Thursday, July 01, 2004


So last night I’m sitting at Ben’s house with Vinny and we’re watching some God awful movie on HBO on Demand. It was some ridiculous story about “stereotypes” and everyone in the flick had a problem. Well Boo-fucking-hoo. The oddest part of the flick was easyily a scene where a well-to-do prick was getting a bagel and had a problem with the ghetto-fabulous girl at the counter. He explained that it wasn’t her fault she was the way she is because of the rap music and such. The girl was offended and, while moving her head side to side saying things like “nuh-uh mista, you ignat,” explained that he was stereotyping her and that she played cello in the New York City Ballet! Well, this pretentious jack off knew better than that. “You almost had me going there for a moment,” he said. She then told him off and went on break. Normally, this would just be a stupid after school special where we all learned a lesson, except the guy was black and the girl was white. My question is who was the genius fucking casting director behind this one? Why I shared the most inconsequential part of my evening here, I don’t know.
Back on track…we decided we needed beer. So I volunteered to go get some. While I’m at Price Chopper this lady – who probably lost her job as a greeter at Wal-Mart for continually wandering into the Dale Earnhardt Jr isle – checks me out. While scanning my 18 pack, this P.I. in training noticed a tear in the box. Now I, as a person with a bit of common sense had duly noted said tear and was transporting the box not by the handles but – gasp! – by carrying it from the bottom. I just thought to myself, what would a person who hadn’t been hit in the head with a free weight do in this situation? I often ask myself questions. It keeps me on my toes.
Anyway, after Jessica Fletcher noticed the tear she started doing risk management and decided I needed a bag – for an 18-pack of bottles. Having watched a countless number of high school dropouts operate these bags before, she knew exactly what to do. She took a paper bag and put it inside a plastic bag.
“Okay,” I thought to myself, “now that we’ve bagged a bag, we’re really in business. Obviously a plastic bag cannot support an 18 so we’ll put the 18 in a paper bag to help redistribute the weight.”
It all seemed so simple to her. Keep in mind all the while I’m telling this woman that I don’t need a bag and that I understand the concept of the tear. I argued that I could get the box to my car in the same manner that I got it to the cashier – carrying it like any other primate would – by the fucking bottom of the box.
But no, Da Vinci here has to reinvent the wheel so that I can get home safely. She continued to struggle with the box until she had to call for back up. She got the attention of the normal looking kid who was a few isles down bullshitting with another cashier. As he approached he saw what she was attempting and got that “What the fuck are you doing, little kid?” look. She explained how there was a tear in the box and had to do her civic duty and protect my beer – which I do appreciate. When she finally navigated the box into the paper bag inside the plastic bag she triumphantly proclaimed “No beer is going to spill in the parking lot tonight!” We exchanged high-fives and she sprinted to the deli to wonder where exactly does the meat go at night? Does the butcher eat it? Is it magical? Then she probably would go get a mop to clean up the nosebleed she would get from contemplating something with such cosmic significance before spending the rest of the evening arguing with her invisible parrot who she should marry tonight, Mr. Clean or the Brawny Man.
Now for the best part of the night - at some point during my drive home, I ran over a screw and won a flat tire in the raffle that is life. Needless to say I was about as excited as Mary Kate Olsen at the Olive Garden – All the breadsticks you can eat, but not more than you can throw up!
So lucky me, I got to change my first tire! Unfortunately I only had a donut, and I drive a Buick. I might as well have used the steering wheel. I’m just kidding, it works fine. It looks about as natural as George Bush leading a country. Oh, shit.
Since I was at Ben’s house, he coached me through it like any good dad would – by continuing to provide me with Labatts. All it took was a little elbow grease and twenty minutes. All in all it was a fun night. I know I can’t wait to deal with the garage.

In other news

Sadaam doesn’t seem too impressed with the new Iraqi legal system – rumor has it the government is trying to hire Sam Waterson as the prosecuting attorney. Ben Matlock for the defense, anyone?

The White House is encouraging constituents to ignore Michael Moore and Fahrenheit 9/11. Meanwhile RNC supporters are trying to get the film banned. At least everyone is on the same page. It’s tough to suppress so many free speech issues at once. We’ve got Howard Stern’s potty mouth and Michael Moore’s un-patriotism to quell before we worry about the petty stuff – like getting Americans out of harms way. You know, stuff that can just be put on the backburner.

Reuters reported on June 25 that Fox and ABC are in a race to see who can be the first to show a new reality show based on switching married couples.

“Tentatively titled ‘Trading Spouses: Meet Your New Mommy,’ the forthcoming Fox show is expected to premiere in late summer ahead of ABC's much-ballyhooed ‘Wife Swap,’ currently scheduled to launch Sept. 29.”

Those of you who are into Dave Chappelle know that he did a spoof of reality shows during his first season about a show call “Trading Spouses.” What the fuck is going on here. Can Chappelle sue? I literally did a spit take when I saw the commercial for “Trading Spouses.” What’s next, “Who Knows Black People?” So, is this art, imitating art, imitating art, imitating reality? Or is it art, imitating skewered reality, imitating art, parodying art, imitating reality? Oh, wait, it’s not art – it’s just fucking stupid. When Dave did it, it was clever and humorous. Now it’s just going to be stupid. And yes, I’ll be watching it.

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