2005 - Vol. 2, Issue 1

Why do I tell
Sister Ann Raymond
about my parents?
Why does she look at me
as if her veil might burn,
as if she might take up
some angelic sword?

If you've read my last two humor columns, you know that I've been on a 2004 wrap–up satirical bender. I've made fun of advertisers and journalists and people in power who wouldn't recognize an ungrammatical sentence if it was a tomato–sized pimple on the tip of their nose.

In this final essay, I'll be examining (with one of those lighted, magnifying mirrors) one of the biggest zits on the nose of American culture: "reality" TV. And let me tell you, it's begging to be popped.

First I must admit that, yes, I did entertain a brief lust for American Idol. But I've moved on. I hardly even think about Kelly, Clay, and Ruben anymore. Their photographs under my pillow are just ornamental now.

The sign says. Out back is a field
laid out like a rifle range,
with a row of arcade mallards
posted into bales. Behind the starting line,
sweat–suited women, dutifully cued,
take turns in a whistle blown surge
assaulting the ducks,
punching them with boxing gloves,
shouting names of those who've caused them pain —
critical parents, abusive ex–husbands, prodigal children,
siblings, boyfriends, bosses, neighbors —
attacked for a multiplicity of sins,
omission and commission,
as the beaked ones spin and bounce back,
grinning, ducklike and profane.

   The floor mat before the door to my apartment is
one of those scruffy types made of some strong

synthetic fiber which most likely originated as a
chemical byproduct from 1950s nuclear testing.
Adding

to its radioactive qualities is the fact that after
rescuing it from the curb over a decade ago, I painted

it