This Post IS About Bin Laden

JUST KIDDING! Oh man, you should see your face right now. You were all like, "Wow, maybe the old girl's finally decided to forget all the nonsense she usually writes about and tackle some issues that really matter - waiiiiit a minute! THIS ISN'T ABOUT BIN LADEN AT ALL! WTF, etc." (Although in truth I do have one thing to say on the matter: DIBS ON THE COUNTRY SONG. What song, you ask? Why, the one that's going to make me a millionaire simply by mentioning a current event of course! I think I'll call it "If You're Not America, Suck It." The second line of the chorus is a real doozy.)

Seeing as I can't seem to get my act together today, it appears that plagiarism is the only avenue left to me. So without (much) further ado, here's another excerpt from the letter my super awesome cousin Eric wrote to my equally awesome sister Sarah I WROTE MYSELF.

I think a lot about jobs I’d like to have. I’d like to paint the yellow lines in the middle of the road. I am an artist and the city is my canvas; my current project involves equidistant yellow lines of precise lengths bifurcating the unbroken pavement. It’s a conceptual piece about conformity and our society’s emphasis on rigid yet superficial balance. It’s tre modern and I am a genius.

(In the world of the avant garde you must declaim your own self a genius; only then will others follow suit.)

There are other odd jobs I’ve wanted but I can’t think of them right now. I would not, however, like to be a supervillain’s henchman. Faceless, nameless, anonymous in their glossy uniforms they are little more than walking targets for the film’s hero to effortlessly dispatch. No glory in that. Being the supervillain himself is more glamorous but you still probably die at the end. Unless the director tacks on a long tracking-shot epilogue in which your seemingly lifeless form lies inert at the base of a volcano or an elevator shaft or whatever underworldly analogue the hero unceremoniously dumped your overconfident wickedness into at the climax of the picture and then, startlingly and without warning, your eyes open as if to say, “Sequel?” Ominous musical sting, roll credits.

The evil overlord’s triumph is slim in this instance, as his recovery would no doubt necessitate many painful hours of physical therapy to fully regain use of his megalomaniacal facilities. Also he has to be able to casually stroke the slumbering cat in his lap without wincing. Nonchalantly petting a cat while the hero advances on you with a weapon and, one would guess, the advantage is sort of the ultimate insult to his capability as a hero. It says, “I am so unafraid of you that I am just going to sit here and pet this cat and sip my latte, whattaya think of that Mr. Hero?” And his confidence is shaken. Unless you wince, of course, as I was originally saying.

If you like this, you should probably Facebook stalk/harass/threaten Eric Houge until he agrees to write a book.