Usually I try to be funny. On rare occasion I attempt to make a point. But today? Today I am here to help. This is a serious time and collectively we are confronted by a very serious challenge.
So join with me, gentle reader – join with me and together we shall persevere. Join with me and, though all now seems dark and bleak and devoid of hope, together we shall somehow find a way to stop thinking about Barbara Walters having sexual intercourse.
Our descent into this punishing mental trauma began innocently enough. Last month, Walters – who has been a journalist of some renown since before the advent of high-def TV, and before the advent of colour TV, and of TV itself and also ink – released her memoirs, entitled Audition. This seemed a harmless enough development. We expected behind-the-scenes gossip, charming anecdotes about world leaders, perhaps a hint or two as to how she gets those celebrities to break down and cry (current conventional wisdom: cattle prod).
Lo, the media in its wisdom decided instead to seize upon Barbara’s description of a steaming hot sexual affair with a married U.S. senator during the 1970s. The relationship went on for years, she says. Years and years of a naked Barbara Walters having sweaty, sweaty sex where she takes her legs and she puts them – owwww! My brain! Something happening… Hey, I think I’m gay now.
[Twenty minutes of looking at this later.]
I think it’s fair to say the hallowed institution of adultery hasn’t been hit with a PR disaster like this since Bill unwrapped that Montecristo. But you don’t have to suffer. The trick is distraction. You need to focus your mind on less harrowing imagery, such as pretty flowers or John Goodman eating corn on the cob while shirtless, so that your brain has time to locate the neural pathways that lead to the image of Barbara Walters having sex, isolate them from the rest of the brain activity and set them on fire.
Is the process painful? It sure as hell is. But consider it useful practice for the future release of Dan Rather’s memoirs.
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