In yet another unprecedented scoop, The Indubitable Dweeb has obtained a copy of Christine O’Donnell’s high school diary. Fascinating reading, especially the passages that prove the senate nominee did indeed “dabble in witchcraft.” Rather than politicize this, we’d like to simply present the diary in its unedited form and let the voters decide:
February 7, 1988
The Winter Wonderland dance was completely rad. There was this guy named Kyle who was standing in the corner being a total bummer, and when I asked him why he wasn’t dancing, he told me that “Dungeon Masters do not partake in the rituals of human slaves.” Dungeon Master? My brain was going back and forth between: Creepy? Kinky? Creepy? Kinky?…Cute? Definitely cute. That’s what I thought as soon as he showed me this medallion he wears. It was the sweetest little upside-down star! I asked him if he was into Disney and he licked the star and said, “The Dark Lord animates my black heart.” Cute and mysterious!
February 14, 1988
Valentines Day and my first date with Kyle = Double my pleasure! We went to see Gwar, which was…interesting. Kyle told me to wear something that I didn’t mind getting blood on, and I was like, “Whoa George Michael, slow down! I’m not ready for that yet.” But now I understand what he meant. O well, I’ll have to throw out the leggings, but now I have an excuse to get a perm! Kyle said he’s going to make me a “Best of Gwar” mixtape. I wonder if they have any ballads. I realize they’re “heavy” and all that, but Danger Danger is also heavy and they had “I Still Think About You” and that song just melts me.
March 1, 1988
I finally got to meet Kyle’s friends. There’s Dozer, and he’s the only guy I’ve ever met who carries a mace. You know, like with the spiky ball and the wooden handle? Then there’s the guy in the black trench-coat who refers to himself “The Shroud.” I don’t have much in common with The Shroud, except we both love Starburst. He let me eat all his red ones! Finally, there’s his Ex. Zoe. Zoe’s a white witch, which means she practices white magic, but all she seems to practice is bad fashion. I know, low blow, but can the girl drape more fake silk on herself? I can’t believe the two of them used to make out in freshly dug graves together.
March 18, 1988
Movie night. Lost Boys! This was my choice. Kyle was begging for yet another Faces of Death marathon, but how many times can a girl watch a parachutist get eaten by an alligator? I thought he’d like Lost Boys cause it has vampires in it and they’re kind of satany. But I didn’t tell him I wanted to see it cause it also has Jason Patric in it! Our little secret, diary? Anyway, he said the movie “sucked donkey nads” and I asked him why and all he did was take a gas can and pour gas on the lawn of a local nunnery and set the grass on fire. I have to say, for a spontaneous flaming pentagram, it was a pretty good flaming pentagram.
March 23, 1988
We sacrificed a goat today. Where does one get a goat? I haven’t a clue. Hmmm. Get your goat. That’s a phrase, right? But where does it come from? Maybe Our Dark Lord Satan can provide the answ…Wait a sec, wait a sec. Now I’m talking like him! Be strong, Chrissy. Be strong. Just cause your boyfriend has pledged his soul to Lucifer and the princely minion Beezlebub (sp?), it doesn’t mean you have to. I mean, if you’re totally into it and all that, then that’s cool, but remember, you’re still the same old Chrissy. You love Model UN. You are definitely getting into BC in a couple years (Go Eagles!). And just because you strangled a goat and draped its entrails on a menorah in a ritual to forge a deeper relationship with the horned ruler of the underworld, it doesn’t mean you don’t still totally love going to the zoo. Especially in springtime. Baby capuchins!
April 4, 1988
It’s over. Kyle broke up with me. At first, it seemed like a silly reason, but the more I think about it, the more I understand. Ouija boards are not open to interpretation. If we didn’t heed the advice of the ouija, then what advice do we heed? O well, there’s always The Shroud.
I always assumed it happened at a town meeting in Pennsylvania circa 1718. They were hammering out a new ordnance, regarding wooden dentures or witches or something, when a young statesman with that distinctly American spirit said, “If I may venture to put forth a proposal, it would be that we cease conversing in this ridiculous British accent? Let’s just talk like normal people talk.” The proposal was followed by silence. Then the slow clap. Then the first occurrence of a crowd chanting, “USA, USA! USA!” a full 58 years before Washington crossed the Delaware. And from then on, not a single person born on this side of the Atlantic would grow up to sound like this guy:
Now don’t get me wrong. I’m a bit of an anglophile. I adore London. I can sit through hours of British television with its washed-out palette and easily attainable heroines. I shrug like a Slim-Jim-fed simpleton and humor any Brixton-born footy fan who informs me that “the rest of the world doesn’t call it soccer, mate, they call it football, you know, like you yanks call the one with the chubby blokes.” I’m charmed by the Brits in the same way I’m charmed by that 35-year-old-guy who still wears his letterman jacket out to bars and gives you tips on how to pick up the ladies. There’s some interesting historical perspective there, but these are the folks that find Benny Hill funny.
The only thing that truly annoys me about our friends across the pond is their occasionally ridiculous pronunciation of words. I’m not talking about usage of words. I’m fine with crisps and lifts and biscuits and lorries and all that. It’s the zany sounds that get me. Any waver of the Union Jack will say that British English is the purest form of the language and that it contains nothing but correct pronunciation. But I submit this. Ever since the fore-mentioned monumental town meeting of nearly 300 years ago, they’ve had it out for us. And Sir Robert Walpole or some 18th-century statesman decided that they should spite us by making their version of the language even more ridiculous. He went to Parliament, all wigged up and drunk on Pimms, and proclaimed, “We shall show those uppity colonists. From henceforth, Glacier is pronounced Glassier, like…Classier. And urinal is pronounced Your-Eye-Nal, like…well, good heavens, I haven’t a clue. But what the heck, it’s bound to rankle the noblemen of New Jersey.”
Seriously. Glacier. Urinal.
If you’re friends with Peter O’Toole, ask him to say those words. Gasp in horror and do what any red-bloodied American should do. Remind him he starred in Supergirl.
In the first of what we hope are many journalistic coups, The Indubitable Dweeb has managed to land an interview with the erstwhile most-wanted-man-in-America, accused Times Square bomber Faisal Shahzad. We asked some tough questions. He gave some surprising answers. No matter what you think of miranda rights and the role of bloggers in the reporting of terrorism, you’ll want to read this fascinating journey into the mind of a man who a few days before was just another immigrant, another face in the crowd.
ID: Let’s start with your name. Faisal Shahzad. That’s not a name most Americans are familiar with, or certainly comfortable with. Is there something else we can call you? A nickname? Anything like that?
FS: Sure, sure. A lot of people, they call me Fievel.
ID: Like the cartoon mouse?
FS: Exactly! An American Tail. It’s a funny story actually. Back in Pakistan, when I was a kid, my sister and I, we use to love to sing together. Duets, you know? There was a talent show at the local mosque and we signed up to do Close My Eyes Forever, which is a song by Lita Ford and Ozzy Osbourne.
ID: We’re familiar with the song.
FS: Showstopper, right? Anyhoo, the night before the talent show, we see this movie. This cartoon. And there’s this song. Somewhere Out There. It’s sung by cartoon mice and it’s out of tune and it’s almost like a bad Andrew Lloyd Webber ballad, but damn it, it works. I’m telling you, it absolutely breaks your heart. So we ditched the ripped jeans and teased hair which, come to think of it, weren’t exactly Taliban-friendly, and we sported some rags and mouse ears and sang Somewhere Out There. And we killed. Just blew the beards right off the crowd. The next morning, people started calling me Fievel. “Keep wishing on that same bright star, Fievel!” That sort of thing. A few years later, I went through a Gomer Pyle phase, I tried to convince people to call me Shazam!, but it never took. It was Fievel then. It’s still Fievel now.
ID: You are aware that Fievel is Jewish, aren’t you?
FS (after a long pause): But he is a mouse?
ID: Yes. A Russian Jewish mouse. His last name is Mousekewitz.
FS: No. You’re wrong. I have the blu-ray at home. I watch it once a year. I’m pretty sure he’s Chechen or something.
ID: Fair enough. You’re entitled to your interpretation. In any case, do you find yourself relating to Fievel’s story.
FS: You know, I do. I was an immigrant to America, just like him. I’m not particularly fond of cats, just like him. There are a lot of coincidences between our stories.
ID: Did Fievel ever try to blow up Times Square?
FS: Well, no…but that doesn’t mean he didn’t want to. It’s never stated explicitly, but I’ve always assumed that sometime before he reached America, Fievel travelled to Pakistan for some training in explosives. There’s a scene where he unleashes the Giant Mouse of Minsk, which is this big mechanical rodent that shoots fireworks from its head. Genius stuff. Where did you think I got the fireworks idea from?
ID: So your attempted bombing was based on ideas found in a Don Bluth cartoon?
FS: Most attempted bombings are. Remember last Christmas when that kid tried to light his crotch on fire and blow up that plane? Straight out of All Dogs Go To Heaven. The original title of the film was actually All Dogs Go To Heaven Where 72 Virgins Are Waiting For Them, but they shortened it because it didn’t fit onto marquees.
ID: We find that hard to believe.
FS: I find it hard to believe that Linda Ronstadt never won a Grammy for her performance of Dreams to Dream from the sequel Fievel Goes West, but it’s true.
ID: So you enjoy Linda Ronstadt, Ozzie Osbourne and Lita Ford, as well as the films of Don Bluth and the catchphrases of Jim Nabors. Any other recommendations?
I barely slept last night. Karl Rove’s memoirs were released and I was at the local Barnes and Noble dressed as my favorite character from the book. When the clock struck twelve, I grabbed my copy, skipped the complimentary pizza and punch, and bolted home. In bed with a flashlight and bag of pistachios, I read that thing cover to cover. Apologies to my patient wife. I must have woken her fifteen times with my constant guffaws and gleeful exclamations of “Oh Karl, you didn’t!”
I’m guessing everyone will pick up their copy this afternoon, but I couldn’t resist sharing a few favorite excerpts from this modern masterpiece. Feel free to leave your personal favorites in the comments section below. If you plan to get your copy online, why not click the cover image on the left and buy one through my Amazon Associate account? Karl gets a buck. I get a buck. Capitalism and the Constitution live on!
Excerpts from Karl Rove’s Courage and Consequence
I used to love the green room at Meet the Press. They had those bacon-wrapped scallops. You know, the ones you only get at weddings. So, of course, I brought some Ziplocs. Carville came in just as I was pocketing a few for the road. I was pretty sure he saw it and my first thought was to distract him, to walk over and give him the old knuckle-slap to the zipper and say something like “‘Sup Slim Goodbody? Thought Matalin had those boys pickled in a jar.” It wouldn’t work, though. He had me dead to rights. So I went with a respectful nod.
…which absolutely had me in tears. The biggest surprise was Anne Hathaway. I liked the Princess Diaries as much as anyone (well, maybe not as much as Rumsfeld), but I wasn’t prepared for her range. I knew the awards would, of course, go to Heath and Jake, and they’d be well deserved. The biggest lesson I learned from the film, however, was that we were missing out on an important demographic. Then, more than ever, W. needed to understand that wearing a cowboy hat wasn’t about clearing brush. It was about smoldering, and taking chances on love. I decided the next morning that we would start flying a new, more colorful flag on the pole in Crawford.
“How can I understand you if I don’t walk where you walk?” I said to him. “How can I give ‘advice’ if I don’t see my advice in action.” He acknowledged I was right with a simple gesture. He handed me a bulletproof vest. “It will only serve to slow me down, Major,” I said, handing it back. And with the convoy fully loaded, we set out into the night. Fear is a faithful companion. It makes you alert. My fear is what has kept me alive. That, and stem cells.
…and it wasn’t that I didn’t feel anything, it just wasn’t the earth shattering experience one expects. Abbas seemed to be digging it though. He put on an album by some woman named Peaches. Vulgar stuff, but the bass line was pretty intense. I could feel it in my teeth and I was starting to appreciate the appeal. Sharon was at the other side the room, writing on the wall with liquid Tide. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the blacklight was broken. “I wish someone would play with my hair,” Abbas announced. “I would love it sooooo much!” Sharon ignored him. He’d found the mini-fridge. This was a bad idea.
What was the big deal? I was going to let Glenn take the mulligan. It’s what friends do. But Axelrod and his buddies were standing there, pointing their three-woods at us. “We’re playing through, alright!” Axelrod said in that pissy tone he gets. We backed off from the tee, palms in the air. My blood was heating up and the only thing that kept it below a simmer was thinking of that final scene in Caddyshack. Later, walking back to the clubhouse, Glenn tried to lighten things up with a few Yo Mama jokes. I wasn’t in the mood. “Danny Noonan wins it in the end, you know?” I told him. He didn’t have to answer. He knew. We’d watched that scene about a million times last October.
Sure it was “just a lemonade stand,” but it was our lemonade stand. It was also Heather’s last hope. I took the profits, all thirteen dollars and sixty-eight cents and poured them from my marble bag onto Dr. Hoverman’s desk. “Is this enough?” I asked. Dr. Hoverman closed his eyes, shook his head slightly and said, “It takes a lot more than that to buy a little girl a new heart.” I looked at all the framed diplomas on his wall. This was a man who’d seen the world. This was a man who knew things. “Can she have mine?” I asked. “She already does, Karl,” the doctor said with a rare smile. “She already does.”