EDITOR’S NOTE: Have a burning sensation? Consult your doctor. Have a burning question for Matt Labash? Submit it here.
Dear Matt: Why are you a more productive writer than Cupp? Does it have something to do with “The Curse,” or too much shopping? – Steve
That’s a pretty sexist thing to say. I don’t ordinarily stand up for women, because I figure that when you do, they get all uppity, and next thing you know, they’ll want to vote and drive and such. But I’m going to make an exception on this count.
I can’t speak to S.E. Cupp’s shopping habits or her cursing, but I will say that yours is a grossly unfair and inaccurate charge. In fact, I had the archivist check, and it turns out that since this little Hamas front operation known as the The Daily Caller launched, I have authored precisely 27 Ask Matt Labash columns, (including a special edition – which is why it doesn’t track with the Roman numerals of the title, assuming you can count in Roman numerals – I can’t, the editor does that for me). While Ms. Cupp has written 26 diarist columns, and has additionally chipped in a few non-diarist columns as well. So basically, it’s even- Stephen, productivity-wise. She’s even a little ahead.
But if I seem both defensive and uncharacteristically gallant, that’s because I have a confession to make. There’s a reason why Cupp and I rarely, if ever, file on the same day. Because it’s a lot of work when you’re writing both columns. You see, I am S.E. Cupp. Are you happy, sexist? You made me say it. Jim Treacher played at outing me before, when I made him angry after I carelessly scratched his Very Best of Christopher Cross CD. But since Treacher has a dark secret of his own, he stopped short of pulling the trigger, and pretended it was a joke. Only now can the full truth be told. I am Cupp, she is me, we are a he/she. Here is the real us:
No, I’m not completely done with the hormone regimen. But I’m getting there. I know at the moment, I look like Mrs. Doubtfire-as-a-seductive librarian, badly in need of a shave. So accept me as I am, or don’t accept me at all. It doesn’t really matter to me. Because for the first time, maybe ever, I’m finally accepting myself.