I’m Sorry

by Rebecca Schoenkopf

I was watching Hud a week or three ago—and man, it’s no Cool Hand Luke; in fact, it was almost as boring as In the Heat of the Night, which we also watched, and which took the Best Picture Oscar for which Cool Hand Luke wasn’t even nominated.

The Oscars are very stupid.

But back to Hud! It was black-and-white and boringcakes, except for the confounding, even crazymaking, resemblance of Hud to one Mr. George W. Bush.

Was this a thing that people noticed during the 2000s? That Bush as a young man (we had all read the stories) seemed to model himself indelibly on boozing, lechy, nogoodnik Hud—played by Paul Newman, after all, so you’d see why someone without a great deal of insight would think the unsavory louse was a straight shot of hombre—trying to wrest the farm from his upright dad, offering to go mano a mano, old man? Or was it clear, as usual, only to me? The best part was when he tried to rape a lady: all id, that one, and no superego. “You are an unprincipled man,” his father told him, sober and crotchety like an old man should be. And then Hud invaded Iraq!

(Obviously, and so obviously it should go without saying, and in fact I bet even Maureen Dowd has said it, that’s how obvious it is, if Bush is Hud, our Barack Obama is Sidney Poitier, all calm and unthreatening and righteous and capable and you can call him Mister Tibbs.)

Somewhat later, we watched Last Tango in Paris. Squeal like a pig, yall! And then remember fondly, or whatever the opposite of “fondly” is, the scene where Brando asks his nameless amour to put her fingers in his bottom and then starts talking sexy to her: “And then you eat the pig vomit, and then go behind the pig and smell the dying-pig farts (while making love to the pig), will you do that for me,” yes, yes, oh you delightful psychotic you.

Frankly, despite my Bush Derangement Syndrome, that didn’t seem like George W. Bush at all. Drunken brutish Hud rape, sure! Derelict weirdo pigfart rape, no.

My god, this column is disgusting.

What I’m trying to get around to, and finding myself discomfited and unable—I mean, Jesus, I’d rather talk about lovely nameless French women porking dying pigs with their real purty mouths—is this: three years ago, say, in 2007, would you have believed it was Al Gore, upright citizen, who’d be in the ladyforcing hot seat?

I don’t believe he tried to rape that nice masseuse, but I don’t think she’s lying or crazy, neither. I think he thought he was being seductive. Like Al Gore is The Ladies Man, and wants to give you a glass of Courvoisier.

Oh, Al!

A lot can happen in three years. Three years ago, I was just putting my Al Gore 2008 bumper sticker on my Beetle, and when he declined to run, I switched my allegiance to John Edwards. A lot has happened to John Edwards in three years. I’m not sure if you heard.

Three years ago, I was unemployed, and then got a job, and then moved, and then quit my job, and now I’ve been unemployed for a year and a half! That is a lot that can happen!

Three years ago, the U.S. economy hadn’t yet cratered, or been attacked by pirates, or killed one of its oceans, or met Sarah Palin! That is a lot that can happen as well!

Three years ago, Lindsay Lohan was just getting busted (twice) for DUI, testing positive for the coke in her pants while still claiming it wasn’t hers, and it was Paris Hilton who was weeping salty jail tears, in jail! (Paris pretty much got jail time just for being a dick, and I am totally fine with that.)

The moral arc of the universe is long, but it bends toward justice. Lindsay, still not yet doing her time, but finally sentenced anyway at the very least, has been busy the past few days citing Article 5 of the UN Declaration of Universal Rights against cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment. She has been doing this, naturally, on Twitter.

Twitter started four years ago. That is ever so long of a time ago! I am pretty sure it’s a time I don’t even remember.

Three years ago, for my first story on this site, I wrote this. It’s a particularly misanthropic chunk of bile, about the housing market collapsing, and bringing the economy down with it, and how I was as glad to see that happen as your crunchiest nuttiest Bapto-friend would be to see the flames of Armageddon. Of course, when I thought it was going to bring down the economy, I didn’t think it would bring down the economy for me.

So I’m sorry, everyone. I’m sorry you paid $600 thousand for a Santa Ana ranch home whose interest-only payments were more than your take-home pay. I’m sorry you bought a boat and granite countertops. I’m sorry you’re such a dick, and ruined it for everyone, and by everyone I mean me.

Comments

Comments closed.