Oprahma

Much has been made of the following near-certainty: if a Democrat wins the '08 presidential election, the odds indicate we'll end up with either Obama or Hillary in the Oval Office, i.e., a black or female commander-in-chief -- historic firsts, both. Observing the uproarious media frenzy stirred up by the Oprah-Obama union over the past several days, methinks that a Democrat victory would amount to even more than a merely black or merely female president: we'd effectively be electing a black woman -- who, among other misdeeds, is responsible for foisting the bad odor of Dr. Phil up into the collective nostrils of the American public.

Now, before I proceed, I'll stipulate that I don't necessarily hate Oprah. It's somewhat difficult to root against a sexually abused black woman who rose up out of the abject poverty of the rural south to become the most recognizable woman in the country and one of the most powerful media titans in the world. A woman who leveraged her success into billions. And who routinely (if a bit conspicuously) applies her money and influence toward good causes. I readily concede that she deserves a measure of admiration and credit, however easy it may be to resent someone who introduced the by-now familiar thread of man-bashing into our social fabric and who can quite easily buy and sell me several million times over. Oprah's earned my respect, grudging though it may be.

Notwithstanding Oprah's accomplishments, however, the idea that our presidential election might be decided primarily on the strength of a celebrity endorsement is more than a bit distasteful to me. For, as much as I might concede that the goodwill Oprah has hoarded away over the years is warranted, the fact of the matter is that the vast majority of mindless saps who worship at her altar are less admirers of her charitable deeds than they are wide-eyed, slack-jawed fans of her reliably insipid gabfests with the likes of Julia Roberts and Tom Cruise. Oprah's got supercool, uberfamous friends, and she delivers them into our homes, much to our delight, for nutritionally-devoid consumption. In essence, the massive Obama conversion isn't being catalyzed by his stated policy agenda, or by his credentials and background, or even by his considerable personal charisma. Instead, everyone's lining up behind him on the playground because he's pals with the most popular girl in school.

Nevertheless, the cliche holds true: we're a free country -- everyone's entitled to express their vote in whatever shallow manner they please. Indeed, my votes over the last two presidential election cycles have amounted to nothing more than protests against the idea of installing a fucking moron into our highest elected office. So I'm personally familiar with the tendency to consciously ignore the intricacies of political platforms, and instead submit to one's basest, most emotional electoral impulses.

That said, when it comes down to it, I won't apologize for pooh-poohing the possibility that the next President of the United States of America might well piggyback his way into office, riding high on the estrogen-fueled adulation conferred not upon him, as presidential candidate, but upon Oprah, as the patron saint of an army of bored-senseless, easily-entertained, stay-at-home soccer moms.

OK. Enough of this big-people talk. Time to turn on the DVR and watch The Hills finale. (Yipee!)