I don’t know who this Christopher Hitchens is other than at the end of his article it says he is a contributing editor to Vanity Fair and I don’t feel compelled to google his ass, so I will just make some assumptions and judgements about him based on some gut feelings and my own imagination and attempt to paint a picture of who he is and how he might have come to write that one article for that one magazine, the name’s of which both escape me now. Any who, a young, somewhat confident Christopher Hitchens fancies a girl with whom he shares a coat hook in a South Bend, Indiana elementary school. She could care less about this somewhat smelly little boy who proudly eats Miraclewhip and peanut butter sandwiches that his fifty year old mother makes for him because he is quite a distinguished and discerning little man. So little Chrissy Poo, in an attempt to win his coat hook mates attention, tells her a joke. Now, the joke itself is a solid one, a classic, confused drunkard joke. Here’s the thing, Christopher doesn’t actually even completely get the joke and he has absolutely no sense of timing which, by the way, is paramount to the success of the joke and whats more, Christopher’s mother, god bless her, instilled in Christopher a strong, unflappable sense of self confidence and superiority to compensate for the fact that his father left his mother for one of her triplet sisters when Christopher was just 8 years old which was quite devastating, for the two of them, forever. Christopher’s love interest does not laugh at his joke because he does not know how to tell a joke and he is not funny. Christopher mistakingly thinks that she does not get the joke while at the same time he feels a slight pang in his gut that feels like what it feels like to fail at telling a joke. ‘Fuck her, she doesn’t get it’ Christopher says to himself, forever.