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Recently, I decided I had become far too civilized and it was time to change. Time to claim my proud, neglected simian heritage. Time to grunt, to get in touch with my inner maniac.
Understand, I am not talking about that Iron John, thumping drums in the forest with displaced accountants nonsense. No men's movement faux baboon stuff for me. I intended to become a swaggering menace.
Then I remembered the film "Falling Down," a Ditto-head wet dream wherein a crop-topped Michael Douglas goes berserk, assaulting the little people he purported to represent - much like any elected official. I liked the idea of cutting a swath of righteous terror, but wanted to use a bit more finesse.
I started with journalists, sending out a news release stating that the "Friends of Backyard Pests" would be making a major policy statement on starlings. The release noted that the press conference would include a buffet and free drinks.
At the appointed time, the hall was swarming with scavenging reporters. I seized the moment and took my hostages - the editorial writers for The Indianapolis Star and NUVO rock reporter Jeff Napier. On a personal level, Napier is a charming guy. Professionally, he's the Pauly Shore of journalism. Strapping Jeff to a desk, I forced him to read every column written by Marc Allen, in the hope he might come to understand how to write about music without chronic digression and rambling self indulgence. For The Indianapolis Star editorial writers, I was considerably harsher. I made them read their own editorials. All of them, starting with their astonishingly bigoted, poorly written assault on same sex marriages. For good measure, I cold-cocked the lot of them.
After a quick stop at a local ad agency, where I shot everyone connected with the Edward's Transmission radio spots, including "Edward's mother," I moved on to the government. Storming the office of reactionary homophobe Dan Coats, I gave him the ultimate punishment. I aimed a fan at his absurd comb-over, while roaring "You're bald, damn it! Bald!" Coats was then presented with a choice - reverse his bigoted political mayhem tout de suite, or I would cut off every hair he'd tortured from one sideburn across his skull to the tip of the opposite ear. Within minutes, the quivering Coats resurrected the Equal Rights Amendment and sponsored the most sweeping gay civil rights bill in our nation's history.
Moving on to Dan Burton, luck was on my side as I found Indiana's answer to Jesse Helms having coffee with celebrated fundamentalist loony, Greg Dixon. I herded the pair to a nearby parking lot, where I ran over both of them with a steam roller. Cartoonish villains deserve cartoonish deaths.
After a break for lunch, I cut a wide swath across the city. I pistol-whipped Black Panther wannabe Mmoja Ajabu. I really had nothing against the man, but I knew he'd be disappointed if a white guy went on a rampage and left him out.
I stopped by public radio station WFYI, where I demanded that management move Michael Feldman's wonderful comedy quiz show,"Wad Ya Know," back to its rightful Saturday morning time slot. If they refused, I would force their on-air staff to take Prozac, thus ruining their carefully cultivated zombies-on-downer's style of speech.
Leaving the station, I spotted a copy of The Indiana Word. The Word is infamous within the lesbian and gay community for its annoying combination of bitchy attitude, sloppy writing and horrible proofreading, compounded by the pretentious habit of using the British spelling of words. Few things are more irritating than combining incompetence with delusions of grandeur. I raced to The Word's editorial office, hog-tied the publisher and rammed a copy of The Elements of Style so far up his ass that he didn't even enjoy it. Exhausted, I returned home to rest and watch "Rugrats."
I had planned to finish my day by taking potshots at drivers who insist on making left turns after the light has turned red, but, unfortunately, the SWAT team arrived. Over the din of the negotiator's bullhorn, I paused to reflect on my actions. What had I done!?! Oh sure, the catharsis felt good, but what about my cruelty? Hey, Napier is my buddy! The Word once ran a piece calling me "the gay role model of the year." What kind of ungrateful monster had I become? How could I live with myself? My pistol quivered in my hand. The moment of truth had come ... and it went. My arrogance returned. Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke!
As I write this, I am preparing to take on the SWAT team, ala Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid. If I make it out alive, I'm heading west. I've got a hankering to shoot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.
(Ed would like it known that Ed's opinions are Ed's own, and any comments about said opinions may be directed to Ed his own self.)