Safari

Like any libidinous female of a certain age and political persuasion, I have a massive crush on Jon Stewart. It’s not a crush based on physicality – he’s not the sort of man I want to undress with my teeth - rather, it's a crush grounded in zoology.

I would like to hunt in the vast jungles of New York City until I find the elusive Jon Stewart. Then I will stalk this King of the Anchors until he is weary and unaware (usually right after he has gone for the proverbial kill of some old, lame Senator and is finished gorging himself on their hypocritical entrails). I tranquilize Jon Stewart! I capture him and spirit him away to my lair (but not before taking the requisite Glory Photo with me holding my ENORMOUS rifle, standing next to an unconscious [conquered] Jon Stewart). Once in my castle, I install him in an iron cage in my living room and tune the television to cable news. I ease into my distressed leather armchair, and I wait.

The Jon slowly awakens from his semi-stupor, clumsily wiping the drool from his face. The TV hums with MSNBC and CNN and Fox News. Olbermann disses O’Reilly who demonizes Dobbs who chastises Blitzer who misquotes Carville who slams Hume. The sound of familiar “debate” arouses the Jon. He hears the talking heads spewing their spin on the television, and he listens to the politicos stump.

Gradually, he begins to mock. His eyes roll. When he lays his head down on the desk in faux despondency, sarcasm drips from his mouth in a clear, steady stream. The TV shows footage of Powerful People making Important Announcements. Pretty soon, the dry humor overtakes the Jon. He is gesticulating wildly and shaking his head madly, and he rubs his eyes and throws his hands down on the desk and, exasperated, exclaims “He shot an old man in the face!”

I will squeal with delight! and clap! and giggle! and bounce up and down in my leather throne, all the while wishing that more Jon Stewarts were loose in the wild.