Today, the gossip website Gawker posted a piece entitled, "
I Had a One-Night Stand With Christine O'Donnell." It's with a heavy heart that I feel I must make this post.
I barely knew Gawker when she showed up at my door. I had seen her standing next to an alleyway on my way to work, with a paper cup soliciting money. I could see the desperation in her face. She had clearly failed at everything in life, and was resigned to the fact she was going to have to spend the rest of her days being very poor and knew that no matter how hard she tried she would never accomplish or produce anything of value. I took pity on her, giving her a few dollars to buy food, every now and then, against my better judgment. I knew the more people who came to see her would only be an encouragement to continue to waste her life.
I invited Gawker in to my apartment. I had heard through a mutual friend that she had miraculously found a job but was still living on the streets. It was Halloween night, and I thought Gawker was dressed up as a hipster. I complimented her on her costume, only to awkwardly discover that she was not actually wearing a costume. She told me these clothes were the only thing she could afford because her current job did not pay much. I asked her what she did for a living, and she said, "I basically mock people who are successful or famous or who have made achievements in their lives on a group blog." After she said this, I could see she was ashamed. "That's great. Snark is very popular these days," I said in an effort to make her feel better. It didn't work. She tried to fight back tears. "Yeah, but I do it without being witty, clever, original, funny, or amusing in any way whatsoever. I'm like Maureen Dowd only without the inflated reputation and salary."
I was on my fifteenth beer, and offered Gawker one, although I could tell she had been drinking heavily as well. We sat on the couch and chatted for a few hours and several beers. At some point, Gawker began to awkwardly make passes at me. I tried to ignore them, but no longer could when she stood up and took her jeans and thong off. The aroma of tuna filled my apartment, and it was clear the whole "dealing with feminine odor" trend had passed her by. I was taken aback, not so much now by the smell, but by the sheer size of her labia. "Good gawd, Gawker! There's a surgery for that you know." She almost started crying again, but fought back the tears and bravely said: "Actually, this is the result of surgery. I was born without genitals. I was told of a very inexpensive plastic surgeon in Tijuana who specializes in constructing genitalia for those born without genitals. He was recommended to me by Keith Olbermann. But as I said, he's inexpensive and in Tijuana."
At this point, Gawker broke down. Sobbing, curled up in the fetal position, she managed to say: "I'm a virgin, but not by choice. I'm an embarrassment to my family. My job doesn't actually require me to produce anything. I sit in cramped cubicle, in the dark and without heat, desperately searching other websites for tidbits I can put in a post along with a sentence or two mocking whoever is the subject of the tidbit. I turn my nose up at those who disagree with me while attacking them for being intolerant; I mock those who aren't as hip or as talented as me, but I'm a complete loser who has never had an original thought; nothing I've said could be classified as interesting, only as sad, pathetic, and ironically ironic. Also, I have large labia. I'm just like Maureen Dowd only without the long, long, long list of one night stands."
At this point, Gawker asked if we could see each other again. I told her maybe out of pity, but I knew the answer was no. After this display, I knew it was best if I never saw Gawker again.
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