New Times - San Luis Obispo - The Shredder

the shredder

Spank the Daily

This column has gotten too serious lately. It’s time to lighten up, corrupt the youth, declare war, and eat till I puke. This would be far more fulfilling than talking about the latest transgression of local cops and sons of tax collectors. Might take in a little masturbation while I’m at it. I’ve been told it’s almost as much fun, but I wouldn’t know.

What am I talking about? Here’s what:

You may have wondered why the Tribune’s Sept. 7 Sunday “Doonesbury” cartoon was labeled “Doonesbury Flashback,” but probably not, since you never pay attention, which is exactly what the Tribune hoped. Time to dash those hopes.

The Sunday cartoon was censored by the Tribune and an old one put in its place because the editors thought the original was way too controversial for the delicate sensibilities of Tribune readers, whoever they might be. Nobody I know could be called “delicate,” except for my friend Thomas who’s always been a little fey, but never mind.

What the Tribune thought was so outrageous was the word “masturbation,” something everyone I know engages in—delicately—but I guess nobody at the Tribune does, which may be why they hushed it up—or maybe they do but didn’t want anyone to know, in which case it would be the obverse, a word I rarely get to use because I’m always using the word “masturbation,” which I think my editor is going to censor, but if he doesn’t you’ll know he was too busy masturbating instead of working, and so was everyone else here in this randy pit of self-abuse and heathen raunch.

Since the Tribune wouldn’t publish the cartoon, a splendid public service is being performed by this magnificent newspaper over on page 19—we stole the cartoon like gypsy grifters and offer it up to all masters of their domain who are curious about what freaked the Tribune into such absurd self-censorship, and who will also no doubt find the offending cartoon disappointingly bland after I’ve given it such a buildup.

I can’t figure out why the Tribune masturbators would fret over a subject that “Seinfeld” explored eight years ago on network TV, and that every talk show host since then has discussed with the same cavalier detachment that they approach the budget deficit and J.Lo’s vanishing nuptials.

There are, of course, times when self-censorship can be a good thing, like when you’re going to write a letter criticizing me but wisely decide not to, or when someone asks you how they look and you want to say, “Like a mackerel that’s been in a train wreck,” but you stop yourself in mid-sentence, realizing that’s not particularly nice, not nice at all, so you just keep your mouth shut and smile, which is even more damning, and they burst into tears and flee, cursing your evil soul. But at least the effort was honorable, the intent worthy of praise from monks and guidance counselors. Same with you not sending your dumb letter.

But the Tribune’s shenanigans are of the sort practiced by Soviet fancy-pants generals and Politburo bigwigs when their sub went down in the Atlantic. Sub? What is this sub? We do not see anythink like what you are talkink. Go awayski.

All of this reminds me of something Woody Allen once said: “I’m great in bed—and when I’m with someone else, I’m terrific,” which I can relate to, and to which I must add: “I’m great in bed—unless I’m reading the Tribune.”

BY THE TIME YOU READ THIS, I’LL BE GOVERNOR: It goes without saying that I must say something about The Recall, especially with our homegrown candidate Mike McCarthy jumping in the race and trying to show me up. My money’s on Mike. (Note to self: Kiss up to him before it’s too late.) But I’m not sure what to say about it besides relaying what conservative Assembly candidate Matt Kokkonen said in a recent e-mail: “The Ninth Circus did it again. Three pompous judges think we’re too stupid to punch the voting cards correctly.”

Like me, Matt has always had trouble saying what he thinks.

Terry from Arroyo Grande has a message winging its way through cyberspace right now: “I think Matt’s full of it and that Arnold Schwarzenegger needs some steroids for his brain—and that so do you!”

Wait. This anabolic-androgenic stuff has got me thinking. Whoa—everything is clear now. I know what to say about The Recall. I’m painfully aware that it’s shining a spotlight on California so all the world can see what kind of loony tunes are prancing around this year, making all of us innocent bystanders look like dolts and nincompoops. This is both appalling and accurate, absurd but true. Getting all upset would merely be embarrassing, calling even more attention, so don’t do that. Pretending that it isn’t happening and trying to hide it away would be self-delusional and very Tribuney. The best thing to do is just accept things as they are, revel in our folly, find a quiet corner, and cry.

I DECIDED IT WOULD BE A GOOD IDEA FOR ME TO TRY WRITING THIS LITTLE HEADLINE SO THAT IT WOULD BE EVEN LONGER THAN THE ITEM IT INTRODUCES: And how about that—I did it. ³