If you leave me alone with my terrible ideas, THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS. I sent this to McSweeney’s, but everyone at McSweeney’s is probably frolicking on a beach this weekend, wearing sweaters like they do in J. Crew catalogs. There’s probably a yacht involved, and when they finally get to checking their email no one will still care about how an old man yelled at a chair for 10 minutes on television.
Just to clarify: Clint Eastwood/Chair and Clint Eastwood/Invisible Obama are different fandoms. It’s like with “Buffy” — you have to pick between Angel and Spike.
Excerpt from “Made In America Meets Carved in Korea,”
by Liz Shannon Miller
Deep down, he knew how wrong it was, this urge within him. He was, after all, a man of conviction. A man who believed, deeply, in certain things. He had values. He knew he was a man, and a man? A man stood up. That was what a man was meant to do.
And yet. He looked at the chair. And the chair? It beckoned.
Would others judge him, for this momentary lapse? Jon Voight would stand — or would seek out a couch, for ultimate comfort. Voight wouldn’t compromise. Voight would be able to repress, this most base of desires.
Clint Eastwood, unfortunately, was no Jon Voight. Clint could no longer resist.
First, he ran one finger along the back of the chair, as if to test its durability — but really, as a celebration of its form. He admired the slick curve of the metal, letting his touch linger as he let his appreciation grow.
For so long, he had suppressed these feelings, let ideology rule his urges. For so long, he and the chair had lived separate lives, divided by their beliefs. Clint’s conviction that an invisible President Obama was sitting in the chair, the chair’s no-one-is-sitting-in-me stance — for a time, he had convinced himself that these obstacles were insurmountable.
But, at last, he admitted the truth to himself. At last, he decided, no longer would he deny himself pleasure in the name of principle.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned his body, readying himself for completion.
He began to sit.
And in that moment, all of that rage inside him became passion, became the thrust of his hips as he slid down. The legs of the chair creaked with the pressure, but the resistance was minimal. For as he relaxed into the seat, he found that this discovery of new territory — was also a homecoming.
The seat embraced his weight with only the slightest of creaks; he ran his hands down its legs, admiring its strength. He would never have thought about a chair this way before. But he had never met a chair like this.