Matt Yglesias: Forever Alone

The Conscience of a Liberal

“Awake!” Paul yelled, after a few seconds of tugging on Ezra’s chain and receiving no response.

“Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D demands that you awake!”

Matt looked up from the opposite side of the chaise lounge, his sad beard dripping. He had fallen asleep in his water bowl again. Soon he felt the yank of his own chain.

“Matthew! Wake up, Matthew! Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D demands that you see why Ezra will not attend me!”

Matt pulled himself of the cushion he slept on. The morning was already hot and the leather pouch Paul let him wear was already filled with sweat. Matt sniffed the air cautiously. He smelled old chicken salad and death. Edging around the flailing bulk of Paul, he could see Erza face down on the patio, his bare ass presented to the sky.

“Dr. Krugman,” Matt ventured, “I think something is wrong with Ezra.”

“Wake him. Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D demands his morning pail of mimosas.”

Matt nudged Ezra’s side with his foot. Ezra toppled over, a thin river of blood, shit and semen dribbling out of his gaping asshole.

“Dr. Krugman, I think he’s dead.”

“Nonsense. Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D never told him he could die. Quickly, Matthew bring Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D his computer. Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D  must blog about this tragic failure of the disgusting  American for-profit health care system before the Supreme Court rules! SCOTUS must know! Damn you, Scalia!”

Matt found the laptop, half-buried under the pile of empty Chardonnay bottles, fast food wrappers, squeezed-out lube tubes, and raw cookie dough hunks melting in the merciless sun that was always piled up next to Paul. Matt made no move to clean them up. Paul would just scream at him if he removed it before his questing fingers scraped the last of the cookie dough from the deck.

Paul grabbed the laptop from Matt greedily and balanced it on his distended, hairy stomach. The computer slid off and Matt caught it.

“Sweaty. Damn this heat! Matthew! Remind Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D to write another column about the global climate change crisis! Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D must find away to get through to those rednecks and fucking teabaggers that it shouldn’t be hot in late June. We are doomed, Matt! Doomed! Take the bus! Matthew! Buy Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D an electric limo. Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D demands an electric limo!”

“Dr. Krugman, should I call an ambulance for Ezra?”

“Most certainly not. An ambulance trip costs, what three, four million dollars? Just roll him off the side of the deck. The poor and the downtrodden of the city can find a use for every part of him, like when dear Elizabeth dresses a buffalo.”

“Whatever you say, Dr. Krugman.”

“And where are Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D’s mimosas? You know He must write! Only He can save this country!”

“Right away, Dr. Krugman.”

“Wait, Matthew. My darling Matthew. First call UC Santa Cruz and find a replacement for Ezra. Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D is sure they have someone as honest and loyal and intelligent and thin and beautiful as he was in the student body. Have him brought to Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D immediately!”

Matt scurried off to find a telephone, his chains clanking, bare feet slapping on the rooftop. Quietly, too quietly to be heard over the furious hammering of Paul’s typing, the bruised lips of Ezra whispered, “Go Banana Slugs.”

Meanwhile, Back At The KrugCave...

Paul rubbed more oil into his matted pelt of chest hair and crumbs. The sun was rising behind the Washington Monument and the lounger groaned and creaked as he struggled to reach his tofu and rum smoothie. His other hand scratched absently at the angry red strips of assflesh that squeezed themselves out between the lounger's elastic bands. The Nobel Prize that he normally wore around his neck was tucked in the crevasse formed by his left moob.

He drained his glass and roared "Servants! I demand service!" Ezra and Matt bounded from their cubbyholes like retarded hounds. "Herr Doktor," Matt slurred past the zippered mouth of a gimp mask, "vhat do you deshire?" Ezra's high-pitched giggle ended with a hiccup and a fart.

"What prizes have I won today, Matt. I barely tan through all this hair and I need a pick-me-up." Paul flicked away a fly feeding on the insensate flesh around his nipple. It fell to the ground at Ezra's feet, dead.

Matt stammered. "Noshing, Herr Doktor. Not shince ze Nobel."

"Nothing? NOTHING? I'M A GODDAMN GENIUS!" Cats scurried from where they lay in the sun. Paul winged the empty glass off of Matt's exposed genitals. Ezra automatically dropped to his hands and knees, exposing the deep anal fissures that radiated out onto his pale and pimply buttocks. The stench was unbearable. He would die soon of Fournier gangrene, but there were a hundred more like him coming out of Sarah Lawrence College every year.

Paul struggled to stand. Corporashuns had used advertising and unbearably hyperpalatable food to balloon his weight. He shoved the moaning Matt to the ground and kicked him over onto his back. "Oh, I'll get a PRIZE! PRIZES ARE MINE!"

Paul began pissing into Matt's mouth. Matt choked and gagged and swallowed and smiled.