(Though while we’re there, I have a message for you, John McCain. I never had a beef with you; between McCain/Feingold and the POW years and the Bush-backed smears in South Carolina, I was willing to overlook you dumping your crippled, never-lost-hope first wife for the wealthier, more photogenic Family 2.0 and consider you a perfectly honorable social moderate and fiscal conservative. But now that you’ve stood on the national stage and declared that “Washington is broken” (you with your 26 years in the House and Senate, 18 of them under your party’s administration), and your transparent choice of a female VP candidate to attract disgruntled Hillary supporters, your true McCain is now showing. One that apparently finds women dazzlingly stupid enough to vote for a vagina, ANY vagina, even if that vagina is a rootin’-tootin’, book-banning fundie who supports a woman’s right to choose only when it’s a teenager choosing to keep the baby she conceived while conceivably wearing a promise ring and practicing abstinence; a vagina, in short, that’s a total cunt. And in light of that revelation, this vagina has this to say: You, John McCain, can SUCK MY DICK.)
(Just a sec while I wet-vac the bile out of the keyboard…)
Indeedy, by far the coolest thing about having a blog is that people you’ve lost touch with will FIND YOU. Old friends, former colleagues, even the occasional visit by the Ghosts of Dicks Past.
Because I’ve heard more from people I hadn’t connected with in forever as a direct result of just being so dang findable. People I now regularly reconnect with online. Or in the case of one Seattle friend, our lives having taken us in different directions for a few years, now actually regularly hang out with. And then over the weekend, this comment came up for moderation.
And I’m all, GTFO! And, no motherfucking WAY! Because the last time I talked to Troy was a century ago in COLLEGE, and he was taking off for med school and I was headed to DC for the first of many definitely-not-living-up-to-my-potential reporter slots. And I was like, “Mike, look, another visit from a Ghost of Dicks Past!” (Not that there were so many dicks I stopped counting in 1995 a lot of dicks.) And not that Troy is/was a dick — he was smart and hilarious and kind and smokin’ — more that I had made his dick’s “acquaintance.” Perhaps even “shaken hands.” And that’s the power of the interwebs: a million years back you shook hands with a dick, then that dick’s owner headed off to medical school to specialize in OB-GYN, and a century later through your lame blog finds you whining about your uterus and offers his professional opinion. (And who knows? Maybe Troy will fly to Seattle and perform intra-vadge uterine surgery on me! Because THAT would be coming full fucking circle. . .)
PS to Troy: But you weren’t an asshat! You were a Guy I Should’ve Ended Up With, had we not been completely the wrong people at completely the wrong time. (Remember dropping acid and going to Guavaween dressed as “Clockwork Orange” droogs and being all, “Ohmygod, we’re tripping and THIS PLACE IS FULL OF ZOMBIES!!” Good times.) In fact, we were two people in love with two entirely other people, a circumstance that, despite how much we adored each other, doomed us to having Tragically Bad Sex Every Last Time.
(It would be a lot better now, I bet. You know, apart from the wife and the semi-husband turning a hose on us and sitting us down for a very stern talking-to. Welcome back, Troy — I’ve always hoped life brought you oceans of joy.)
Any other old friend, colleague, Dick Past? Get in touch, and feel free to blame me for falling out of it. I was an asshole. I’m better now, I swear.