If I had known that being an adult would involve waste-of-time bullshit, like decisions requiring nuance, I would have started my drinking career a lot earlier. Like in fourth grade, the undisputed high point of my social and professional existence — I had the best mullet in my class, I often looked stunning in my dinosaur-print minidress made out of red sweatshirt jersey, and I reigned supreme at Connect Four. If I’d been smart enough to start mainlining Jack Daniel’s the day after yearbook signing, I’d have squandered even the faintest slivers of potential and would have been free to spend the rest of my youth in juvie, contracting VD and learning to knife people. If I’d only had the foresight, today I’d be dead.
But unfortunately, I made it relatively unscathed through middle school, graduate school and whatever the other ones are called. And now that I’m not a pregnant meth head leeching off the system, people expect all these unfair things, like that I won’t crash into their cars or that the credit card I give them is connected to actual funds, or that I’ll able to solve dilemmas by employing reason and simple ethics. It’s too much!!!
For example, I am a vegetarian, but not for political or health reasons, though I have seen that movie with the fellow who got all fat on Big Macs — who is, incidentally, engaged to a sweet but waxy-skinned vegan from Eugene, Oregon, where I am currently stuck. I am a vegetarian, it’s true, but unlike my waxy-skinned Northwest brethren, it’s because I find the taste of meat a little icky. Ordinarily this works fine, but now that I’m surrounded by self-righteous hippies who’ve never actually met a black person but who whine about how I don’t respect diversity, I am desperately trying to start a meat-eating career again. Every day I try to force down some sort of flesh product and think to myself: what do I hate more, hippies or meat? Hippies or meat? It becomes a constant little chant in my mind, the kick-kick of an imaginary hackey sack of dread.
What I need is a moral barometer. Like before I made a decision I would ask myself a question, you know? Like...oh, I’ve got it! “What would _____ do?” It’s a really good idea, I know, and it didn’t even take any nuanced thought — the problem is: who? Who changed a world, wielded an uncompromising and unfaltering authority over an entire people, counseled both kings and whores, and was summarily loathed by simpering, liberal hippie-Jews?
Nah, not Jesus, he was too much of a self-absorbed megalomaniac, even for me. I’m talking about Karl Rove. Karl Rove has proven that he cannot possibly do wrong, no matter how hard he tries, or how many alleged “laws” he breaks, or how much “actual treason and not the Ann Coulter kind” he commits. If Karl Rove says the polar ice caps are made of abortions, it is true. If Karl Rove wants to fill O’Connor’s vacant seat, he fucking well will no matter how many bland non-crackpot textbook conservatives our president pretends to nominate instead. If Karl Rove isn’t satisfied with O’Connor’s seat and wants Renquist’s, Scalia’s, and Ginsberg’s, he will have them disappeared, and I will think that’s super. Karl Rove will get himself elected to every seat in the Senate and House, and have long-winded arguments with himself on C-Span, and I will love it.
And when I, like that one guy Karl Rove advises, can’t handle the adult decision-making process and spend all day deciding between hippies or meat, hippies or meat, all I’ll have to do is ask myself: WWKRD? Easy: he would kill the hippies and eat them AS meat, hackey sacks and all.