My therapist always tells me that I won't do my self-esteem any favors by comparing myself to other people, so I don't. But that quack has never said jack squat about comparing myself to a spider, so I do. And every time, I end up losing, and my self-esteem spirals into a miasma out from which all the Snickers and all the Twix and all the golfers crotch hooks in the world cannot lift me.
Zod knows, I have killed plenty of spiders in my time. You would think that, after all that carnage, I would have cultivated a sense of superiority over the entire order Araneae. But consider the legacy of Charlotte A. Cavatica, who could rightly be regarded as the mother of bloggerism itself. Think about it: thoroughly unimportant and insignificant daily editorials in her web that changed the mind of the country bumpkins in charge of awarding blue ribbons at the county fair? That's exactly how people use the WORLD WIDE WEB today, OBVIOUSLY!! Well, that and for making lolcats.
So no, I don't feel superior. You were wrong for would-thinking that. I feel like a jerk, and so should you. Because while Charlotte was out there weaving words into her webs so that she could get "some pig" elected president, you and I were getting jerked around in grade school classrooms and not being taught the alphabet or how to weave webs or ANYTHING. And now, I can't even get a single celebrity endorsement for my Oscar the Grouch '08 campaign, all because I was not born a spider.
The practical upshot of my persistent illiteracy is twofold. First of all, I was not invited to partake in the making of this fine, quality video:
I mean, there's no denying what these women are saying. It truthfully is raining McCain. Hallelujah. Hosanna in excelsis.
Second of all, my write-in campaign for Oscar the Grouch lacks the muscle of this campaign, targeted at getting John McClane, hero of the Die Hard franchise of movies, elected president.
As none of you may recall, four years ago, I tried like hell, and at tremendous personal expense, to get Kenny Crandall from the movie Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead elected to the nation's highest office. And despite fielding a candidate that many considered more viable, and less intellectually dormant, than either John Kerry or George W. Bush, K. Crandall barely managed to muster 3,000 votes from among the entire American electorate.
I never had the coverage that they give to a John McClane candidacy, and it most certainly isn't raining Oscar the Grouch the way it's raining McCain. Obviously, in the face of this news, the Oscar '08 campaign is a totally lost cause. Because nothing beats John McClane. Just ask Hans Gruber. Or that scary fucker Karl that McClane hung from a bunch of conveniently placed chains after beating the crap out of him. Or any of the other German terrorists that held the Nakatomi Plaza hostage that Christmas Eve 20 years ago. Or the planeload of escaping weirdo military psychos who got blown up over Dulles airport after McClane lit their fuel trail on fire. I don't think even Kenny Crandall himself could overcome that.
But I will persevere nonetheless, and my perseverance will know no bounds. Because if there's one thing I know how to do, it's to persevere in the face of not-worth-persevering-against odds. Which is exactly how I've managed to continue writing this ridiculous blog which you are the only person not reading. But screw this learning to read business - that is just NEVER going to happen. What am I, a spider or something?
Charlotte A. Cavatica
Wherever Dead Spiders Go
Hell, Michigan 48169
If John McCain gets elected, you have no one but yourself to blame. You are ruining America. Fuck you, you dead fucking spider.
Love and kisses and slow, painful death to all your spider children,
P.S. Do you know a good clothes-washing/dry cleaning service in New York City? Thanks loads.