I can't stop watching the video of Sun News Network's Krista Erickson talking about the surreptitious and legally questionable handjobs that Jack Layton may or may not have received 15 years ago. No matter how hard I try, I just can't tear myself away from the computer monitor. I was like that when the story broke on television last night, but that only lasted for about 40 minutes before they returned to a re-run of The Source with Ezra Levant, already, as they say in the business, in progress. Ezra's a very nice man and all, but no one can kill a painful erection faster than him.
I haven't been able to sleep during the 13 hours since the the story broke, so haunted am I by Krista talking about it. In my mind's eye I keep visualizing her, with her golden tresses and banging little body, walking away from me, saturated tissue in hand. Perhaps she gives me a smile and a little wink as she turns to leave the room, just before the infernal police ruin everything. I can't even look at the Kleenex box beside my monitor without hearing the distinct sound of rattling coming from my groin. It's as if there are maracas in my jammies and I can't make the sound go away. I think that I'm getting double vision and I have an irresistible compulsion to shave my palms.
As I write this, I am naked and pale, just as Jack was on that good eve in January 1996. But there are no visions of Asian whores dancing through my head, oh no. Not today, brothers and sisters. There is only room for Krista in my head, my heart and my crotch.
All my life, I've heard people discuss how a news story changed their lives forever. Usually, it's the Kennedy assassination. People say that they'll always remember Walter Cronkite tearing up with a quivering voice after he announced that the 35th president of the United States had indeed been murdered in Dallas that November afternoon. I viewed that as sentimental nonsense, but no longer.
Last night was my Cronkite moment and I'm not sure that I'll ever see journalism the same way again. It was transformative, at least below my waist.
For good or ill, I'll forevermore associate Krista Erickson with socialist groins and moist tissues. And you know, I wouldn't have it any other way. That's not too kinky, is it? I think my feelings are actually a good deal more romantic than they probably sound.
If you'll excuse me, I have to go dig up my copy of Das Kapital. I'm sure it's around here somewhere.
Video sensuously stolen from Blazing Cat Fur
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