Owlspotting

I am lucky (I guess) to be interning at a certain magazine in the midst of one of the biggest non-sex Washington scandals in recent years. And yet, as all the speculation and evasion and embarrassment swirls around me, I am reminded of the other news of the past week: the terrorist attacks in London.

Isn’t it a little odd that the people who are so desperate to get Westerners out of the Middle East and away from its natural riches are targeting our mass transit systems? I mean, if they want us out of Saudi Arabia, you’d think they’d want us to drive less, and therefore be less dependent on foreign oil. Alas, one cannot see into the mind of a terrorist, not even with the aid of Lynndie England.

I imagine that, much in the way applicants to magazine jobs have to take copy editing tests, applicants for the Daily Show with Jon Stewart must take a test as well, albeit one that fits the particular needs of a fake news show. I imagine they are handed a news story or press release and asked to identify the irony. An absurdity test.

When the Wilson/Novak/Plame/Miller/Cooper/Rove scandal is finally laid to rest, the Daily Show will have on its hands one hell of a test.

Few have commented on the absurdity of this administration attempting to discredit someone by leveling the charge of nepotism. But then again, why should they, when there are so many other obvious ironies to note? Like that the only reporter to go to jail is the one who didn’t write the story. That Rove would attempt to plant an attack against Wilson in the hands of Matt Cooper, who is married to a Democratic strategist, who is the daughter of the former editor-in-chief of Time. That there really were no tubes, no yellow cake, no WMDs. That Novak still gets to talk on TV, even though he hasn’t said anything interesting in years. My fav is Time leaking to Newsweek. What?

The crushing weight of all this irony squishes my little brain, giving me this constant throbbing sensation, somewhere above my left eye, that occasionally paralyzes me in front of CNN. One little brain cannot handle all this irony, and it leaves me wanting one of those Harry Potter devices for storing bulky or unpleasant memories.

To cope, I comfort myself in a monument to fake: the mall.

Yes, that’s what I crave — a trip to the mall, where I can buy perfume that smells like a fake waffle cone and scoop of fake ice cream made of air. It should be comforing to remember that those dollars I just spent are not all for naught. Yes indeed, I can stop the throbbing with the knowledge that those dollars are probably buying Hummers — poorly armed ones, yes, but Hummers nonetheless. I may be alienated, but I am still a patriot.

Just not one wasn’t built for this Post-Everything era.