I am Hubris the Great.
Virago is my queen, my muse, my ride to work at Burger King. She is wraith-like in the legendary sense of Guinevere after a few months hitting the crack-pipe, though my darling has been off that drug from the moment I told her that from here on out I would be her drug of choice. I cede all earthly matters to Virago, which is why every Tuesday night I park my galaxy-sized brain in the towel closet and sit with my domestic goddess to watch the TV show “Glee.”
“Hube,” said Virago last week, as she set down the bowl of popcorn and snuggled up to her King for the opening scene, “please forget the actors are twenty-million-years-old playing teenagers. It’s just a show. It’s fun.”
I resisted telling her that for a woman who never smiles to call something fun was tantamount to a Francophobe promoting Moliere. Then I raised my angel’s hand to my lips, and said:
“My dearest siren, I understand the concept of suspending one’s disbelief in order to enter a magical realm and thereby achieve a deeper appreciation of the human condition, but isn’t the guy who plays the student Puck the same age as the guy who portrays his teacher, Mr. Schuester?”
“Honey, who cares. By the way, their names are Mark Salling – that’s Puck…”
“You mean, he of the Mohawk that no doubt is treated with Grecian Formula?”
“No, Hube, he that is hot, okay?”
“And what is the name of the other senior citizen, the Schuester character?”
“That’s Matthew Morrison.”
“Oh god, hotter.”
There you have it, kiddos, hot older people, some veritable Methuselahs, capering like pixies on the small screen. They break into song at the drop of a melodramatic hat. They are supposed to be a rag-tag group of Ohio teens of philistine tastes and moderate talent, yet dance with the studied artistry Ballets Russe; trade verbal barbs that would make Oscar Wilde wish he had matriculated at William McKinley High School in Lima, Ohio; and resolve emotional issues as would a troupe of Freudian stalwarts.
“Pah-leeze, Hube,” said Virago, “I know you have it for Santana. ‘Fess up.”
I was stunned to hear the love of my cosmic life profess doubt in my adoration, but collected my composure in time to deliver a rationale worthy of a Reality Show tramp just caught flagrante delicto with the Brazilian national soccer team:
“Santana is nothing more than an amusement, a pair of silicone breasts given the best lines of the show save for those reserved for the ogre, Sue. I am insulted!”
“Chill, baby. I don’t care. Besides she’s the younger version of me, right?
“Yes, my sequined heart, you have a point, yes, yes.”