Before we welcome Rachel Maddow to the sausage fest that is deadman/party, we must get a few choice words and phrases off our chests in order to maintain the level of respect, tact, and decency that you may or may not expect from us. If you are now, or ever were a gender studies major, or if you ever even contemplated taking a feminist theory course in college, nay, if you even know what feminist theory is, we advise you to skip down to the next paragraph. Deep breath. Here goes: fists of fury, double-headed floppy dong, biscuit bumping, scissor grinding, rug munching, nappy dugout, ffm, four fingers, peacock feather, Lilith Fair, Rosie O’Donnell, bowfinger with a lapping motion. Forgive us if the following is incoherent; by the time we start the next sentence we’ll have typing fingers still dripping from a cold shower.
According to Ms. Maddow’s Wikipedia page, she was the first openly gay recipient of the Rhodes scholarship. Today marks another occasion of cardinal importance: Rachel Maddow has just become the first openly female recipient of the deadman/party brewski grant. In the world of cable news, journalism is a drink served tepid, one part testosterone to two parts editorial rhetoric. And yes, we too find amusement in Bill O’Riley’s depiction of a libertarian version of Bruce Banner, this close to losing it, or Keith Olbermann’s Sportscenter-cum-pundit pontificating. But we sense some unrequited sexual frustration in the latter’s obsession with the former. Come on now, if we locked Bill-O and Keith-O together in a cell, how long do you really think it would take before they started playing stinky pinky or a game of soggy cookie over a cup of prison fruit cocktail?
So maybe Ms. Maddow’s sexuality is a factor in our decision to put the Schlitz on our tab, but only for the fact that she doesn’t have to hide it behind religious convictions or a well-tailored pinstriped suit. And even if her eyes didn’t squint in the cutest way when she smiled, she’d still be on our list for gratis libations. Yes, when she preaches to us, she’s preaching to the choir—as we wear neither monocles nor mullets (well, ironic mullets don’t count)—but we still demand our liberal, pinko agendas be disseminated with grace and wit. And grace, as we define it, forgives even the most unflattering lady pants suit and occasional vocal fry. In any event, Ms. Maddow—can we call you Rachel?—have a seat and pick your poison. I hear they make a great signature martini here. Ah, we kid, we kid!