Paul Ryan will be leaving us soon, and the folks at McSweeney’s are marking the occasion. I got a kick out of it. Here’s the start:
Sing to me, O Fox Muse, of that noodle-spined hero who traveled far and wide, born in Janesville, Wisconsin, the last born son of Dracula and a polo shirt. Many cities of men he saw on Listening Tours: men who were steelworkers, and coal miners, and men who toiled and farmed and hammered and sweat; he met with men with collars of blue and skin of white, and he made a very serious Listening Face at them, which was where he pursed his lips and nodded at three-second intervals, in this way fighting the urge to yell, “Your money should be my money!”
Yes, many cities of men he saw, and learned their minds, but he could not save them from — I’m sorry, is this right, Muse? It says he was trying to save them from being able to afford healthcare? He dedicated basically his entire life to that? That’s correct as written? Okay.
Yes, many cities of men he saw, and learned their minds, but he could not save them from the horrors and tumult of affordable healthcare, hard though he strove. Recall, Muse, how, as a young man, our hero helped care for his grandmother as Medicare provided for her late-stage Alzheimer’s treatment, and how there, he vowed before Gods and Men alike, that he would dedicate his entire life to making healthcare inaccessible not only to grandmothers, but also grandfathers, and grandsons, and granddaughters, and honestly, cancer-curing puppies wearing snow boots and scarves, if that kind of legislation were ever introduced.
It goes on. I don’t know if all the facts set forth about the hero are true. Did his kindergarten teacher really require each student to give a card to everyone else in the class “specifically to protect him”? I suspect not, but where it’s not strictly true, it reeks of truthiness.
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