Ho, ho, boo! 

Like most sensitive souls with feelings and thoughts I just can’t keep bottled up, I keep a diary. You’d have to be a ninja-spy-genius to find it, so don’t bother. Unless you’ve already been through my underwear drawer, in which case, happy reading. Now if your résumé did, in fact, read “ninja-spy-genius,” you’d find an illustrated enemies list on page 14. I’m the type of person—a “warrior spirit,” as they’d probably call me in other cultures—who prides myself on the quality of my enemies rather than friends. I look a lot better that way.

At the very top of my enemies list is none other than the KKK. There are a lot of reasons to despise the KKK, but my No. 1 is the fact they’ve made it impossible for an ordinary so-and-so like me to throw a white sheet over my head and pretend to be a ghost. It might sound petty, but I’m in the market for a ghost costume. Nothing kinky implied. It’s for professional purposes.

You see, I’ve decided that if Supervisor Bruce Gibson caves to the likes of Kevin Rice, Cal Coast News, Mary Malone, and others—heck, even New Times’ own Jerry James took a crack at him—I’m going to haunt him this and every Christmas to come like the whiny, un-showered ghost of Christmases present and future. Hell, I’ll even bring a sleeping bag so he can make himself comfortable on the floor while I snuggle into the nice big bed in the master bedroom with my potbelly pig, Wilbur. Hope your sheets have a high threadcount, Bruce. It’s first class all the way for this ghost. You’d better install a hot tub, too; I don’t bathe unless there are warm, soothing jet blasts involved.I know what you’re thinking: You’re such a hard worker, Shred. And now you’re giving up your time with family and friends to help keep the foul-mouthed Jerry Springer audience-wannabes in check. You’re a rockstar, Shredder. A superstar.

And I totally am. Of course, a lot’s at stake here. If Bruce resigns at the behest of a gaggle of locals who can’t tell the difference between a zipper pun and a coherent argument, well, then all civilization’s beautiful trappings have failed. The public education system failed. Evolution failed. We might as well crawl back in the muck and giggle together every time two adults are caught having sex. Even monkeys have better sense than that; in the animal kingdom—and the rest of the first world, for that matter—sex is just part of life. A healthy part. But I recognize that there’s no point in making that argument to a pack of self-righteous prudes with a political axe to grind. If someone isn’t capable of distinguishing between private and public life, they probably won’t follow any arguments that run contrary to their attack impulses.

And oh, how limited the mental capacities of the prizes that spawned these arguments must be:

Online commenter RU4Real referred to Gibson’s former assistant as “Loose Legs Cheri.” You know, on account of the fact that women who have consensual sex with adult men are loose. And how else would we rein in and shame women’s sexuality?

Speculation that Gibson’s assistant might file a lawsuit against the county—despite the fact that there has been no evidence that this might happen—went from “what if” to “now that she’s filed a lawsuit” to “how dare that greedy bitch file a lawsuit.” Because, clearly, if someone says something in a comment thread, it’s gospel. And of course there’s Mary Malone, posting a link to a photo of Gibson’s assistant and speculating that she’s pregnant. She concludes, “Of course, it is also a possibility that she isn’t pregnant.” No shit? So that’s how the human body works? You’re either pregnant or you’re not? Gee Mary, your skills—pointing out that someone might possibly be pregnant based on no evidence—could qualify you to work for People.

letsbhonest called Gibson “Mr. Zipper Pants,” which gave me a panicked moment because my pants have zippers, too! Clearly, the fact of Gibson’s pants having a zipper is somehow significant. I guess I’m just not smart enough to understand why.

Then there’s the handful of people who have taken shots at both Gibson’s and Cheri’s physical appearance. What relevance could any of that have to his job as supervisor? Any sixth-grade bully can tell you that after coming up with an insulting nickname (Mr. Zipper Pants), your cheapest and surest victory comes from mocking someone’s physical appearance. Except, we’re not in sixth grade, are we? Maybe that’s the explanation behind all this tittering about sex: We’re not dealing with adults. Somewhere, a junior high is missing a classroom of gossipy students.

     Of course, it’s not a put-down party until someone—and specifically a woman—gets called “whore.” And, for that, we have SLOBIRD discussing “THE SERVICES OF A WHORE.” Wow, calling someone a whore in caps. You must really mean it. I mean, there are other ways to emphasize a point. Or to actually make one in the first place. But when you’re working off a limited vocabulary, sometimes the only thing at your disposal is the caps key. And then, we turn once again to Mary Malone, who says, “if she whores for a county supervisor.” I’m not sure you’re using that word properly, Mary, but by all means, keep on spewing. It’s what we’ve come to expect from you.

And finally, someone who gets it! OnTheOtherHand urged people not to lower their standards by “calling her a whore unless you have proof that she did it for money.” Of course, calling for standards in an online comment board is like calling for purity in a pigsty.

So there you have it, Bruce. Or Mr. Zipper Pants, as you’re apparently known by the online trolls. You can capitulate to these dimwits and earn me as your houseguest for all eternity, or stuff a thick pair of cottonballs into your ears and keep on trucking. I suggest the latter. Although I find my own company quite charming, I’m told I snore. ∆

Shredder’s a bastion of decency. Send a teacup—hold your pinky out—to [email protected].