Folks be askin me, Mark, what’s goin on out there in Ken-tucky? Welp, I’ll tell ya. It’s boiling hot, full of auto transmission stores and fast food outlets, and dull as death. Hicks are dropping dead on the streets from this new thing called “The Heat Index” which finally formalizes what most sane people have known all along: Humidity bad, coastal West good.

You’ve got to wonder about the genes in people who’ve stayed in heat indexed states for generations and generations. One of these days, I’ll describe the external manifestations of these genes to you. Believe me, there’s a LOT to describe.

What else is going on? Oh yeah, almost forgot: Chandra Levy is still missing. And, uh, don’t tell anyone, but I got a funny feeling that she won’t be pressing her redial button any time soon. She’s missing because Congressman Gary Condit milkcartoned her — yep, he done milkcartoned her gooood. I know who’s getting my vote in 2002! This is a man who knows how to get things done, a man who knows how to legislate! A man who, in 2001, said “Enough!” and fought back against the Tyranny of the Psychobitch. A man who said, “I’m not going to take it anymore!” A man, in short, who made milkcartoning your psycho exgirlfriend a federal law.

This is what 2001 will be remembered for, and it’s a good thing, a watershed year in men’s rights. It started with Robert Blake, who was a trailblazer, so to speak, in fighting back against his American psychobitch. You’ve gotta love Blake’s m.o. — the plan was so stupid and desperate that it actually worked. He took her to a restaurant on Melrose Ave, checked his piece in at the door (earning him seemingly-harmless Hollywood bad-guy creds), then dragged his psychobitch out to the car where he plugged her with his other gun, raced back to the restaurant all self-effacing for having “forgotten” his registered handgun… and then returned to “discover” that the psychobitch had been plugged in the head by someone else — Huggy Bear? — putting an end to years of harassment and misery at the hands, flapping gums and squirting eyes of that most vile of America-specific creatures, The Psychobitch.

You go, Bobbie!

Think I’m just being naughty, posturing? Folks, I’m a man of the people, echoing mainstream American thought here. If you don’t believe me, look at the Gallup/USA Today poll published in Tuesday’s USA Today: an overwhelming majority of Americans believe that Congressman Condit is involved in Chandra Levy’s “disappearance”, and yet this same overwhelming majority believes that he should NOT resign! The American people aren’t saying, “Give the man his due, he’s innocent until proven guilty…” Nu-uh. They’re saying, “Waytago, slugger! If only I had the courage to milkcarton my psychobitch!”

Most American men, and even a lot of women, have had to suffer through psychobitches like Chandra Levy — and most of us take the long, rough road out of that relationship, a road full of false detours and stranded possessed motorists, instead of doing what Gary and Bobbie did: eliminating the problem directly and for good. Shutting its whiny mouth down and burying the evidence (in Bobbie’s case, the gun; in Gary’s, the body).

Americans, at least on this score, are downright sane. In fact, they’re following a venerable tradition begun by the ancient Greeks, who brought us representative democracy and the syllogism. In this case, the American public’s syllogism can be represented thus:

All Congressmen who milkcarton their psychobitch girlfriends should not resign.

Gary Condit is a Congressman who milkcartoned his psychobitch.

Therefore, all men admire Gary Condit.

We’d like to be him, but in truth, all men are probably more like me. We get rid of our pschobitch girlfriends passively, patiently, painfully.

Employing Kinison’s Theorem, we know that the only way to get rid of them for good is to go crawling to them in a moment of weakness and need. The psychobitch’s obsession over you will evaporate in front of your eyes as you plea for her emotional support. In the same way that a paramecium will react to stimuli in predictable ways under laboratory conditions, the psychobitch will react to your pleas for caring and sensitivity with vicious indifference and disappointment, and after her brief period of kicking you while you’re down, her interest in you will finally die, and she’ll move on to a new host creature. As Dr. Kinison says, “It works! It’s flawless!” Although he was ascribing a little too much character to the female heart when he added, “And the funny thing is, she feels bad because she’s leaving you…WHEN YOU NEEDED HER MOST! AH-HAH-HAH!” In fact, she doesn’t feel bad. She just does it because that’s what her genes instruct her to do.

God knows I’ve had my share of psychobitches. Even here in Kentucky, adhering to a strict regime of talking to no one, I’ve managed to have a couple latch onto me — one even now as I write this. They’re attracted to me somehow, the way liver flukes always manage to find human livers. Or how candiru fishlets always find a urethra to swim into. That’s the parasite that only feeds on the inner wall of human male urethras. Its got curved spines that make it impossible to dislodge once inside; the only cure is amputating the penis. Compared to the candiru fishlet, a psychobitch is like a mild cold! That’s why God invented the candiru fishlet — to make women appear to be not so bad.

Yeah, and compared to the Sudanese, I got it good here in Kentucky. But that’s no consolation, folks. It just means that Sudan is not next on my list of places to visit.

What the fuck is it with America anyway? All the women here are either psychobitches or tragedies. There are no shades of gray. The flat truth, it’s always less interesting, less Chekhovian, than we’re led to believe.

So I comfort myself with Gary Condit’s triumph-of-the-spirit tale. I’ve even started composing secret transcripts to imagined taped conversations in his office from the days and weeks leading up to Chandra’s milkcartoning. Haven’t yet figured out why Condit would tape himself, but that’s no problem. In my fantasy, I have him in his office, powering a soy milk double-latte with his aide Ron Phelps. It’s late evening. He’s in the office because he’s afraid to go home. The beeper goes off:

GC: [beeping noise] Christ, it’s her again. She’s paging me, that crazy Jew-broad.

RP: You mean the intern.

GC: The Jew-broad is really causing me problems, Ron. I don’t — she’s saying things, crazy things.

RP: The Levy girl, right? Not the stewardess.

GC: I shouldn’t have fucked the Jew-dentist’s daughter. That was my mistake.

RP: I believe he’s an oncologist, sir.

GC: Plenty of Christians in Modesto. God what a shithole it is there. I worked hard to get out of the Central Valley, Ron. I’m not letting this crazy Jew-bitch drive me back.

RP: No one has worked like you for the people of Modesto, sir.

GC: The Jew-broad calls and calls. Fucking beeper [inaudible] plans for children, plans for living together. I told her! I was very clear, and she always said she understood. Then, blam! The Jew-bitch changes on a dime, wants me all for herslf.

RP: Sir, we can’t let her go public. It’ll ruin everything you’ve worked for.

GC: I know, I know.

RP: The American people, and the people of Modesto, need your service, sir.

GC: I shouldn’t have fucked the Jew-dentist’s daughter, Ron. I screwed the pooch on this one.

RP: Is there anything you’d like us to do, sir? Check her records, her past, make threats.

GC: Nah, don’t — no, I’ll, uh, take care of — why don’t you go home, Ron. I’ll, uh, take care of this. Just give me a few hours alone. And Ron, if anyone asks, you and I spent the night working here together, ok? [end of tape]

What’s so sweet about all of this for the millions of men who have had to suffer the obsession of a psychobitch, is that now they — we — have a model. A hero. Someone we can point to and say, “Yeah, hey! I’m not gonna take it anymore, Gary’s shown me the way!”

Just grab your psychobitch the next time she cries about you not marrying her, or threatens suicide, or calls your parents and friends to cry about you and invade your life from every angle–grab her, and show her that oh-so-sweet photo of Chandra, the one they always put on the news, and say to her, “You wanna be next?! The gloves are off, ye tormenting demon!”

Meantime, we can all start fighting back by ordering T-shirts with Gary Condit smiling, a big ring of white milk around his lips, and in big mocking letters, “Got Chandra?”

I think the right people will get the message.

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