Everyone is trying to figure out why Kim Jong Il is in such a tizzy. What could possibly have annoyed the North Korean leader to the point where he started exploding atom bombs on every street corner?
The answer is screechingly obvious to anyone with half a brain: Kimmy wigged out and pushed the button because he found out that his picture was posted on menwholooklikeoldlesbians.blogspot.com, a Web site to which I am proud to have introduced you, dear reader, in a previous column. (Oct. 17, 2008.)
There he is looking enigmatic and in dire need of a little Garnier Fructis, but otherwise alive. His caption reads as follows: “Kim Jong-Il. Leader of North Korea, Lea DeLaria impersonator, soccer mom.”
So you see, dear reader, that exploding nuclear device was a simple case of tit for tat. A disproportionate response? Maybe. But isn’t that half the fun of revenge?
I myself am planning on going absolutely postal in the not-too-distant future. My target? All those narrow-minded poo-poo heads who want to deny me my marriage rights. As loyal readers of this column will be aware, my Jonny and I tied the knot in San Francisco last year in that now famous “brief window.” Apparently, we chosen ones—18,000 couples total—are allowed to remain state-married, albeit without the same federal rights that are the cornerstone of “real” marriage. Adrift in a sea of unresolved legalities whilst allegedly heading toward the promised land, we are the Marielitos of the gay marriage movement.
And so to my revenge.
Confucius said, “Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.” I shall be ignoring this advice. It makes no sense whatsoever. If I even dug half a grave, I would be much too knackered to travel. Any aspiring revenger would be much better served to, for example, get a good night’s sleep at a nearby Comfort Inn, or inject some physique-enhancing illegal steroids.
If I had an atom bomb, I could target large groups of people. Since I do not, I will focus my efforts on kenneth starr, the Gloria Allred–Al Sharpton of the conservative movement, who has now, quelle surprise, attached himself to the gay marriage issue.
Here are some preliminary thoughts:
I will tie him to a chair and make him watch back-to-back episodes of Jon & Kate Plus 8. Apart from boring the crap out of him, this show may also cause him to reevaluate his ideas about the specialness and sanctity of traditional marriage.
I will then force him to attend next year’s Fragrance Foundation FiFi Awards, again tied to a chair. My Jonny and I were presenters at this marathon event, dubbed the Oscars of the fragrance world, last Wednesday night at the 26th Street Armory. The celeb turnout was considerable (Paris Hilton and Queen Latifah, bonjour!), but the torture/discomfort factor was, no offense to the organizers, right up there with waterboarding.
If none of the above atrocities brought Mr. Starr to his knees, then I would bring out the big guns: I would force him to watch an unedited replay of the recent Eurovision Song Contest in its entirety. As much as I love a bit of tragic Euro-camp, this annual event—which runs for about three hours straight because every country in Europe, from Belarus to Belgium, competes—often leaves me foaming at the mouth and begging for mercy.
The real torture comes from the fact that the song entries are all cursed with the same folksy, brain-corroding oompa beat. (Keep in mind that ABBA rose to international prominence after winning with “Waterloo” in the 1974 contest.) For clarification, check out the official site and watch this year’s winning entrant from Norway, Alexander Rybak, perform “Fairytale” a couple of times and then see if you can get this insidious ditty out of your head.
This year, the hosting city was Moscow. Attempts by the Putin administrative team to use Eurovision for the purpose of showing off the nation’s warm-and-fuzzy side were undermined when riot police attacked gay pride rallies in the capital on the same day as the competition.
Darn! Now I have to take revenge on them, too. Being a lavender avenger is so totally exhausting!
sdoonan@observer.com
