I stand by my offer to buy you a sandwich, Mr. Limbaugh. (Erik Uecke/Washingtonian Magazine)

I think I’m becoming Rush Limbaugh.

For more than a year, I have illustrated the absurd with absurdity, for more than three hours a day, five days a week. In this instance, I chose the wrong words in my analogy of the situation. I did not mean a personal attack on Mr. Limbaugh ...

I’m sorry, wrong apology.

It’s been one of those mornings, the kind of morning when Rush Limbaugh denounces you on the air and calls your writing “b-i-itchy” and your pieces “snarky, lying, full-of-holes.” As ways to start the day, I prefer coffee. In fact, I prefer root canals. But no one offered me a choice in the matter.

Having my work called “b-i-itchy” and “an out-and-out lie” was not how I expected to spend International Women’s Day. Usually, I spend International Women’s Day completely ignoring the fact that it is International Women’s Day.

But first things first.

My piece yesterday stating that and were the only new companies to be advertised on Rush Limbaugh’s show was wrong. They want to be on his show, but Limbaugh said today that he won’t let them.

Whenever their ads claw their way onto a local radio station carrying Rush, Rush says, he contacts the relevant authorities immediately and has them pried off. To say that these are the companies he keeps would be misleading. They might like to be. But Rush has prevented them.

Still, the whole point of the piece was that the people most eager to be associated with Rush Limbaugh’s show are — well, advertisers seeking jerks. This has not changed.

Look, the longer this goes on, the less it sounds like an apology. And it should be.

Why apologize to someone who can’t stop after saying something is inaccurate and has to go on and on impugning you? (At first, it was about who would buy an ad. But Rush was less concerned with the ad than the ad hominem.)

Well, when I say something that I regret, I apologize, and I don’t have the luxury of doing it under a picture of me smoking a cigar.

There is a certain nonchalance that creeps into your tone when you know that everything you write will appear under a picture of you smoking a cigar. You can’t help it.

Rush, I’m sorry. Let me buy you a sandwich.

In the age of instant deadlines, when the correct time to have written about something is yesterday at 3 a.m., it’s easy to make mistakes, and the thing to do is admit them, fix them and do better, regardless of who happens to be yelling at you.

Instant news makes sense. But instant opinion can be a strange art, even when you’re trying to amuse. Why do you want to know what someone thinks about a thing before he’s had time to think about it? It can be less reflective than reflexive, about as enlightening as a knee-jerk.

Speaking of jerks. Limbaugh listeners, I am sorry for calling you jerks yesterday. Yesterday I had no proof. I should have waited until today, when your phone calls and tweets (“Ivy league preppy elitist no talent hack”) gave me ample evidence.

No, I’m sorry. That was snarky, if not “b-i- ,” well, you know. You aren’t jerks. You may enjoy listening to a man who calls people much worse things than jerks, and you may indulge in the practice yourself, but you are probably nice if one gets to know you. I bet if we had a sandwich together, we would have a good time.

Look, I am a humor blogger, unaccustomed to being denounced on the radio. All my writing appears beneath a caricature of me looking like a pleasant oval who has had too much caffeine. The caption says I “put the pun in punditry.”

This does not excuse me from the requirement for accurate facts. That is why I am apologizing. I’m glad Rush is here to note my inaccuracies, but I should point out that in the same piece that Rush denounced as an out-and-out lie, I also suggested that people might have been mistaking him for “Rush Limbaaa: a fusion of sheep and a Canadian band.” This is the worst pun I have ever made, and I am justly punished for it now.

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