With a poster of Cheney above the weight bench. . .

This week's New Yorker has a "Shouts and Murmers" by Ian Frazier. Typically I read shouts and murmur's and then I say "meh" and then I look at the ads for cherry bedsteads and specialty bow ties. But I have to say that that this little piece on anorexia in the suburban middle-aged male got me chuckling. Like here:

The media hammers this image into our brains every day, but now I begin to understand: I can have the same glasses as Karl Rove, wear my belt like Karl Rove, wave from the insides of car windows like Karl Rove. But I will never be Karl Rove, so I might as well quit trying. Even Karl Rove probably can’t look as fabulous as Karl Rove. I have martyred myself trying to become a fantasy.

Awesome. I'm picturing men looking at Karl Rove on the magazine covers, and wishing they could have his thighs. I'm picturing teenage girls with autographed Karl Rove posters ripped from the pages of Teen Beat magazine. Finally, I'm picturing unsatisfied housewives all over the country letting their thoughts stray to Karl while there husband snores next to them. I think the country would be abetter place if this were true.

I want the world's women to want to touch him, to see him come out of a plain and to scream until they faint. To watch C-SPAN and C-SPAN 2, hoping just to catch a glimpse. "Oh Karl", they'll think, 'I'd let you assassinate my character anytime."