I Am A Pirate King

I'm still pushing paper and answering phones at the brain trust, and I am still convinced every kid on the Upper East Side has ADHD. My question is, how many of them actually have ADHD, and how many of them have Upper East Side parents? Oh, what a shitty place to raise your kids. How will they ever learn the fundamental lesson that life's a bitch? Oh, well, maybe they won't have to. Don't cry for them, Argentina. It's not the kids' fault that their parents are such arrogant shits, though.

Last night, I descended further into the bowels of reality TV with ABC's "Wife Swap," which marathon I missed thanks to the always illuminating presence of Ruth and the yoga workshop I attended. Holy shit, these people make poor Jo Frost, SuperNanny, look like Alistair Cooke. Sadly, because ABC is owned by Disney, there's no swinging here. That's a shame, because I'd really like to see John Q. Preppie discover the erotic maelstrom that is Jane P. Scullery Maid and vice-versa. I'm not really sure there's a point to this show other than pure exhibitionism, but who am I to visit judgment? Leave that task to Bitch magazine. I'm just a temp.

The swingin' couples in question were a professional organizer from Southern California and a woman of questionable employment means in Oregon who, along with her husband, have carved out a lifestyle based on "pirate-itude," which as far as I can tell, involves dressing up like a pirate and refusing to work a 9-to-5 job. Works for me! Is there some whole pirate subculture here I don't know about? Aren't pirates typically rapists and plunderers? The only pirates I know about, besides my friend in the Bronx, who just looks like a pirate, involve my beloved loser baseball team, and that's more about Pittsburgh than anything of the walk-the-plank variety. Speaking of, big deal, Mets, you beat the Pirates! I, too, can shoot fish in a barrel!

Anyway, so the professional organizer made the pirate chop off his ponytail and take a job in an accounting firm, which I was thrilled to hear him describe as "the most soul-crushing four hours of [his] life" and the scullery maid forced the kids at the anal retentive ranch to quit cheerleading and football and write a pirate play instead. Here's where I'm torn: I want to support the scullery maid to shake the Stepford kids' world up a little bit, but she didn't exactly go about it in the right way. Forcing a poor thirteen-year-old FemBot to ditch cheerleading and makeup at the drop of a hat is not going to bring about the subversion you crave. Why not start slow? Play her some Patti Smith; read her some Allan Ginsberg. Or start off even slower and show her some old "Daria" DVDs. (Birthday alert!) Don't go running about claiming you're Mad Sally. And Professional Organizer, I hate to say this, but I could use your help. As long as you don't force me to get a job in accounting or "take pride in my appearance," which is your codespeak for spending two hours on my hair and makeup, could you please come over and help me clean up my charming prewar apartment? I am really glad you're not my mother--you know things are bad when I'm grateful that I had Vikki the Crackhead pushing me out of her uterus--but I could stand to have a cleaner pad. Thanks.

Enough of the pirates. Please stop by tomorrow and check out my interview with the awesome Amy Guth, who has pirate-ittude to burn. In spades.