Iowahawk.

The guy is on fire these days.

[L]ast winter I was slated to deliver the keynote address for an intradepartmental asshole colloquium at Lowell House. Running late, I temporarily parked along Plympton. As I emerged from my Audi, I discovered that I had captured the unwelcome attention of a CPD officer. “Hey Buddy, is that your car?” he barked.

“Why? Because I’m a Harvard faculty asshole in America?” I cleverly retorted.

“No asshole, because this is a snow route and you can’t double park here,” he sneered, concocting a flimsy excuse for his continued harassment. “You have to move it now.”

“That’s Professor Asshole to you, you fascist townie,” I explained, tossing him the Audi’s remote-start key. “Need a valet? Call your mother at the brothel.”

It doesn’t take an experienced asshole rights activist to tell you what happened next: my Audi was on its way to impound while I rode to the Cambridge Police Station in the unheated vinyl rear seat of Bull Conner’s squad car. To add insult to injury, the desk officer refused my request for a dignified background bookshelf for my booking photos.

Thankfully the Constitution still allows even Harvard Assholes a bare modicum of human rights, so I used my allotted phone call to alert the Dean and the Faculty Grievance Committee to my plight. In those 35 excruciating minutes I wasted away waiting in that stark cell, I wrote the opening chapter of “Letters From a Cambridge Jail,” my forthcoming scholarly magnum opus on the grim legacy of Asshole oppression in America.

Eventually my arrest record was expunged and I agreed to meet the loathsome arresting officer at President Faust’s office for a conciliatory off-record “beer chat.” As the University Counsel had predicted, the lure of free limitless alcohol proved irresistible to the simpleminded Irishman, and he was soon happily signing confessions of guilt and abject apologies. Still, even after he was fired, I was left to pick up the pieces of my shattered psyche.

As I recounted the details of that unpleasant encounter to my colleagues, a few wondered aloud if we were not better served by changing the system gradually. Then our eyes turned to the stately historic portraits of the Harvard faculty assholes who came before us, hanging in silent judgment on the Douchebag Room walls; Schlessinger, Galbraith, Leary, Cornel West, Alan Dershowitz, Theodore Kaczynski. Would these great assholes have accepted complicit silence in the face of crude police insolence? How will we be remembered by future generations of Harvard faculty assholes who will battle future generations of Cambridge police and parking enforcement officials? Where is Sergio with the damned dessert cart?

Oh, and—what’s funny about us, Dave? Are we clowns, just here to amuse you with our jokes and our cleavage?

Don’t tell Hitchens, though—he’d be crushed to find out that some women (including some very attractive ones) are, in fact, funny.

Watch his face, though, as he discusses, Johnny Walker in hand, how misunderstandings of his essay are annoying, and “time-consuming.” There’s a lovely little Mona Lisa smile afterward that contradicts his words beautifully.

Come on: humor is driven by brains, hostility, temperament, and testosterone. In Hitchen’s case, it could also be related to the pleasure he takes in seeing American women open their mouths really wide as they laugh. Suddenly, a passage from his feature article on blowjobs in the New World comes to mind:

There is another thinkable reason why this ancient form of lovemaking lost its association with the dubious and the low and became an American handshake and ideal. The United States is par excellence the country of beautiful dentistry. As one who was stretched on the grim rack of British “National Health” practice, with its gray-and-yellow fangs, its steely-wire “braces,” its dark and crumbly fillings, and its shriveled and bleeding gums, I can remember barely daring to smile when I first set foot in the New World. Whereas when any sweet American girl smiled at me, I was at once bewitched and slain by the warm, moist cave of her mouth, lined with faultless white teeth and immaculate pink gums and organized around a tenderly coiled yet innocent tongue. Good grief! What else was there to think about?

See? All men are rapists. They rape us with their minds, and their typewriters, and their knowledge of dentristy. And their cars and their houses and their 401(k)s . . .

Tagged as: Christopher Hitchens, Dave Burge