What Happens After This Photoās Snapped Is Not āAmusingā
ā¦.but Reader! I swear! The Dickhead has it coming!
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Iāll just put the case before you, Beauteous Reader, OK? Iāll tell you everything. Iāll conceal nothing. Then, when the final results come in, and we learn if the Democrats still hold or lose the House, when the sheriff arrives at my cabin, puts me in handcuffs, and hauls me away, you can go to the district attorney and tell him that Iām innocent, all right? Deal?
So, hereās what happens directly after the above photo is taken:
I get this Ask E. Jean email.
Dear E. Jean:
I just found out that my ex-boyfriend is one of the podcasters who repeatedly blasted out Speaker Nancy Pelosiās home address in San Francisco and provoked that maniac to nearly kill Speaker Pelosiās husband.
I think my ex is planning something worse for tonight.
Wait, let me back up a minute. When I met him two years ago, he was a funny, gentle guy, a bit of a bumbler, but extremely kind and handsomeāa fiscal conservative, yes; but he was a social liberal, and an adjunct professor at Columbia. He volunteered at the ASPCA, had wonderful friends, a great apartment, and had just sold his first book. E. Jean! He was into gardening!
Then, without warning, on July 4th this year, at a friendās barbecue, he announces heās ādone the researchā and heās convinced that Biden lost the 2020 election, that Trump āwon by a landslide,ā and that āNancy Pelosi is a problem.ā
Well, we all thought he was joking! When he KEPT harping on it all the next week, I convinced him to see a respected therapistāa woman whoās acclaimed in New York academic circles for counseling people manipulated by conspiracy theorists. But apparently he was so charming and persuasive the doctor told him she did ānot see a problem!ā
By August, he was exercising two, three hours a day and had dropped a really unhealthy amount of weight. By September heād lost his job, his book deal, and spent his entire 401k buying all sorts of top-end podcast equipment. By early October he was broke. He now weighs about 130 (down from 205), has ended our relationship and has moved into his great aunt Agathaās ground floor apartment.
Donāt worry. I donāt want to know how to āget him back.ā I want to know how to STOP him. Heās cooking-up some horrible eventāIām not certain whatābut Iām pretty sure heās podcasting it tonight. Iām also concerned about his great aunt Agatha. Sheās a celebrated surgeon at Mount Sinai, and back in the 60ās she was a hell-raiser for womenās rights. I donāt think sheās safe. Iāve never met her, but sheās over eighty years old, and Iām afraid he might be holding her hostage and emptying her bank accounts.
E. JEAN! Please! You said last month you were getting into ākickingā shape and that the next letter you receive complaining about a man, if you had his address, youād āpay him a short visitā¦. and set him straight,ā so here it is:
He lives at [Redacted] West 15th Street, New York, New York. His wretched name is [Redacted]. Heās on the air RIGHT NOW podcasting Nancy Pelosiās whereabouts near D.C. Please stop him, E. Jean! Iāve called the Capitol Police and the D.C. Police, but please!
Sincerely, Alana Graziana Balofelli
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Most Gentle Reader! What do you wear when you āstraightenā a chap out?
Me? I pull on my buff-colored breechesāas sturdy a pair of pants as you ever clapped eyes onālots of CLINCH in the knees, lots of BRACE in the backsideāall the better to squeeze a scoundrel in a leg-lock till his ears bleed.
And what shoe do you chose, Beauteous Reader?
Me? I open the front door and just shout out three or four times to my dog Guff to āBRING ME THE GODDAMN RIDING BOOT YOU RAN OFF WITH,ā and when I come back inside and see Guff sitting in his chair and starring at the fireplace mantel, I say:
āWhosgottheboot?ā
And when he looks at the fireplace mantel again, no one is more surprised than Your Advice Columnist to spy the lost boot exactly where I had put it after Guff nearly chewed off one of the pullsā¦ā¦as ACTUALLY shown in the photo!
So, shod, breeched, shirted and jacketed, I bid adieu to the cat, say farewell to the dog, exit the cabināa hovel which looks like it was built by Henry David Thoreau and decorated by Lewis Carroll with itās chimney polka dotted in blue and yellowātraverse my little island with its new high jump pit, its the river thundering by in front, and the little creek rolling behind, walk across the footbridge, mount Mr. Wickham, whom yāall have met on a previous occasionā¦
and tromping his manly accelerator, off we go Up Up Up Up Up Up Up Up Up Up Up Up Up Up Up Up Up Up the driveway leaving nothing behind us but a wake of grass, mud, sticks, small logs, blue asters, yellow leaves and rocks.
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The address on West 15th turns out to be a craggy, long-lived old brownstone set in a small courtyard with a front door of oak at the top of a long curving flight of steps. The entire structure, courtyard, garden, garden-floor apartment and house is enclosed by a fantastically lethal iron fence with long spikes like javelins, upon which I immediately picture my entrails hanging, because from the ground floor apartment comes the dim sounds of a man talking about killing Nancy Pelosi, and it becomes clear that I must jump the fence to get in.
Incomparable Reader! You recall my saying I would be āworking on my kick,ā right? You remember that when the wise students of Fort Wayne South Side High School voted me Best Girl Athlete in 1959 because I was a nationally-ranked high jumper, they chose with brilliant foresight, right? And you have not forgotten that I promised I was going to get āback in shapeā in order to deal with the problems men were causing the Ask E. Jean correspondents and that I would (after my cataract surgery) do my squat jumps, my box jumps, my split jumps, my three step jumps, my five step jumps, you recall that promise, Peerless Reader, right?
And so now you are no doubt wondering what kind of MIRACULOUS shape old E. Jean must have gotten herself into because you noted that I can I actually hear the treacherous swine talking about killing the Speaker of the House? Reader! I am merely fitted with my new hearing aids, and Iāve got these babies TURNED UP!
And so, to continue: Backing up fifteen steps, centering my brain, and commending myself with all my heart to Nancy Pelosi, I run at the fence, and at the last moment, just before I swing into my mighty kick, lift off and, no doubt, impale myself on the spikes, it occurs to me that perhaps I should try to see if the gate is unlocked.
I try it. It opens, and, thanking the Ask E. Jean gods, without losing another moment, I enter the courtyard, approach the windows of the garden apartment, and peep through the slats of the zebra blinds inside.
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I donāt know what I expect, Readerāor what you expectāweāve all seen many a podcast studio in our dayābut youāve never seen a dark, ominous Eames-chaired, low-lit, brass-sconced studio like this, unless you slept with Marcel Proust in his famous cork-lined boudoir (which I would not put past one or two of you.)
Anyway, sitting at a table in the heart of this dismal sound-proofed extravaganza, with his back to the windows, behind a massive iMac, and wearing headphones the size of throw-pillows, talking into a Neumann U 67 Large-Diaphragm Tube Condenser Microphone the size of a shovel, is the skinniest man Iāve ever seen in my life. And although I canāt see his face, my very innards are vibrating to his high-pitched curses and shouts.
I step over to the garden apartment door and give it a knuckle.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Nothing.
I walk back and tap on window.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Nada.
Disappointed Reader! Take heart! Although Iāve kept my temper when I hear Ted Cruz, Marjorie Taylor Green, Glenn Beck, Tucker Carlson, Megyn Kelly, Elon Musk, and other right-wing half-wits circulating sinister bull hockey about Nancy Pelosiā¦ā¦..when I hear Ichabod Crain yodeling the exact address āwhere Nancy is at this very moment,ā I lose my cool. And, swearing the vengeance of the Septuagenarian Advice Columnist, without further ado, I crash my boot through his window.
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The sound of shattering glass shivers up and down 15th street, and, yetāweirdly!āThe Thin Man just keeps howling his instructions to his listeners:
āYou guys are pussies! You cocksuckers with your deer-in-the headlight eyes, you dumb fucks canāt even find one old crazy lady? You losers! I want to tell Speaker NancyāHey, listen cunt, the gloves are off, weāre cominā for youā¦.ā and so on and so forth. He does not even turn around when I reach inside the shattered glass of the window, open the latch, push the window up, and sit down on the ledge of the sill.
Reader, we have all seen Die Hard. We know this will not be pleasant. With a tremendous heave, I thrust myself off the sill and fall downnnnnnnnnnnnnn into The Thin Manās āstudioā with a tremendous SPLAT. My withered carcass hits the floor like the body which lands on the roof of Sergeant Al Powellās cop car. Also, my crawling around, moaning, and searching for my right earās hearing aid which has fallen outānot quiet. And still The Thin Man gibbers on:
āYou sons of bitches! Whatās the fuck your problem? You want to stand there with your hands up your ass telling ME you canāt locate Crazy Nancy? Iāll beat your asses, you goddamn failures! Iāll shove my ā¦..ā
Slowly I get to my knees, haul myself vertical and shout:
āSTOP TALKING!ā
But on and on The Thin Man gibbers: āYou pieces of shit! You stupid mother fuckers! You fucking goddamn fuckersā¦.ā
I walk up behind him, and, after pondering the dark-carob hair growing down the back of his neckāa neck the circumference of a toothbrushāI say: āPardon me,ā reach around him, take hold of his $7,000 microphoneāthe thing weighs as much as ball peen hammer, and yank the cord out of it. And yet, I am astonished and amazed to see he goes on yelling:
āListen fuck heads! I told you! I told Crazy Nancy. You each got one job! You cocksuckers gotta grab Crazy Nancy! And Crazy Nancy, you gotta get fuckedā¦.ā
āExcuse me,ā I say, stepping up beside him, āplease, permit meā¦.ā and I pick up his half-full Starbucks venti and pour it on his keyboard. He goes on shouting: āGet that through your goddamn heads, you pussiesā¦..ā I fling the keyboard to the floor and stamp on it. He goes on yelling: āWhat are you waiting for? Crazy Nancy aināt gonna put those zip ties on herselfā¦ā¦ā His Apple mouse? I heave it out the window I just came in. Reader! He is oblivious! āNancy, you monstrous cunt!ā he shouts. āNancy, you bitch! Nancy, weāre coming! Prepare to die as just punishment for destroying ourā¦..ā I have the dream-like feeling I can do anything I want. Iām standing so close to him I can feel his chair arm against my thigh. After examining him for several seconds, I turn my attention once more to the microphone. Itās unplugged. Itās off. And itās clear from the obnoxious gibbering, The Thin Man thinks heās still podcasting. I study his setup. Then I spy his iPhone.
Impetuous Reader! Youāve killed a couple of iPhones and Androids in your day, right? But these new ones are bricks. Nearly indestructible. I nudge his phone to the edge of the table, raise that million-dollar mic over my head and bring it down on the iPhone screen with a thundering CRACK!! Nothinā. I clobber it again! Again! Again! Again! Again! Again! Again! Turn it over and SMASH! SMASH! SMASH! SMASH! SMASH! And all along The Thin Man is rocking back and forth in his chair hooting to his listeners: āWhatās the matter? You canāt find Crazy Nancy? Are you the losers who fucked this country up? Are you too dumb to find one old woman and gang-rape the shit out of herā¦.ā
āThatās it!ā I say.
I lift his headphones off his ears, hurl them across the room, tip his immense iMac over, haul it off the table, jump up and down on it CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH! and, almost breathless and nearly out of my senses with fatigue, and still clutching the table for support, I kick his chair over backwards with him in it, fall upon him, and say:
āYouāve just sniveled your last podcast, buddy!ā
Reader! See how exhausted I am?ā I mean, reallyā¦.. ābuddy?ā
Itās at about at this point The Thin Man slides open his snapping-turtle eyes, stares at me four or five seconds and says in wonder:
āWhoā¦ā¦ are you?ā
āIām your surprise podcast guest.ā
He glances around the room, notes the damage.
āCunt,ā he says.
āAre you interviewing my vagina on this podcast?ā I say.
āYou ugly piece of shit! Shootinā your mouth off, cunt? You atrophied old hair trunk? Shut up, you goddamned whore!ā
And just as Iām about to deliver the drollest retort of my life, which I have now completely forgotten, imperishable though it is, The Thin Man throws me backwards, and we roll across the floor going for each other, and by āgoingā I mean heās trying to kill me and I, astonished and terrified at how strong he is, am trying to stop him from killing me, in the course of which he lands on top of me and gives me such a mighty blow on the jaw, a tooth flies out of my head.
Heās lining up a second punch which will surely knock my head into 15th Street, when a voice says:
āYou hit her again, William, and Iām cutting you off.ā
I look up.
Above us, in a gorgeous mist of pearl-grey hair, a rosy woman is frowning down upon us.
āAunt Agatha, I presume,ā I said.
āIndeed,ā she says. āOn your feet, William.ā
āAunt Agatha, listen,ā he says, standing up.
āNot another word, William,ā she says. āI have heard you say things to this womanāāshe pauses and looks at me closely, as I am trying and failing to get to my kneeāāE. Jean, right? I follow your case. How are you?ā
āHowdy do?ā I say, āIām excellent, Agatha, just lost a tooth. Can you help a girl up?ā
Agatha and I are from the generation in which we will call one another āgirlsā until we are being served the formaldehyde cocktails in our caskets.
She switches her cane to her left hand, grasps my paw with her right, and, as she hauls what remains of my carcass upright, she says to The Thin Nephew: āI have never in my life heard a man say such things to a woman as you said to E. Jean tonight.ā
āYou should have heard what he said about Speaker Pelosi,ā I say.
āNancy Pelosi?ā she cries.
I canāt say if foam actually flicks from her lips, but she grows about eight times her height and says: āNancy and I were at school together in Baltimore. We shared our first box of Kotex. We fought shoulder to shoulder to win her first election! Nancy Pelosi is my lifelong friend!ā
āWell,ā says The Thin Nephew, like heās about to give her a real spine-freezer: āYour lifelong pal not only destroyed democracy, her daughter Alexandra Pelosi makes films of her motherāyour bestie Nancy Pelosiā torturing small boys when they refuse to have sex with her husband. I can show you the films, Aunt Agatha.ā
āI am Alexandraās godmother!ā
āDo the research,ā he says.
Agatha squares her knees, looks at him like heās a pomegranate which she is about to slice in half, and says:
āYou are cut off, William!ā
āAunt Agatha!ā
āNot another penny.ā
Now, Gallant Reader, as this conversation continues for some time, with the Idiot Nephew claiming to the Valiant Aunt that Nancy Pelosi personally kills a three-month old baby every evening at midnight, Iām just going to take a moment to tell you, that as itās going on, I notice that as soon as the Valiant Aunt says to The Thin Nephew that he is ācut off,ā The Thin Nephew begins slowly moving towards a bookshelf, and when she pulls out her phone and begins telling her attorney to āstrike the young doltā from her will, The Thin Nephew takes a gun off a shelf, and, aiming at the Valiant Aunt, says:
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