If interns and “pages” (which is Canadian for “intern”) didn’t want to have sex with their immediate superiors and mentors, they’d be called “employees.” Everybody knows that. It’s like the first rule of work. Well, the second, actually (Rule #1 is: No Fatties!). All I’m saying is that those L Magazine interns with whom I allegedly engaged in “inappropriate conduct” were all totally into it. I’m resigning under the pressure of the Stedman/Diamond “morality Gestapo” because I don’t want The L to lose the midterm elections to some piece of crap like the New York Press, but that doesn’t mean I admit any wrongdoing. As a respectable public intellectual and noted attractive pundit, it is my God-given right to do two things: fist-pummel the homeless for sport, and take advantage of nubile, well-meaning college kids who are naive enough to think that I am anyone remotely interesting.
You can’t blame them, though. I’m pretty hard to resist. There’s a reason you can only see half of my face in that picture. That’s because the rest of me is so frickin’ hot that you wouldn’t be able to contain yourself looking at it all at once. You can’t stare directly into the sun, and you can’t behold the entire Schuman. That’s actually what the interns here learn on their first day of “work,” which involves answering approximately 73 instant messages from me, all of which include the terms “old-timey cure for Hysteria” and “sucking Jonathan Franzen’s balls.” And they’re happy to do it (exchange lurid messages with me, that is; nobody likes sucking Jonathan Franzen’s balls, not even Jonathan Franzen). Take Timmy for instance, he’s been an intern here since he graduated from Stuyvesant and now he’s got a PhD in nuclear physics! Of course, he’s some sort of semi-autistic genius and he accomplished that feat in seven months; also he is legally blind and may have been under the impression that my nether regions are the next generation of “extra-responsive” Apple computers.
Nonetheless, I must remind my faithful constituents that despite my dalliances with interns (and groupies... and fiction-contest entrants... all right, fine, and their agents), I have never strayed from the sacred duty entrusted to me by this office. That duty has been to foist upon the reading public my poorly expressed neuroses about things vaguely related to current events and/or my negligible social life, and I have carried it out with dignity, courage and honor. When my kitchen counter was infested with mysterious pinchy bugs, or when Bush got re-elected, or when I decided yoga was for assholes, or Nietzsche was interesting, I delivered a self-absorbed stream-of-consciousness rant with no discernible purpose, despite the ones of hours it took me and zeroes of sacrifices I had to make! That, people, is dedication, and I still can’t believe the groping of a couple of Death Cab For Cutie fans would destroy my lifelong calling.
But alas, it has. Well, that and the paternity suits. And so, my beloved public of vaguely creepy guys in their late 30s (and no, I will still not go out with you), I hereby resign my post, disgraced but not discouraged from further inappropriate conduct in other, even-less-lucrative venues. Grieve, my beloved niche fan base of three, but do not despair, for I shall continue being a self-aggrandizing blowhard in the private sector. And take comfort in the knowledge that I will miss you far more than you will miss me — and, of course, in one last glimpse of my stunning half-face.
FOOTNOTE™ brand citation method ®. This is a work of satire. Sexual harassment of the young is neither acceptable nor hilarious. Just ask disgraced Republican senator Mark Foley, whose exploits with a Congressional page are the fodder for this aforementioned work of satire. Everything in this column is made up, with the exception of Rebecca Schuman’s resignation, which is not due to harassment of interns, but to her unfortunate but extremely timely demise. Final words of adulation, belated notes of chastisement and useless requests for life coaching, along with naked pictures, can be sent in her memory to firstname.lastname@example.org. •