I just can’t stop being grossed out by Oprah.
The other day she did a show called “The Life of a Young Prostitute” or something like that. Lots of “very candid interviews” with ex-whores talking about their appalling lives, and of course Oprah making sure the women titillated her whitebread audience just enough with stories about “guys who like feet” and BDSM. And of course, the requisite “shocking footage.” Then she had some talking head chick “go undercover” at a prostitutey truckstop to film a sting operation. The talking head chick kept calling the women “suspects.”
What about the pornsick fucktards who buy the women, or the lowlife maggots who traffick’em? Why no “sting operation” where the talking head chick photographs johns and plasters their mugs all over national television?
Well, since shocking footage of exploited women (or, as Godly Oprah calls them, women who have “fallen from grace”) is a lot more gripping than almost anything, the talking head chick only devoted about two minutes to chatting with some prick who was doing 8 years for pimping teenage girls. Why, asked the talking head chick, suddenly stricken with a great notion, did the pimp think it was OK to sell women? He guessed he didn’t know, unless, well, maybe it was money. Brilliant stuff!
Back at Oprah HQ, with his stunningly ugly picture as a backdrop, Oprah’s jocular comment was that this fat bald warty white guy sure didn’t look like a pimp to her. Pimps always wear pink suits! Ha! She flapped her 3″ leopard-print Manolos in the air.
But I must tell you about the creepiest part! When the final prostitute, tear-stained and pathetic, finished telling her horrible tale of drugs and oppression, Oprah suddenly developed a lustrous golden halo, grabbed the woman by the head like some wacked-out Jim Jones character, got up in her face, and insisted that God had great plans for her.
“I want you to say it. Say, ‘I am not all used up!'” she ordered. The woman, used to being bitchslapped, asseded to her Svengali’s wishes. But it just wasn’t good enough. Oprah made her say it louder. I can’t HEAR you, crack-ho! Mercifully, I nodded off before Oprah could reward the poor woman’s compliance with a free 6-week hitch at Hazelden, or a new Buick.
I could maybe cut old high-heeled, lyin’-author-lovin’ Oprah some slack, though. Why? Come back in time with me now as we revisit South St. Louis in the year nineteen-eighty-something. I was sitting in my kitchen listening to the relentless, demoralizing thuds of books bombarding my windows. The bombardier was my insane abusive alcoholic boyfriend. I’d really steamed him this time, boy, by criticizing some insane abusive alcoholic thing he’d done, such as smashing in my front door in order to menace me with a butcher knife because I’d gone out for drinks with a friend, thus proving that I was an unfaithful cunt who didn’t appreciate his undying love for me.
The books he had chosen as missiles to express this wonderful undying love—you’ll enjoy this—were the prized self-help library he always carried around to authenticate his claim that, since joining AA, he’d become a great fucking award-winning sensitive peach of a guy. That dude just loved AA, probably because it did all his thinking for him, and the other drunks gave him what he stupidly believed was “unconditional love,” and he could excuse all his asshole behavior by saying, “but I’m in AA,” and after a while he they gave him his own acolyte to boss around. He talked about it incessantly, referring to it as “The Program,” which gave me the creeps. I actually went to a meeting with him once. I never saw so many deluded cult-smacked assholes in my life. I fled screaming. I have since learned that my instincts were correct; AA is a fucking bogus con. But that’s another post.
Meanwhile, back in my kitchen in the 80’s, as the biblioclasm continued unflagging, I happened to hear Oprah’s dulcet tones on the TV in the next room. She was still Fat Oprah back then, not yet the Voice of God, so she was sensibly advising some woman “Dump him, girl!” rather than menacing her with old-tyme religion. Her audience erupted in supportive sisterly applause as Anne Wilson Schaef’s Co-Dependence smashed through my window.
Whereupon a celestial choir began singing “aahh” and a brilliant light shone down and lo I did say unto myself, “Dump him? Brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that?”
So I called the cops, and that was the end of that asshole. Thanks, Oprah! A few years later I heard he’d relapsed after working his way up the AA hierarchy to Asshole-Suck-Up-In-Chief or something.
Anyway, I can maybe credit Oprah with being the right disembodied voice of pop-psychological reason at the right time, perhaps hastening the long-overdue cure of my Stockholm syndrome. Although I wish it had been Jerry Stiller screaming “Serenity Now!”