May 26, 2004

The United States of Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder

September 2001, The Onion: "A Shattered Nation Longs to Care About Stupid Bullshit Again." (No link available since they went premium, the bastards.)

May 2004, The Washington Post: "The Hill's Sex Diarist Reveals All (Well, Some)."

Mission accomplished, wouldn't you say?

I really don't have anything to say that hasn't been said already (and better) about this thing. I care about as much as I cared about Monica Lewinsky: It kinda sucks for her, but, well, that's what you get for thinking with your genitalia.

One overwhelming difference between Monica and Jessica: At least Monica humiliated herself for love. Jessica just did it for the money.

I hope she saved some of it, because if that book deal doesn't pan out (or, more likely, if it does pan out and then winds up overflowing the discount racks like . . . like . . . why, like Monica's book!), she'll find out what all whores learn eventually: Age happens. That's really my primary objection to prostitution--it's such bad strategy. No art to it at all. No long-range planning. Just bend over and take it while you can.

If you think about it, it's enough to make you envy the greeters at Wal-mart. Sure, they're stuck in that grisly polyester all day long, but at least they don't need to stock up on K-Y Jelly.

VAGUELY-RELATED UPDATE: The man's getting desperate: If Ace of Spades HQ doesn't get an Instalanche pretty soon, I'm afraid I'm going to go blind from reading all this utter filth and perversion:

"Looking to get lucky?" I offered with a wink.

"What you want?" she snapped, the necklace-chains of her bifocals jangling seductively, even wantonly.

"It's not what I want," I cooed. "It's what you want."

I let my raincoat fall open, revealing the fact that I was wearing a halter-style cut t-shirt that exposed my abdomen. I'd craftily drawn "cut lines" on my stomach with brown magic marker, giving the appearance of a nice six-pack. At least giving that appearance to a nearsighted elderly Korean woman.

"All this can be yours. For a price." I traced a line down the middle of my belly with a finger, making that "sssssss" hot-stuff noise.

"No sandwich after nine o'clock," she said. "Deli closed."

"I've got all the meat I could want right here," I whispered, trying to sound like Mickey Rourke before he got weird-looking. "Beef," I informed her, as I flexed a bicep and pointed to it. "It's what's for dinner."

"No sandwich after nine," she said. What a delightfully coquettish little minx Mrs. Kim was turning out to be.

And so the tango of desire continued.

As he says himself, read at your own risk.

Posted by Ilyka at May 26, 2004 01:08 AM in trivia

Another difference: Miss Lewinsky never put a chronicle of her exploits up on the web. In fact, she pretty much kept it to herself. (Not entirely, of course, but it's not like she was advertising the fact that she was getting probed by the CinC.)

Posted by: Sigivald at May 26, 2004 08:36 PM