Arts

I've changed. I've gone sane. Ain't no king of mean no mo'.


My inner Leona Helmsey has been replaced by a kinder, gentler bitch, uh, I mean, PERSON. I am now a Stepford Wife with a by-line, a crowd-pleasing zombie with faraway eyes, a veritable and charitable dork of love saying only nice things nicely so nice readers sleep nicely in their nice houses and preserve their nice delusions of their nice neighborhood. Isn't this what you wanted, Clintonville?


Thanks to a weeks-long, Comfest-ordered stint in summer re-education camp (hate speech wing), I am now, ahem, safe. Neutered of doing violence to others' self-esteem, like Alex in A Clockwork Orange, I am but a thesaurus of only praise most positive. The life of abusive honesty has been lobotomized right out of my head like Nicholson's Mac MacMurphy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. I could no more write a negative review than spank a cute little puppy, drown a kitten, eat at McDonald's or shop at Wal-Mart. I am correct politically. Though technically I am for all practical purposes dead as a door nail, I have seen the light. Yes, lord. And the light is good. For it let's me eat.