I recently got some reader mail, a baffling event to be sure, as I’m pretty certain the only people who read this column are unsuspecting tourists who think I’ll give them tips on the best way to stand around in a fucking circle on a subway platform. Less baffling was that it qualified as what we in the amateur-punditry field refer to as “hate mail.” “Please,” it begged. “Please, please, please,” it continued to beg, just to make sure I understood its intensity (and to be fair, I am pretty slow). “Do the people of New York City a favor. Unless you have some truth or good to pass on to the world, stop writing your column.” Would that I could, good sir, would that I could — however, last year, after I joked about the Rapture, Satan revealed himself to me and concocted a sweet deal in exchange for the loss of two inches around my hips.
The deal was similar to the deal he made with rifle heiress Sarah Winchester in 1885, wherein she wasn’t allowed to stop adding on to her mansion in exchange for rocking a fashionable 13-inch waist. This resulted in the 160-room Winchester Mystery House, which is now one of America’s highest-quality roadside attractions. I’m sure you can see where this is going, even if you’re slow like I am: Satan and I split a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20, he did some herky-jerky motions, and suddenly I fit into my skinny jeans — which has made me one of America’s great roadside attractions.
Then Satan told me that unless I kept writing this column forever and ever, he would make a cruel barter deal with God and trade me for a Quaker, sentencing that Quaker (along with his inner light) to eternal damnation and me to Heaven, where I would be stuck hanging out with a bunch of non-drinking virgins for all time. My eternity would be spent watching amateur-censored “family friendly” DVDs, which got that way by being hacked up by some idiot in Kansas who learned to use an Avid specifically to cut the boob shots out of every good movie ever made. Meanwhile, some sweet pacifist would be stuck down in Hell, pounding down cheap champagne and watching Freaks and Geeks with all of my friends.
Obviously, I was not going to allow this to happen, so I agreed to keep filing this column no matter how stupid it was, but that wasn’t good enough for Satan. See, the final stipulation of my contract was that instead of bringing “truth and good” to the world — a world which, let’s face it, already has enough of that crap to go around, wouldn’t you say? — I would create only evil and lies. I’m really sorry about this, but what would you do in my place, faced with a possible eternity of virgin margaritas and hacked-up versions of Rushmore?
Like Nietzsche said: I am not a person, I am dynamite! And also like Nietzsche said: I know my fate. That fate involves eternal torment, grilled cheese sandwiches, Czech liquor, a series of increasingly meaningless affairs — and, most importantly, a tuchas that will stay svelte (thus providing fodder for the aforementioned series of increasingly meaningless affairs). It’s not my fault I have my priorities in order.
Of course, if we’re being pedantic, Nietzsche also said “truth is a woman.” Applying that particular axiom to the demands of my non-admirer, I should then be required to pass “women” along to the world — and that, good sir, is illegal, at least in this state. Of course, that was an example of false causality — exactly the kind of false causality the Christian fundamentalists love using to vilify Harry Potter, dildos, and anything else fun. And really, you can’t possibly expect me to spend an eternity subject to false causality. That’s even worse than censored movies. Thus my destiny, pointless as it may be, must continue. Ecce Schuman!