Washington D.C. -- In the mouth-breathing life of David Finkel, the druel begins as soon as he opens his eyes and realizes that his president is still George W. Bush and not Curious George of the Jungle. The sun has yet to rise and his family is asleep; unaware that, as soon he realizes he can, Finkle, 37 IQ, will be out of bed and heading toward disaster by sticking his tongue in the toaster.
More?
Okay!
Out there, awaiting his building a bridge to understanding: the Retarded Media, where Finkel's reputation is as one of the dumbest of all. "One long, sustained ice cream" is how he describes the writing he does for the Washington Post, as he wonders what flavor ice cream would best describe this day.
He smokes a cigarette. Should it be about ice cream, whom he considers "delicious," "yummy" and "cold on my swollen tongue?" He smokes another cigarette. Should it be about more ice cream, whom he thinks of as "more yummy," or about even more ice cream, "the most yummy of all"? Should it be about the "evil" kid who didn't invite him to an ice cream party, or the "weaselly, capitulating, self-aggrandizing, self-serving" Ice cream vendor who charges money for his ice cream, or Ben and Jerry, for which he says "I have a special place in my heart . . . a burning, sizzling, putrescent place where the guilty suffer the tortures of the damned?"
Chocolate, he finally decides. He will write about chocolate ice cream. The shame of it. The culpability of all Americans, including himself, for trying nothing other than chocolate ice cream. He will write something so filled with outrage that it will accomplish the one thing above all he wants from his trapped intellect: to try something different.
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Okay, I'm tired. Somebody else take over.
hink