First they came for Ellen DeGeneres, and I said nothing. Then they came for the non-writing staff of The Office, and I said nothing. Now, they’ve come for me, and no one is left to stand up for my rights as a journalist.

Because of my lousy writer staff, which hasn’t turned in a good script since I moved to CBS (I mean, honestly, how many times must our show resort to the old “The President says we’ve turned a corner in Iraq” plot twist?), the DNC chose to cancel a televised debate I was to moderate on December 10th.

Just because I lost my writers doesn’t mean I can’t craft my own poorly researched, totally innocuous, hopelessly bland non-questions. Hell, Hillary’s got a non-union writing staff anyway–I can just use the questions her writers provide.

It was supposed to be my night, dammit. I was going to moderate the bejeezus out of that debate, maybe stir it up with a few rounds of “Musical Podiums,” let Obama play “Pin the War Vote on the Honkey,” maybe even serve some of my special North Carolina Iced Tea with ten kinds of spirits. It was going to be fun. It was going to be special. And at the end of the night, no one on earth could possibly hate me.

But my fucking writers decided to undermine me. After everything I’ve done for them! I get paid an absurd amount of money just so I can keep their salaries low and help them remain in a more manageable tax bracket.

I’ll show those ungrateful four-eyed, grimy, hygiene-challenged typing monkeys. On December 10th, while they’re out in the freezing cold, walking in circles and brandishing poorly-punned signs and placards, I’ll sit my ass down on a nice bearskin rug in front of a roaring fire, summon a young man or two from my building to service me, and then drink until I’m cross-eyed.

As a matter of fact, I’m going to do that right now.