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Postmodern Village
est. 1999
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Jerry Springer
by Francine DuBois

What naps I had through you, Jerry Springer, through high school afternoons senior year. My sophomore friends would gyp chemistry and we'd all nap, giggling occasionally at the white trash between snores.

And you, Jerry Springer, surely you remember being one of the "serious" ones while Phil Donahue was talking about Marilyn Manson and doing the lambada. I remember him wearing a dress, but never you, Jerry, never you.

No broken noses for you either, Jerry, with your political dreams and calm sense of reality. I know several people who would vote for you for president. Live from Chicago: Middle East peace talks. Steve, watch it, Sharon's got a chair. And Arafat's not even on stage yet.

Jerry would solve it all, at least for twenty seconds, then we'd come back from commercials and it would all be over again, a temporary ceasefire while the world watches Miss Cleo and Carrot Top hawk their services.

But we'd get a moral, and sometimes that's all you can hope for, right, Jerry? A good word for the good people? "Take care of yourself . . . and each other."

If only it were that easy.


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