When all of this Benghazi nonsense started happening it was a lot of fun and games. People at work were like, “Whassup Benghazi?” and “What you get for lunch, Benghazinator?” and no one could keep my name out of their mouth. I loved it because I love attention.
Then I realized what Benghazi was and I started feeling weird about it. What happened at Benghazi was real bad, dude. People died. Not only that, it happened on September 11! Needless to say, I started being less enthusiastic when people cornered me in the break room with a “What’re you getting up to this weekend Benghazi-man?”
I don’t want to be reminded of a violent tragedy every time you can’t think of something sincere to ask me about! Leave me alone!
Also, people at work are always talking about the news, and what’s been in the news all week? Benghazi, of course. Congress throwing blame about Benghazi around. People saying back and forth what they think is wrong with Benghazi, who’s fault Benghazi was, even how we should forget about Benghazi altogether. I sit at my desk, silent, knowing the subtext of all of this: Ben should be fired and we should go get drinks after work, not invite him, and make fun of how he wears the same shirts all the time.
As a person with a natural tendency toward the paranoid to begin with, people saying “Benghazi is the worst thing to happen to America this decade” is the last thing my already fragile psyche needs.
And my love life? Forget about it. For the last few years a clear pattern in my dating life has emerged. I’ll be back at my apartment after a very romantic date with some gal or another, and we’re just going at it hardcore on my black leather couch. So awesome. And just as I remember I left the TV on but before I can pass off a remote grab for a missed attempt at a bra unstrapping, the anchor is saying Benghazi this and Benghazi that and the look on my gal’s face turns ice cold.
I can tell that where she used to see fun, lovably awkward Ben, she now sees Islamic militants attacking the American diplomatic compound in Libya. And no amount of tender french kissing can get her going back the other direction.
So, I’ve been laying in bed since Thursday morning when the hearing started. While the bed sores hurt, they aren’t nearly as bad as the judgmental eyes of everyone I introduce myself to.
Things are looking up, though. I’ve turned to the only place in the world a person with such specifically hard luck can turn: internet chat rooms. There, I’ve found other Bens who get it. I’ve also made friends with a number of women named Isis, some guys named Ted Kaczynski, and a lady with a dog named “Subway Jared.” We’re planning to get an Airbnb upstate next weekend and, I don’t know, see where it goes from there.