Finally in touch with my inner Republican

This is California, the land that invented reinvention. So why shouldn’t I get to be what I want? And what I want, it has finally dawned on me ... is to be a Republican.

I want you to know this is not a decision I have taken lightly, or without apprehension. But I know it’s the right thing to do.

How can I be so sure?

Because ever since I made this decision I have felt better. I have stopped grinding my teeth at night and fuming over the morning paper. I have stopped railing at the TV screen and flipping from one radio station to another. Not only that, I have stopped hearing that incessant whining sound in my head, which, as it turns out, was the sound of my own voice. What a relief!

I can look in the mirror again too. For the past several years, I haven’t liked what I saw there. I saw a loser. I saw the kind of guy who sits in the bleachers, shouting obscenities at the opposing (but winning) team. Who stands on a street corner in sandals and socks, waving a handmade peace sign at passing motorists. A guy who gets up every morning expecting a drubbing, and goes to bed every night having received it. I saw ... a Democrat. A liberal. A man who once voted -- oh, God, should I confess it all? -- for Nader.

No wonder I could no longer live with myself.

But let me tell you, even though it’s only been a few weeks, life as a Republican is sweet. It’s all a matter of little lifestyle changes, nips and tucks here and there, but it’s all adding up to a big drop in my blood pressure.

For one, I no longer have to defend Michael Moore. That can be a full-time job and, besides, I have my own weight problem to worry about. I can side with that sleek Sean Hannity instead of that goofy-looking Alan Colmes. I long now to be as lean as Ann Coulter, as loud as Rush Limbaugh and as rude as Bill O’Reilly. When people crossed me in the past, I would listen to what they had to say and then turn myself inside out trying to find some nonoffensive common ground. (“Yes, yes, the Klan did do a lot for the linen industry.”) What a wimp. Now if I disagree with somebody, I just talk over him, or tell him to shut up, or come up with clever rejoinders I can utter the next day, when the other person isn’t there, to win the points I fumbled.

It’s fabulous.

And I can listen to the radio again! No, not Air America, or whatever that leftie network was called, the one that neither I nor anyone I know was ever able to locate. And no more of that NPR either, with its incessant caterwauling about money and listener support. Hey, get a job, NPR! (I’ve already got all the tote bags I need.)

Now I can listen to the whole self-supporting AM spectrum, and keep up with the latest revelations from Vietnam vets who never served with Kerry, and White House retainers who still have stories to tell about those trashy Clintons. (Yes, Clinton-bashing is as popular as it ever was -- what did those two do to tick so many people off?)

Nor do I have to stay up late for Jon Stewart and “The Daily Show” anymore; now I can turn on Dennis Miller on MSNBC (which will soon be indistinguishable from Fox anyway), and it doesn’t even matter that I don’t find him funny. He laughs at his own jokes and doesn’t need me!

Plus, now that I go to bed earlier, I don’t seem to wake up with the night terrors, thinking I’m caught in some quagmire and everybody hates me.

Best of all, I can go out to dinner parties in the tonier parts of town and join in the fun. No more chili fests in Mar Vista or Silver Lake, where you have to eat off paper plates with a bunch of people as disgruntled as I used to be. Now I go to Brentwood and Pacific Palisades and dine with my betters.

Last week I was at one such event where the guest beside me was explaining that health insurance is so unaffordable because so many people turn in fraudulent claims. “The companies have to keep it high so they can keep out all the cheats.” Hear, hear.

I reached for my crystal wineglass, clinked my spoon against the rim and proposed a toast: “To victory in November!”

But wouldn’t you know it? The wine went down the wrong way.

Robert Masello can be reached at weekend@latimes.com.