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SATIRISTS SUCK!
BY B. ROONEY LESHE


Once when sober and strong I asked a satirist why he wrote about exploding a hotel in my hometown. Out of all the hotels, in all the areas of the world, I asked why he chose to blow up the hotel where my father eats lunch twice a month with a man named Monkhouse. Although I wasnít actually concerned, I acted as though I demanded a serious answer. I asked this satirist why, out of all the possible hotels, why this hotel? When you enter the hotel there is a walkway bordered on either side by narrow pools with giant catfish and carp. A friend of mine who died three times in one night worked there once as a cook. He and the waitstaff would sometimes try to catch the catfish with makeshift fishing wires. They would hook the catfish and throw them back. They were always scared of the catfishís whiskers, although their whiskers donít sting. A spine along their dorsal fin can puncture oneís skin. And the same is true for satirists. When I was sober and strong, I asked a satirist a serious question about why he chose to explode a hotel in my hometown. The satirist said that all the other hotels in the world were booked.

Iím tall and blond and blue-eyed, and when Iím drunk and happy, Iím equally dumb. Once when drunk and happy I asked a satirist if he was circumcised. I asked him about this because heíd read a poem about his Jewish penis. The satirist said a satirical thing to me about how he was my #1 fan. But I knew he disliked me because I look like the Aryan Nationís favorite son. I disliked the satirist because he scanned the room for other people to talk to while we talked. I asked the satirist if he was circumcised because I thought, thanks to my drunken happiness, that Jews werenít circumcised. The opposite has always been true, of course, and almost everyoneís circumcised these days. I asked the satirist about circumcision because I wanted to let him know that I was Jewish and circumcised too. Once when I was drunk and happy I asked a satirist a question about his penis. It went nowhere. The satirist found another person to talk to, someone neither drunk, nor happy, nor nearly as dumb. 

When I am drunk, vulnerable, and in the company of satirists, I become a jellyfish. Thereís a beautiful translucence about me as my innards float in what Iíve drunk. I glow in moonlight. Yet, when drunk and vulnerable, my sting is weak. My voltage is soggy. My sting matters, because my long tentacles, which bounce and trail as I float with the currents, do not bite. What kind of animal would I be if I couldnít bite? Iím like an aquatic trampoline you can see through, with tentacles bouncing and trailing as far along as 200 feet to sea. Nevermind the sea is a street. That my tentacles smell of other peopleís smoke. I'm a medusa-headed mess with long sensitive eels that trail through the sea or street. Now that I am almost full-grown, the fiery red sheen of my adolescence has given way to a purplish brown. This means my sex organs are fully developed. They produce both eggs and sperm. Self-sufficiency is excellent. Especially when drunk, vulnerable, and not interested in hearing the satirical things satirists say when you ask a serious question.

Never ask a satirist a serious question. Chances youíll get a serious answer are slim. 
 

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