You Love Yourself And I Don’t Know Why: An Open Letter To Paul Ryan


Dear Speaker Paul Ryan,


If you somehow happen to read this, Paul, I hope you have a shameful and infamous death. A Michael Hutchence/David Carradine-style death that your family will never be able to speak about and everybody laughs at.

There’s no way you haven’t choke-baited, Paul Ryan. In those lonely college nights when you and your friends talked about your dreams of privatizing health care, drying every vagina within earshot just by opening your foolish mouth. Going back to the dorm with a dry dick wondering why the girls weren’t into you. Just like the week before and the week before that.

But at least you’ve got your beachtowel and your Walkman. You step into the private dorm your parents rented for you. You slip the headphones on and press play. The soothing sounds of Paula Abdul reach through. If only Paula Abdul were here with you, right here right now. . . you would do good, bad and possibly illegal things to her.

“Rush, rush, hurry hurry love come to me. Rush, rush, I wanna see ya, I wanna see you get free with me.” I don’t need to say anymore.

Why are you alive, Paul Ryan? In a world where so many young people commit suicide and/or overdose on drugs, why do you get to walk around healthy and happy without any lingering self-loathing? Think about Kurt Cobain, Paul. You probably have or had Nirvana’s Nevermind, another hit record of the early ’90s. That guy had a terminal case of self-loathing. Self-loathing, shame. . . I mean, he killed himself, Paul. And that guy was good! I mean it’s easy to be contrary and say that Nirvana is overrated but we’re talking about Kurt Cobain’s self-image as opposed to yours, Paul. And most everybody would prefer that Kurt was here instead of you.

Some people hate themselves way out of proportion to how bad they are as people. Kurt Cobain, while no saint, shot himself. But he never voted to dismantle the health care system or voted to increase the deficit by over a trillion or give the wealthiest Americans an even bigger tax break. All he did was write and sing songs (and heroin) and hate himself.

You love yourself and I don’t know why.

I see this going two ways for you, Paul. Either you choke-bait yourself to death as I’ve mentioned or you jump out a window when the economy goes tits up and all your investments become worthless.

Window-jumping is a Great Depression-era piece of apocrypha where allegedly many stock market players took a post-Black Tuesday lemming leap after they realized the enormity of their debt and inability to get out of it. Many people committed suicide either by gun or hanging or gas but only a couple actually jumped from a roof or window.

But you know who didn’t kill themselves after Black Tuesday? Poor people. Which goes to show that a guy like you wouldn’t last a day in my shoes.