Testing, testing. Is this mic on? Yo, bitches, yo.
The time has come: erstwhile Cooper and his erstwhile career of erstwhile and ersatz reportage could really liven things up in Cairo and his own "undisclosed location" (either this was a sex joke by CNN or Andy's taken a shining to former VP Dick Cheney) by bringing in Kathy Griffin.
Griffin can pinch his ass, make jokes about what a bourgeois prig he really is, then do real reporting for him, hold his winkie for a little leakie, love.
Antijournalism has been born, that rough beast sloughing towards Bethlehem and Madison Avenue (though it's better to take the subway than cabs, gets you there faster, and be sure to avoid Broadway if you hate heavy traffic...).
Griffin loves to talk-talk-talk about Cooper and his mama--Gloria Vanderbilt--and really knows where to hit the Coop where he lives...the seat of his pants, naturally, and we know what's written on it, in blood.
My only request to Kathy: honey, we really don't want to see what's underneath those clothes, please! Cover! Happy New Year! And Cooper's looking eerily like Culkin-as-Alig these days. Just sayin'! Egypt?! Those cats love the military there! Democracy? They've probably killed it in the crib there already, like that assassination attempt on baby Moses, eh.
The next logical move: Rupert Murdoch pushes Cooper and Griffin into a pay-per-view live sex show at Times Square! Ok, bring in the Japanese pixilation, but who wouldn't want to see the look on his face? Or Kathy's? It would be worth another generation of traumatized children, admit it.
Aging Americans could relive their partying days: "Fuck him Kathy! Fuck him!!" while Cairo goes down in flames, sealing its own fate since the public there is also a Pentagon addict, but hey, they look photogenic, those crowd shots are going to determine fashion for the next ten years, face it.
Welcome to stand-up journalism.
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