Why We Suck_ A Feel Good Guide to Staying Fat, Loud, Lazy and Stupid - Denis Leary [73]
Oprah is where Oprah belongs-right there on the hot plasma rectangle that hangs on each of our walls, illuminating our bedrooms and kitchens with a warm fire of unending, uplifting infotainment.
Celery-Colored Sheets. Wow!
Little League Pedophiles. Oooh!
Cybill Shepherd On Menopause. Train Wreck!
She loves us she feeds us she makes us get fit she sends us out shopping and makes us redecorate she shields us and warns us and reminds us to have good sex bad sex food sex fat sex she gives us a sharp crack across the knuckles about race and religion and rich food and she makes us READ goddammit READ-read new books read old books reread the books she told us to reread last year-she is your teacher your mentor your multidimensional mensch she is actually married to us which is why she has no husband and will never have one:
That's how much she cares about us.
Which is why instead of asking Oprah to become the president I am demanding an amendment to the Constitution-the Oprah Amendment. The people have spoken for decades on end and the results flow in every single day across the world-Oprah is The Ultimate Decider.
Not George Bush not Prick Cheney not the Senate not the Congress-it's The Big O, baby.
I suggest we make every sitting president visit the Oprah set once every three months to listen to a million little questions about how he or she is doing on the job.
There will be no lying.
There will be no deceit.
No man can lie to Oprah and a roomful of Oprah women.
It's the power of O.
You've seen it yourselves with James Frey.
She will roast you and toast you like a fine hamburger bun.
Those gorgeous eyes, those luscious locks cascading down those round, chocolate cheeks-no man can look at her and get away without telling the truth.
I don't care Who You Are, Who You Might Think You Are or how many big, burly guys are calling you God's Gift To Mankind. You get put in front of Oprah-all the bullshit turns to smoke.
And once the smoke begins to clear?
Strap yourself in, stud.
Roger Clemens would Misremember and Disunderstand and wriggle and wraggle until she caught him square in her Cocoa Gaze and then he would try to look away and quote His Heroic Stats and hold up each of his Seven Cy Young Awards and she would still be sitting there-brown glare glaring, arms folded across her aqua turtleneck chest-waiting for the truth to ember its way out of his gimungo, drug-thumping head.
And then it would happen.
He'd realize that women-especially Oprah's women-would trade all those expensive trophies in for twenty pairs of Jimmy Choo shoes.
He'd scratch his itchy, guilty, steak 'n' cheese-eating chin and come to see-there is no escape from Oprah.
He would wilt into a frenzied flopsweat of Dismisremembering and Reunforgetting and finally just break down and admit that his big fat ass-abscess was in fact the result of a giant set of jet-fueled human growth hormone injections. The Mighty Rocket would fall back to earth in a puddle of his own pretension.
Yay.
Congress couldn't crush him.
The Commissioner Of Baseball couldn't lay a finger on his wide, sneaky back.
But Oprah could.
She would swat him aside like an insect.
Just imagine the other possibilities: con artists, accused murderers and just plain free-ranging dolts.
Speaking of all three:
George Bush would chuckle it up with a smug shrug and some fumble bumble Texas twang pulled out of the bottomless pocket of his nitwit pitter pat before Oprah's glaring brown orbs began to produce long, un-laughing pauses and suddenly-the man in charge of eight bad, ugly, idiotic and financially foolish years for this country-would come to realize he was surrounded by a sea of unimpressed faces bobbing calmly atop Oprah's Angry Ocean.
The guns in the Harpo studio are almost all female and they would be pointed firmly at his prep-school privileged grin as it slowly waned into a grimace and he knew the only way out was owning up to how