I need to preface my opinions on this experience by saying that I have the utmost respect for women. The idea of powerful females doesn't bother me in the least, as evidenced by the large number of women I have appointed to some of the highest stations in the United States. Sure, Hillary Clinton is intimidating, but that's why I wanted her for Secretary of State. There's a difference between responsibly powerful and powerful in an unsettling way. Hillary comes at you with knowledge, poise and expectations, whereas the View women come at you with some kind of dark magic.
I started to feel the wrongness of The View in my soul the moment I stepped into the green room. There were snacks in there with brand names I had never heard of. Not in the same way as cheap, off-brand products, but slick, trendy, cloying brands that seemed cut from some massive, metaphysical chunk of housewife-ism. They were Platonic ideals of consumerist garbage and they tasted like the constituent notes in the depressing scent of a Wall-Mart. I shouldn't have eaten that Fabu-Zing! breakfast bar or that bottle of Go-Getter water. They brought my guard down.
When I finally got out to the stage the lights hit my body with a searing sensation, as if I was being cooked under the heating lamps of a fast food restaurant. I went for a seat at the end of the row but they clasped my arms with their stony grips and set me down smack-dab in the middle. I was surrounded and if I indulged my instinct to bolt from that troubling place I would have looked insane in front of millions of people. I had fallen into their trap. My chances of survival were slim.
For a while I kept myself from cracking by reiterating some of my recent talking points. You know, the Gulf, Arizona, Afghanistan, jobs. Easy stuff. Stuff I've practiced a thousand times. It was like going on auto-pilot. I didn't have to think about their glaring eyes, their noxious mix of perfume, their spirit-scratching laughter. I was safe, at least for a while. Then they changed the subject. A plastic hydra of pop culture, they grilled me about tabloid news, my iPod and various bits of TV ephemera. They even had the gall to bring up my unfortunate meeting with the vile demon Justin Bieber. I felt them siphoning bits of my lifeforce from my body with their cackles. Somehow, I survived. I returned to the green room and passed out, only to be rescued by the Secret Service and brought home. I'll never be the man I was before I stepped into The View's dungeon.