In 1954, Hank Ballard and the Midnighters released “Work With Me, Annie,” a song dirtier than the sub-basement of Jack Abramoff's soul. If I were a brilliant modern satirist, I would now write the following without ever referencing the song. Time might put me on its cover. The New York Observer would send me roses every couple of weeks.
Steal from me, Annie. Steal from me, Annie. OO-wee, steal from me, Annie. Steal from me, Annie. Steal from me, Annie. Come take it while the takin's good. Annie, please come cheat. That'd be real, real sweet. Oo-hoo, wee-ee. So good to me.
And so on. You may go take a shower now. I'll wait.
Just so everyone knows, I have several Personal people in my life, not including those in my immediate family, which includes my Personal Wife and all three of my Personal Children. Elsewhere, I have a Personal Agent, a Personal Mechanic, a Personal Yard Guy (twice a year), several Personal Editors, and my Personal Fencing Coach, a jovial Egyptian who weekly tries in vain to teach me a beat-Four attack with an epee and then retires outside to smoke a cigarette and wonder why the Pharaohs blew town and left him with the likes of me.
So, I had a bit of free time at the end of a long couple of days, and I'm floating around the Web, and I come upon this little masterpiece from the man who wrote a book about Woody Guthrie that damned near ruined Bruce Springsteen's music for all of us.
Look down there, Joe. See it? Way down there below where you're at right now?
That's the shark.
I despair often of my Beltway brethren. Most of the time, I feel it's time to march most of them out of Washington forcibly and intern them in a work camp and re-education center somewhere in the northern Smoky Mountains.