we're gonna need a bigger boat

Hi, my name is TRex and I’m a snarkaholic.

You know, after my last bad experience with an Atlas Vlog, I swore off the damn things forever.  No amount of public approbation nor even the coveted Wolcott link is worth the inevitable hangover.  I learned the hard way.  It’s a dirty high with an even nastier crash.  Just one and you’re the life of the party.  Do a couple and you’re on a roll.  But then you start to need them.  You don’t feel comfortable leaving the house and facing the world without them.  What at first seemed like an easy ride has started riding you, and it ain’t right.  And that’s when you start to realize you have a problem.

I did pretty well for a while there.  I admitted that I have a problem.  I started going to meetings.  

But then I went to see Gavin over at Sadly, No!, and that’s when I found out that S,N! is a gateway blog.  Gavin met me at the door and I was inside and sitting on the sofa before I noticed the blog paraphenalia on the coffee table.

"Gavin, what is this stuff?"

"Oh, nothing.  Just cutting out some lines, getting ready to do some snark.  You wanna get high with me?"

"No, man, I’m trying to quit.  You know, I started doing that stuff to fit in, but then I couldn’t stop.  I know it makes you feel good, but it isn’t cool."

Gavin shot me one of those looks.  You know the one.  

"Well," he said, "I’m gonna get snarked until my eyes cross, tonight.  I’ve got some really good stuff."

"Really?" I replied, curious in spite of myself.

"Yeah, Pam from Atlas Shrugs vlogging in her bikini."

"Do what?" I felt an awful sinking feeling in my stomach.  I went hot and cold all over.  This was beyond temptation.  I should have gotten up and left right then, but I didn’t.   "You’re kidding me, right?"

"Nope.  Look for yourself."

A million things ran through my head.  I thought about all the great things I’ve accomplished in my life since I quit.  I thought about the fact that my family is finally starting to trust me, again.  I got back my driver’s license.  I was even starting to climb out of debt.

"I gotta leave," I said.

"Suit yourself," said Gavin, sitting back in his chair and hitting ‘Play’.

I’ll just stay for a minute, I told myself.  I won’t watch the whole thing.  Nobody will know.  I just won’t inhale.

And that, my friends, is when all was lost.  Gavin wasn’t lying.  Pam, live vlogging from the beach, half naked.

Let’s all say it together this time.  Are you ready?

Uh.

Mah.

GAWD!! 

The video wasn’t even loaded and I was off to the races.

"Hey, Gavin," I said, "How come barracudas won’t bite Pammy?"

"Why not?" 

"Professional courtesy!"

"Nice," said Gavin, beaming, "One of our commenters asked whether or not someone that stupid can get in the water without drowning."

"Well, she’s got those emergency flotation devices on her chest.  That’s what they’re for, right?"

"I don’t think bags of saline float in salt water."

"Oh."

But then all coherent thought was blown away as the video really kicked in.

She says she’s vlogging from the beach because "duh HAAH-spital room was too duhpressing".  "How’s grayamma doin’ kids?"

"Fine," they reply.

"See, my kids are in denial," she says, "Juss like America!"

Do what, again?  So, her mom, or maybe her husband’s mom is in some hospital room dying and she’s having a frolic on the beach and vlogging about it?  Is she a reptile?

But then she’s off, spouting a bunch of incoherent (Pammy?  You’re kidding.  Incoherent?  You don’t say!) crap about "Security Moms", and urging them to "go back to Al Gore’s en-VYE-ruh-ment".  Uh, huh?

She’s bitching about Bush giving money to Lebanon, saying Israel got nothing (uh, since 1949, the United States has contributed $91 billion to Israel in military and other economic aid), that the Israel-Lebanon war began because Israel was "invaded", and that there’s no difference between aid to Lebanon and aid to Hezbollah.

Now, that’s a new one on me.  I didn’t know that Hezbollah runs Lebanon.  But you know, the Rightard’s First Rule of Engagement with reality is to never let the facts ruin a good story.

"Then yestidday," she goes on, "John Bolton announced dat dey-uh giving money to duh Pallies, not tuh Hamas, but duh Pallies…"

And then she starts hand-dancing.  That’s her new thing.  "Hamas," she says, holding up a finger like her "The Shining"-style imaginary friend is delivering this part of her rant, "Duh Pallies," she says, holding up the other finger, "What’s duh difference?"

Mmmmmm.  You know, it’s this kind of grasp of the deep nuances of foreign policy that make her the ideal interviewer for her paramour, John "I Am the Walrus" Bolton.  It appears they have the same view of the world.  The US and Israel on one side (the Always Right side, that is), and on the other side, All the Brown Muslim Hordes, who are building anthrax bombs and lipstick-tube explosives all the time, every day, as we speak.

At this point, the familiar feelings of dislocation and dizzying confusion were setting in.  I was starting to feel sick to my stomach.  The crash was on its way and the awful headache was already starting.

"Dude, Gavin," I said, although my voice sounded too low and seemed to be coming from somewhere very far away, "I don’t feel so hot, man.  This shit is fucking me up."

"Just relax," he said, "Ride the waves.  Take deep breaths.  It’s just a little stronger than you’re used to, man.  It’s okay."

"I dunno," I said, "I think I’m gonna puke."

He nudged a plastic bucket toward me with his foot.

"Happens, sometimes, man.  Just don’t freak out."

But I couldn’t keep it straight anymore.  Pammy was talking about someone named "Abu Donna".  I was losing it.

"Gavin, who’s Abu Donna?"

"The AG’s wife.  Mrs. Abu Gonzales," Gavin said, but I don’t think he was telling me the truth.

I had to stop.  I needed some air.  I was really about to lose it.

Next thing I knew, I was standing outside in the unforgiving sun, throwing up in Gavin’s boxwoods by the driveway.

"TRex," he said, standing, swaying slightly, in the front doorway, "Be cool, man.  The neighbors are going to call the cops if you stay out here.  60 foot sauropods throwing up don’t really go over well in this area."

I shook my head and spat, then hurled into the hedge again.  It was just way too much work to try and explain that I’m a therapod.

"I think I better go home, man," I said, "That shit hit me all wrong."

"Are you okay to drive?" asked Gav.

"I think so," I replied, wiping my mouth and eyes.  I probably shouldn’t have gotten behind the wheel, but there was no way I could go back in there.  My ears were ringing and black spots were swimming around in my vision.

As I drove home, I felt guilty; dirty and ashamed.  I had done so well, then threw it all away in an instant, just for a cheap thrill, a quick blast of schadenfreude.

Curse you, Wolcott, I thought.  It was him and Jane Hamsher that got me hooked on the stuff.  Jane was the one who told me about it and showed me where to get it.  Then Wolcott, like a good addict, saw in me another hard case like himself, so he sends me out to score it so he can link to it without getting his hands dirty.  Bastards.  And now here I am with a real problem that I can’t seem to stop.

Well, at least in the cheap hotel room that is Pam-snarking, I won’t be the only one frantically trying to dig specks of vlog out of the carpet.  Wolcott and Jane and Tbogg will be there, right?  Gavin, too.  It’s a spiritual sickness, but at least I’m in good company.

Still, there must be a way out.  I know other people have kicked the habit before.

I called Taylor Marsh.  She’s always seemed like a nice, level-headed girl.

"Taylor," I said into her answering machine, "It’s TRex, and I’m on the bad side of a vlog binge.  Please call me when…"

But then she picked up the phone, "Hello?  Hello?  This is Taylor."

"Taylor, it’s TRex, I did something really bad." 

"Was it Pam on the Beach?"

"How did you know?"

"I can just tell," she replied, "You sound terrible.  Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I’ll be alright.  How come John Bolton will talk to that…woman, but he won’t talk to you?"

"Because he’s a mental midget, and with her there’s not much of a fight about who gets to wear the ‘I’m With Stupid’ t-shirt."

I was confused.  "So," I asked her, "Who wears it?"

"They both do.  They got an extra."

Oh.  

"Well," I said, "They’re just two little peas in a paranoid, neurotic, apocalyptically stupid little pod, aren’t they?"

"Three if you count Judy Miller," Taylor wryly observed.

"So, what do I do now?" I asked.

"Just go home and sleep it off, T," Taylor instructed, "It’ll take at least 24 hours for the toxins to leave your system, and you won’t be much good to anybody until that’s over."

"I feel so dirty," I said, "I’m so ashamed."

"Well, just remember," she said, "Snarkaholism is a disease.  You didn’t ask for it and there’s no way to cure it, but treatment is an option."

"I don’t want to go to rehab!" I protested.

"Do you like living this way?" 

"No, of course not."

"Well, then you need to get some help.  You can’t do it by yourself."

And that is the reason, gentle readers, that I will be checking into Promises this weekend.  I figure it’s better to go of my own volition than to wait around for Jane and Christy and Pach to stage an intervention.  It’s always tough to struggle with an addiction, but it’s even tougher on the people who love you.

With God’s help, this time I’ll kick for good. 

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