Condit Slams Media for Lack of Publicity

alifornia Congressman Gary Condit, upset at his absence from national headlines lately, has vowed to do "whatever it takes" to get his name back in the public eye again soon.

Speaking today at a rally in a town square in the heart of what he refers to as "Condit Country," the long-time member of the House of Representatives and noted blow-dry enthusiast told a crowd of five hookers, three migrant workers, a homeless man with a skinny dog tied to his shopping cart and a pair of ten-year-old skateboarders that he was determined to become the "number one story in all America" once more.

In a rousing bit of oratory, the Congressman pointed his finger at the crowd and said, in a voice that hardly sounded at all as if he'd been taken over by space aliens, "What do I have to do, kill another intern? I'll kill an intern, if that's what it takes. That's how dedicated I am to you, the people who vote. When you go to the polls, I want you to remember the name Condit. Of course, it's not as if I've already killed any interns, you understand. After all, I do have a solemn agreement with the Levy family that I will not talk about the murder or subsequent disappearance of their daughter, Chandra, or any of the particulars of my personal involvement in that bloody business, but I'm just saying, I'll go that extra mile for you. Because I care about you, and I care about your votes."

Privately, Condit blamed the media for his recent lack of headlines.

"Ever since that ridiculous dustup in New York, it's gotten harder and harder to get my picture in the paper," he said with a grimace. "In just one short week, I went from twenty-seven national face shots—and I mean front page!—to zero. Zero, zip, zilch, nada. Hell, I had to send a publicity photo of me holding a bloody knife along with a stack of hundred dollar bills laced with anthrax to the Enquirer just to get a bottom-third headline a month ago. Bastards."

Acknowledging the fact that he could possibly lose an election for the first time in his political career, Condit admitted that he did have a backup plan, just in case.

"In that event—which, according to my staff and my family, is highly unlikely—I do have a contingency plan. My contention is that there's no such thing as bad publicity, and I'm willing to do whatever it takes to keep my name out there for the public. So, if for some unforeseen reason we actually lose this election, I've got a provisional contract with the MGM Grand Hotel in Las Vegas to do six shows a week under the billing 'Gary Cee and His Spectacular Disappearing Interns.' Hell, I could make millions just doing that," the Congressman admitted. "Those bitches work cheaper than you'd ever imagine, and there's never a shortage of supply."

Asked how he would handle a return to life outside the Beltway, Condit brushed off the idea that it would require a big adjustment.

"You know, I came up the hard way," he said, "going door to door selling hair-care products and blowing guys in gas station rest rooms for pocket change. I know what it's like to have to scrabble. Just don't you worry about me, bub, I'll get along fine."

In response to Congressman Condit's remarks, the Levy family issued a prepared statement through a designated spokesperson, who said, "What the fuckin'-ay cocksuckin' hell? Shit! Shit-fuck! Fuck that shit! Fuckin' fuckety goddamn motherfuckin' fuck."

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I knew one of these seasons it would happen, and that day is finally here: Every team in Major League Baseball stinks this year. Just plain stinks, every last one of them. Sure, somebody still has to win every game, but this year it's less about winning and more about not losing quite as badly as the other team. And I don't have to tell you it's as painful to watch as the rodeo at the Special Olympics.

Granted, some fans see fit to remind me that it's still early in the season, and that for at least a few teams, early suckocity will be transformed into mere mediocrity by season's end. But I don't buy it. Suck is a stink that stays on you for months, if not years, like gas station cologne. And this year, the entire league stinks like "Consternation for Men."

The bitterest part of this pill is the fact that at least a couple of these teams were supposed to be half-way decent this year. The Red Sox just won the World Series, for crying out loud, giving their fans unprecedented high hopes about not having their whole miserable lives remind them of smoking a turd like a cigar for a few short months this season. So naturally, they turned around and "re-vamped" their pitching staff by signing one guy most known for a goatee that looks like a thatched doormat and another so old and out of shape that he recently went on the disabled list with a pulled finger. And the Sox had to fire their team doctor after learning that Curt Shilling made it through last year's postseason on an ankle held together with glitter glue and spunk. Gross, I know, and I didn't even tell you whose spunk it was.

But truly nobody can statutorily rape high hopes like the New York Yankees. Fielding a team so expensive and inept it should qualify as a socialist government program, the Yankees seem determined to prove just how much caviar a drunk can barf up on the national stage this year. Some see this as the inevitable result of the team's policy about not signing any players who are too young to remember M.A.S.H., but personally I'm more likely to blame it on the fact that the team's run by a character from Seinfeld. Learn your history, folks. That never ends well.

Who else is sucking? Take your pick. The Cubs? Like you needed to ask about the Cubs. That team could field an entire roster of Jesus Christ clones and still find a way to have the whole lot of them go down with sandal splints and blown elbows from high blessing counts and excessive water-to-wine conversions. They've got the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost all on the 60-day disabled list, and I don't think the Holy Ghost will even be back for next season.

Houston's entire team has been too focused on the Social Security debate to keep their minds on the game at all this season, and San Francisco has been crippled by the fact that they traded the best closer in the game for a catcher who could get kicked out of the Hell's Angels for being an asshole. Also, they just got news that doctors found a Fraggle living in Bonds' left knee. I don't know what that says about the whole steroid debate, but those designer Jim Henson Mupplements he's been taking are starting to look mighty suspicious.

Washington? The joke this year is that they gave Washington a team, but haven't given them any equipment yet. Still, those guys are doing pretty well considering they've been using milk cartons for gloves and are playing in their street clothes. Minnesota fell for the old "The season starts on May 1st" gag again this year, so they're already twenty games back, with some serious catching up to do. Atlanta? Fags. Sorry, but they are a bunch of fags. Read the team's press kit if you don't believe me. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Sure, a few teams may have decent records so far, but don't kid yourself. The Dodgers? The White Sox? Check the records a little closer guys, it wouldn't surprise me if at least one of those teams was being run like Enron and is just writing off dozens of losses as "extended spring training" or some other dodge. You'll know I'm right if they're still 16-6 in August.

But contrary to what some may assume, you won't hear me complaining about the state of things. Not more than usual anyway. I actually kind of like it when teams suck major egg, as a fan it gives you more to talk about. Blathering on about who's pitching great or who just hit a home run so far it killed a hang glider gets real old, real fast. But the details of pathetic performance can be dissected on into infinity with no loss of enjoyment. Just ask a Cubs fan.

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I'm more pissed off than a liberal watching Fox. Believe it or not, I've been fired. Yeah, fired—me! What an insult.

It wasn't the commune, if you've been wondering. I'm still employed here, though I'm commuting back and forth between the coasts and will probably try to spend less time around the office. People give you funny looks here and always bum money off you. And I'm starting to feel a little sorry for all the foreigners they hire to be inanimate objects, but I guess it's better than not having a job at all. Which reminds me—I've been fired!

I lost the job as Metallichick to that infernal usurper, Jayme Kristofson. The same chick who's suing me for libel. You'd think she'd at least have the decency to drop the lawsuit, but I haven't heard word yet. Although come to think of it, filling the mailbox with concrete may have actually worked at staving off the lawsuits and bill collectors. But either way, I don't suppose I'll be worried about the mail. I have to job hunt. Did I mention I got fired?

I had a shoot for the comic book and the new graphic novel (that's like double-time work) right after 2004 started and, of course, was still celebrating New Year's when I was supposed to be there. Or sleeping off celebrating New Year's. I told them ahead of time I take a little time to unwind after the year changes over, so they really shouldn't have scheduled anything on the 5th. So I woke up around 10 a.m. or so, the 8th, and realized I had totally missed the thing. I called Nat and he was pretty pissed off. He said he hated to do it, but he had to let me go. Of course, I didn't believe him. He was laughing too hard to sound like he hated it.

It wasn't losing the money that bothered me so much. I can supplement my income making meth at home to cover the bills until then, same as when I only made money working for the commune—or I suppose I should say "money," like "in theory, it's money." I'm not sure, but Red Bagel assures us it's better than money in Costa Rica, and good at any Footlocker outside the continental United States. But I have more than enough shoes. I suppose what I really have to worry about is the rent and shit. Since I got fired—I got fired, by the way.

Money is money, though, and I can afford a break from work. Like I did before, from 1989-1997. It's the all that prestige I lost—shitloads. Being Metallichick to all those pockmarked, glasses-wearing comic book nerds was the closest thing to real fame I had since they cancelled Who's Your Daddy?. All those geeks, endless streams of them, asking me where I carried my broadsword when they didn't see it drawn there, all those lame and pointless questions, it reminded me of being a young TV star and all the times those reporters asked me what I said when people offered me drugs.

Down again, I suppose. I spent so much time doing personal appearances at comic books and additional cover shoots and collectors' cards and all that bullshit I basically pissed away my independent film career. But if anybody's used to going from the peak of fame to the pit of existence—like the commune—it's Clarissa Coleman. So I take the rotted turnip from the earth like Scarlett O'Hara in that movie and shriek out with contempt, "As God as my witness, I'm going to be real fuckin' famous again." I mean, like J-Lo famous, only without everybody hating me.

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