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God knows I've had my share of psychobitches. Even here in Kentucky, adhering to a strict regime of talking to no one, I've managed to have a couple latch onto me -- one even now as I write this. They're attracted to me somehow, the way liver flukes always manage to find human livers. Or how candiru fishlets always find a urethra to swim into. That's the parasite that only feeds on the inner wall of human male urethras. Its got curved spines that make it impossible to dislodge once inside; the only cure is amputating the penis. Compared to the candiru fishlet, a psychobitch is like a mild cold! That's why God invented the candiru fishlet -- to make women appear to be not so bad. Yeah, and compared to the Sudanese, I got it good here in Kentucky. But that's no consolation, folks. It just means that Sudan is not next on my list of places to visit. What the fuck is it with America anyway? All the women here are either psychobitches or tragedies. There are no shades of gray. The flat truth, it's always less interesting, less Chekhovian, than we're led to believe. So I comfort myself with Gary Condit's triumph-of-the-spirit tale. I've even started composing secret transcripts to imagined taped conversations in his office from the days and weeks leading up to Chandra's milkcartoning. Haven't yet figured out why Condit would tape himself, but that's no problem. In my fantasy, I have him in his office, powering a soy milk double-latte with his aide Ron Phelps. It's late evening. He's in the office because he's afraid to go home. The beeper goes off: GC: [beeping noise] Christ, it's her again. She's paging me, that crazy Jew-broad. RP: You mean the intern. GC: The Jew-broad is really causing me problems, Ron. I don't -- she's saying things, crazy things. RP: The Levy girl, right? Not the stewardess. GC: I shouldn't have fucked the Jew-dentist's daughter. That was my mistake. RP: I believe he's an oncologist, sir.
GC: Plenty of Christians in Modesto. God what a shithole it is there. I worked hard to get out of the Central Valley, Ron. I'm not letting this crazy Jew-bitch drive me back. RP: No one has worked like you for the people of Modesto, sir. GC: The Jew-broad calls and calls. Fucking beeper [inaudible] plans for children, plans for living together. I told her! I was very clear, and she always said she understood. Then, blam! The Jew-bitch changes on a dime, wants me all for herslf. RP: Sir, we can't let her go public. It'll ruin everything you've worked for. GC: I know, I know. RP: The American people, and the people of Modesto, need your service, sir. GC: I shouldn't have fucked the Jew-dentist's daughter, Ron. I screwed the pooch on this one. RP: Is there anything you'd like us to do, sir? Check her records, her past, make threats. GC: Nah, don't -- no, I'll, uh, take care of -- why don't you go home, Ron. I'll, uh, take care of this. Just give me a few hours alone. And Ron, if anyone asks, you and I spent the night working here together, ok? [end of tape] What's so sweet about all of this for the millions of men who have had to suffer the obsession of a psychobitch, is that now they -- we -- have a model. A hero. Someone we can point to and say, "Yeah, hey! I'm not gonna take it anymore, Gary's shown me the way!" Just grab your psychobitch the next time she cries about you not marrying her, or threatens suicide, or calls your parents and friends to cry about you and invade your life from every angle--grab her, and show her that oh-so-sweet photo of Chandra, the one they always put on the news, and say to her, "You wanna be next?! The gloves are off, ye tormenting demon!" Meantime, we can all start fighting back by ordering T-shirts with Gary Condit smiling, a big ring of white milk around his lips, and in big mocking letters, "Got Chandra?" I think the right people will get the message.
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