Come Back Oprah! I’m Lost Without Your Love

Thank god for The Dilemmma! As our hundreds of stalwart readers have probably noticed, my world-reknowned wit and insight has been largely missing from P.C.H.A. over the past week or so.

I would apologize, but I don’t really feel it is my fault. How am I supposed to function when my heart has been ripped out of my ribcage? When hope has been replaced by fear and longing? When a love that I have known since I was a child has been abandoned like it meant nothing?

Goddamn you Oprah Winfrey… I hate you! No, I didn’t mean that, baby. I’m just so lost without you. Please come back… whatever I did, I know that I can do better.

For the past week, I’ve been living in the Bell Jar. At first, I thought it would be OK. Oprah said it was her, not me, and I fooled myself into believing her. I laughed and cried at the two-part United Center celebrity-a-thon, wishing only that Elizabeth Taylor was still alive to see it. And I sat in rapt attention on Wednesday, trying to soak up every last bit of Oprah wisdom, her final marching orders to her Army of Love Monkeys.

“It is no coincidence that I always wanted to be a teacher, and I ended up in the world’s biggest classroom. And this, my friends, will be our last class from this stage.” I thought back to all the lessons I learned, from how much worse of a person I was than Oprah and her friends to how normal John Travolta really is.

“Everybody has a calling, and your job in life is to figure what that is and get about the business of doing it.” I thought about all the landlords I tried to explain that to as they were kicking me out for not having rent, all the mailmen and garbagemen who I tried to get to quit because nobody should have to do the mundane jobs that make a society function.

“They rehearsed in one day. [People ask], ‘Was I surprised?’ Did you see my face? That United Center experience was a love intervention on steroids for me.” Wow… it’s almost unbelievable that all those stars could fly into Chicago, forcing a Bulls playoff game to be postponed, and Oprah didn’t hear a word. She’s amazing.

“People ask the secret of the show’s success, how have we lasted for 25 years? I non jokingly say: my team and Jesus. Nothing but the hand of God made this possible for me.” Thank you Jesus for allowing so much molestation, abuse and bad cosmetic surgery to occur, to allow Oprah to teach.

“I believe that every single event in life is an opportunity to choose love over fear.” Me too… even during the five weeks I spent in traction after trying to hug that mugger.

And as she said goodbye and hugged her lovers Steadman and Gayle (what… you think one sex is enough to handle Oprah’s love?), I enjoyed a final ugly cry and tried to heed her words. I went out to live my life, letting my light shine over every person I met.

I went to go get my chair reupholstered. But I froze… which color would Nate Berkus approve of? Where would proper feng shui place it when I brought it back? I panicked and ran out of the store.

Maybe a movie would take my mind off of things. But there were no Tyler Perry, Travolta, or Will Smith options at the theatre. How could I tell which movie would nourish my inner child?

I walked like a zombie in the bookstore nearby. The overwhelming stacks of novels, no longer coming with that round stamp telling me which ones were worthwhile. How was I supposed to choose without her guiding hand? How was I to know whether Charles Dickens or Dave Eggers would cause my light to flicker? After hugging a few of Oprah’s chosen titles while weeping (all of which I’ve already read… duh) and taking a piss on The Corrections, I was asked to leave.

Maybe some food would set me right. But in my mourning I forgot… what was the last diet Oprah endorsed? It wasn’t the South Beach or the Atkins, I was pretty sure. Was it Raw Foods? No, something came after that. How could I be so careless with her lessons?

I looked down and realized I was wearing almost the exact outfit Oprah had criticized in her last “Clean Out Your Closet, Fatty” episode. Tearing off my clothing, I ran (at the Oprah-approved easy pace) back to my apartment, yelling at those who stared to stop spreading their hate.

And here I’ve sat ever since, naked and starving. Please, Oprah, please… come home.


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Filed under David Simon Cowell, Television Has AIDS

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