I remember it like it was yesterday. It was July  2006.  I was sitting at my desk, blogging about something tremendously important — I think it was the arm-wrestling match-up between Michael Brodkorb and Soren from Impeccable Liberal Credentials — when suddenly I began to feel woozy. I wondered if perhaps the microwave burrito I had eaten had gone bad, but then realized that was impossible — microwave burritos never go bad.  Still, something had gotten to me, and I quickly succumbed. 

I awoke in an opulent room, with a fire roaring in a marble fireplace.  I was sitting in a comfortable, cushy chair, a glass of scotch sitting on the table next to me.  Shaking my head, I took a sip of it — a nice, single-malt Islay.  Whoever had slipped me a mickey and kidnapped me had good taste.

Suddenly, a door opened, and into the room strode the man himself: George Soros.“So, I see my minions have brought you to me,” he said.  “Good.  We have much to discuss and not much time to discuss it.  I have much work to do in my quest to destroy America, and I need you to help me.”

“Why would I want to destroy America?” I asked, perplexed.  Soros laughed.

“Oh, I’m only kidding about that.  I just want to defeat the Republican Party.  But they always complain about that, saying that means I want to destroy America, and frankly, it’s got a much darker ring to it.  Far more melodramatic, don’t you think?”

“Why have you kidnapped me?” I asked, taking a sip of the scotch.

Soros sat down opposite me and smiled.  “I want you to join a small group of bomb-throwers, investigative reporters, activists, and journalists in my new project.  My goal is to create a counterbalance to the right-wing noise machine in Minnesota.”

“Why Minnesota?”

“Why anywhere?  Minnesota’s as good a place as any.  You’ve got a lot of right-wing bloggers there who are convinced of their own self-importance.  Plus that Mark Kennedy/Amy Klobuchar race is supposed to be a barnburner.  Here,” he said, handing me a sheet of paper.  “These are the people you’d be working with.”

I looked over the list and handed it back.  “I can’t, Mr. Soros,” I said, glumly.

“Why not?”

“Well … I mean, I’m a bit outclassed in this group, aren’t I?  Abdi Aynte?  Andy Birkey?  Robin Marty, for heavens’ sake?  These are really talented writers.  And I haven’t even mentioned Joe or Sara or Leigh or Paul.”

“Of course they’re good,” said Soros.  “That’s why I collected them.”

“So why me?  All I can do is write snarky opinion pieces and the occasional fictitious piece that includes dialogue that never happened between people who’ve never met, suggesting dark conspiracies that don’t exist. What do I bring to the table?”

“Well, that’s about it,” said Soros.  “But it serves my purposes.  Here,” he said, shoving a contract into my hands.  “Sign by the ‘X.’  You won’t regret it.”

No sooner had I done so then I woke up in my room, head down on the keyboard, a trillion Qs littering my screen. I got up and shook my head. Was it all just a wonderful dream?

No, it wasn’t — for there on my desk was my signed, lifetime indenture to George Soros.

And so it was that I came to join the crew at Minnesota Monitor. We’ve had fun, we’ve laughed, we’ve cried, we’ve loved, we’ve learned.  I just hope my writing continues to please Mr. Soros, because I’d hate for him to invoke section nine of the contract; I really don’t want to be hunted for sport on Soros’ private island.