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On Hiatus
The Punahou Kid, and you miserable wing-nuts, need some time off.


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You’ve probably been wondering where I am and what I’m up to, living my glamorous life here in Hollywood — an endless round of nightclubs, parties, movie openings, and ten-buck lunches at little Vietnamese burger joints in strip malls when I’m between projects — but the truth is: nothing much. Like His Serene Majesty the Emperor Barack Hussein Obama II, Lord of the Flies, Keeper of the Hoops, Master of the Greens, Bringer of Kinetic Military Action, Vacationer-in-Chief, Slayer of Osama, Atomizer of the Economy, and Protector of the Holy Cities of Honolulu and Chicago, I am on vacation, except minus the armored personnel carrier buses, Air Force One and Two, the Blue Heron Farm, and the media horde.

Not that I’m standing in one of those unemployment lines in Atlanta, fainting from the heat. My vacation is more of a fashionable staycation, which is why I’m writing this from the pool deck at my palatial pad here in Echo Park, where the weather is always exemplary, the Dodgers are right next door, and the stillness of the California nights is only occasionally disturbed by the sounds of gunfire.

But it’s not just me who’s on vacation. You can stand at the intersection of Wilshire and Doheny and swing the Ishtar trailer in any direction and hit an unemployed writer on his way over to the WGA screening room to see a movie somebody else wrote.

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Except for us A-listers and sequel specialists, nobody’s working, and I hear that’s pretty much true in the rest of the country, although our problems are of course much more serious than yours. After all, you can always get a green job digging a ditch someplace, whereas we are staring at the loss of an entire fantasy world based on your appetite for comic-book superheroes, video games, graphic novels, and Olivia Wilde in various stages of deshabille.

Nevertheless, no matter how tough times may seem, I want to assure my fans on the right that we out here in L.A. have not lost our faith in the Punahou Kid. After all, this is a town where every third Prius still bears a “Kerry-Edwards” bumper sticker, which is our way of sticking it to the man for what happened in Ohio in 2004. It’s true that some weak sisters have stripped the souvenir Obama insignia off their cars and their script covers, but they quickly discover that henceforth they are regarded as enemies of the people and so find themselves on the completely nonexistent industry blacklist and, shortly thereafter, out of work forever, the ungrateful bastards.

But Dave, I can hear you odious wingnuts asking, how are those poor doomed souls any different than the rest of you anti-American show people lolling by the Pacific breakers as you await your unemployment checks? After all, isn’t this what you get for feeding the public a steady diet of anti-Bush war movies, anti-war Bush movies, and Conan the Barbarian? Everybody in Real America’s got better uses for their dwindling supply of disposable income than to plunk down $80 or more for four tickets, a couple of hot dogs, soft drinks, and some greasy popcorn, and call it a night out with the wife and kids.

Naturally, I am totally unsympathetic to that argument. Out here, we regard it as your patriotic duty to support Hollywood, since we will promptly recycle the cash you’ve won by the sweat of your brow working in some Dickensian coal-fired electric plant right back to King Barry and his minions at the DNC. In other words, we put country before party, unlike you bitter dead-enders who are unaccountably resisting the Fundamental Transformation that we know is good for you.



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