach. Quickly, I prepared my apartment: dusting off the hammer & sickle posters and the moroccan leather-bound Korans, windexing the glass over my framed correspondence with Paul Krugman, dishwashing the abortion utensils, and taking out the trash laden with dead fetuses (carefully, I left one fetus part in the bottom of the trashcan in plain view, so my new girlfriend would know I'm the real McCoy and not some fake abortion enthusiast; also, in the hope that it'll lead to a discussion on the joys of cloning). Since I had little time, I was helped in speeding-through my cleaning chores by illegal drugs, including crystal methamphetamine and crack cocaine.

Suddenly, I heard a knock at my door. I opened it, and there stood an angel:


"Umm, hi. Come right in."

I helped her out of her clothes with her coat. "Let's have a seat." I had made sure that Noam Chomsky's "Manufacturing Consent" was playing in the dvd machine (am I not the thoughtful lover?).

"Hi, RETARDO, I'm Marie Jon' and I have always loved you." My heart melted. "Would you like to see my email bage?"

"Sure, Marie, but let's fire up the bong while we're at it."

"Awesome. I was hoping you'd say that. You know, RETARDO, I've had a crush on you for so long and with such intensity that I've even been signing your name along with my own to the hatemail I send those Sadly, No! homos."

"Really, Marie? I'm so flattered! Here. Take a drag. This is some primo shit. Last time I smoked it, I saw Mohammed, Josef Stalin, and Gloria Steinem beat up Jesus, even though Jesus doesn't exist! Hahahaha."

Though she smiled hugely at this before she huffed from the bong, I felt a little worried that my laugh sounded well, retarded. I was high.

Exhaling Godzilla-like a huge THC-laden cloud, she said, "RETARDO, can I have an abortion?" This was a little to-the-point. Slightly startled by her directness, I said, "Maybe you think all we liberals move that quickly, and I admit some do -- Brad R., for instance -- but I want to get to know you better before I engage in such explicit acts of liberal lovemaking with you."

She was smooth. "Okay, let's just fool around, then, first. I'll get you so hot that you'll forget your inhibitions. I can't help but move so fast! Chomsky just makes me ..well, so moist. Quick, let's make a protest poster for International ANSWER."

Now I must admit, dear reader, that this sort of talk makes me turgid.

"Yeah, baby, that's it. Now tickle me with some article of hemp clothing. Not too hard. Yeah, that's it: tease me, baby. I bet you have pajamas with Che Guevara's portrait all over them." How did she know?! Then her voice descended to the sexiest whisper: "I'll be wearing them in the morning."

(To Be Continued)

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