Every once in a while, someone in the public eye spouts something so completely off base that it borders on the ridiculous.  I respectfully chronicle those vacations of mental pragmatism in a segment I like to call CHRONICLES OF PEOPLE MISSING THE POINT. 

So I had this nightmare recently (try 10 minutes ago) where I was sitting in a room filled with 5th graders in a media class taught by my friend, Chris Matthews.  I’m not sure if he too was in the 5th grade, but really, who can tell with those pinchable cheeks of his?  I was an adult sitting at what felt like a Fisher Price school set. 

Chris, wearing a crisply pressed academic robe, wrote ferociously on the chalkboard the following question:

Why has the level of discourse in the media sunk to such shocking levels [NOTE: Instead of a question mark, he drew a picture of a middle finger.]

Like the echoes of yester-year, my right arm flew up practically dislocating itself from my shoulder.  A 9 year old Larry King laughed at me until I wiggled from my desk and drop-kicked his back pack down the aisle.  His glasses fogged he wailed so much.

Chris didn’t call on me.  Bastard.  Why don’t teachers ever call on me?

Chris:  Rita?

Anderson:  I thought Rita Cosby was in the slow class!

Chris:  Mr. Cooper, your attitude better do a 360 turn-around, my friend.

Boo:  Then he’d be back where he started.

Chris:  Rita, do you have anything you’d like to contribute to the class?

Rita:  Larry Birkhead said Dannielynn has Anna’s eyes.

She pulled a nut from her cheek, sniffed it, then ate it.

Chris:  Anyone? … Fine.  Boo, why has -

Finally my moment had arrived!  I sat up as straight as I could in my midget desk.

Boo:  You see, Mr. Matthews -

Chris:  Is my father here? 

Chris darted out the door to look down the hallway.

Chris:  Shit!  My brick of hash -

Boo:  You are Mr. Matthews, retard.

He froze, trying to recover his cool with a grin.  It didn’t work.

Boo:  Can I continue?

Chris:  Go ahead.

Boo:  You see, unlike in the days of Edward R. Murrow, news divisions have to make money.  Since money comes from advertising dollars, ratings drive the content of newscasts instead of news.  So stations have to broadcast more and more bizarre things and bullshit news stories to drive ratings and keep the ad dollars flowing. 

Chris:  Really?

Boo:  Well, yeah … That and the fact that you continue to treat people like Ann Coulter like journalists.  Elizabeth Edwards asking Ann Coulter to refrain from personally insulting people to sell books is like asking Dick Cheney to read the Constitution!  She even admitted that insulting people and writing books are the same thing to her!!  She’s fucking Andy Kaufman in drag!!!

Keith:  Worst.  Person.  In the worrrrrrrrld!

Anderson:  She said fucking!

Rita:Where’s your sense of decency?

All:  Shut up, Rita!

Chris:  Folks, can we regroup here for a second?

Chris looked so mad his cheeks were the color of Rita Cosby’s hooker lipstick. 

Chris:  It’s just … It’s just that …

Boo:  What?

Chris:  She’s ratings gold!  Gold as her beautiful, blonde hair …

Boo:  There, there. 

Suddenly we were transported back to Chris’s high school room decorated wall-to-wall with pictures of Yoko Ono.

Boo:  Really?  Yoko Ono?

Chris:  SHE HAS A BEAUTIFUL MOUTH! 

I could tell right away that between me and a two-dimensional Yoko, not many girls had set foot in this room.  My pity kicked in, and I gave Chris a little hug.  He then completely ruined the moment by trying to feel me up. 

Such as it is with my friends in the media – they paint the target and miss the point.

Congratulations.  Your certificate is in the mail. 

 [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uxgVuB3TyaU]

Dearest Ann,

What are you doing?  When I told you, via the Blackberry you bought me, that we had to cool things off, you called me every five minutes.  You stalked my work.  You sent me your underwear that you wore on Hannity & Colmes. 

What can I say to you, my darling?  This is all my fault.  I should have been more specific that it was just that weekend.  Don’t get me wrong, it was beautiful.  The sun glistening off your perfect Mystic Tan.  Twilight strolls down the halls of PNAC, praying Kristol wouldn’t rear his fat head.  The way your Adam’s apple bobs up and down as you spout hateful, yet crafty, diatribes about those whores – the 9/11 widows. 

Your mouth, when you’re not using it for talking, is amazing.  The way you use it – your pout, your smirks, those cocky little up-turned pauses you make between ill-timed remarks.  Your breasts, two shrinking raisins smuggled across the border by illegal immigrants, brush your training bra like a boy’s nipples.  Your knees, masculine yet boyish, knob together as you strut your stuff.  Yes, it drove me crazy.  I couldn’t take it.

It was beautiful, Ann.  But it was fleeting, and we knew it couldn’t last.

I was hurt by our last conversation.  You tried to emotionally blackmail me by suggesting you’d end it all if I broke it off.  I didn’t believe you, and I admit I said some hurtful things. 

Boo:  Ann, if you kill yourself you still won’t be dating me!  That won’t really solve our problems now, will it?!

You:  If I kill myself, I won’t put in a good word for you with Maher, and you’ll be a second-rate liberal blogger for the rest of your liberal little life!

We hung up on each other.  We disconnected, physically, mentally, and emotionally.  And now, to get back at me, you use homosexual slurs to get my attention.  It hurts, Ann, because you and I know what we had was special, even though it had to end.

Words can hurt, Ann!  You’ve hurt me!  I admit it!  Isn’t that what you wanted to hear all along???  I hurt you; you hurt me back.  There.  It’s done.  Just don’t bring the entire political realm, all gay and lesbian people, and the John Edwards campaign into our lover’s quarrel.  It’s embarrassing, and it’s beneath you. 

My dear Ann … it’s all so very much beneath you …

We’ll always have PNAC and the beautiful memories we made. 

All my love,

Your Pookie BooBear