I Rant Therefore I Am

by Dennis Miller

  The comb-over. This method uses the hair growth that you have on the good side of your head to cover the bad side. You let those few strands of hair grow about six feet long and before you can say "Giuliani," you're spending an hour and a half in the bathroom every morning with two mirrors and a sextant, constructing a Dairy Queen swirl ice cream cone on your head. This works fine until the first breeze hits your baldy bean and your hair unwinds and gets snagged in the spokes of a passing Harley.

  Hair paint. Hey, the day I paint my head is the day I need to.

  Rogaine. Even if it works for you, if you want to keep your hair, you can never stop using it. Rogaine is the middleaged equivalent of crack.

  Hair plugs. This is where they use donor sites from one spot on your body and transplant them to your head, which is a gradual process that eventually makes you look like a postnuclear Chia pet.

  Plugs can cost up to $20,000 and they look about as natural as a cornfield on a hockey rink.

  And lastly, the toupee. Wearing a toupee is like covering up a carpet stain with a Day-Glo bean bag chair. My favorite faux hair faux pas is the guy with natural red hair who buys the jet black toupee. It makes his head look like the high water mark on the side of a cargo ship. Guys, trust me. There is no toupee in the world that cannot be spotted by a nearsighted mole with his back turned.

  Now, there are all these euphemisms for toupees. Natural hair integration, hair replacement system, follicular restoration placement. Cut to the chase. Why don't we just call them Everybody Knows There's a Fur Divot on Your Head.

  And the creme de la creme rinse of toupees is Sammy Donaldson. Sam Donaldson. What is it that possesses Sam to sport a rug that wouldn't be more obvious if Ali Baba was flying on it?

  You know, you're damn right there's a cover-up in Washington, Sam. And it's sitting right on your Vulcan spinart skull. Okay? Quite frankly, I can't even pay attention to what you're saying anymore because I keep waiting for that thing on the top of your head to get up on its hind legs and beg for a peanut.

  Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.

  Fear of Flying

  Why are so many people afraid to fly when it's such an enjoyable experience? I mean, the wonderful cuisine, the comfortable seats, the friendly and caring flight attendants, the first-rate entertainment, the fresh, healthful cabin air ... why, I wish I were flying right now!

  Truth be told, I'm petrified of air travel. My wife won't even sit next to me on a flight because when I get scared I scratch at the airplane windows like a ferret in an aquarium. There is nothing more embarrassing than breaking down in tears in front of your entire family only to realize the sound you heard was the captain putting down the landing gear.

  Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but I've been on more bad flights than a one-eyed kamikaze pilot.

  My fear of flying starts as soon as I buckle myself in and the guy up front mumbles a few unintelligible words. Then before I know it, I'm thrust into the back of my seat by acceleration that seems way too fast, then we veer immediately into a turn that seems way too sharp, and the rest of the trip is an endless nightmare of turbulence and near-misses ... then the cabbie drops me off at the airport.

  Now, I must navigate the labyrinthine baffle chamber of security checkpoints manned by elite professionals who were drummed out of the mall cop academy because they were caught filching tiny Gouda wheels and bits of Cotto salami from the 3-D Hickory Farms simulator that all students must train on.

  Hey, who better to do a cavity search than an asshole? By the way, if you feel you're at risk for a cavity search, my advice is to have some fun with it, put some stuff up there for them to find. Your high school ring, a roll of Mentos, or a note that says: YOU'RE GETTING WARMER.

  It kinda humanizes the whole process.

  Then it's time to board the plane. Once you've nestled into your seat, which was last cleaned by the Earth-bound third Wright Brother, Noodles, and you've arranged your minuscule stinky synthetic car wash shammy of a blanket and your Stay Free pillow pad that's the size and softness of a geltab multivitamin, and adjusted to the jet cold, tuberculosis-microbe-laden recirculated air that's blowing right down your spine, you've now achieved the comfort level of a North Korean POW with an ingrown toenail and no premium cable.

  And keep in mind all of this discomfort occurs before the real fun starts. Before the 125-ton metal tube goes up into the sky. Now, maybe you're one of those stat monkeys who insist that flying is safer than driving. Yeah, maybe, but how often do you see airplane collisions where afterward the pilots are able to exchange insurance information?

  Is there any other activity besides air travel that combines so many different elements of unpleasantness in so many varying degrees? What else affords you the opportunity to sample from an emotional smorgasbord containing everything from mere boredom to abject terror, along with a dazzling assortment of physical maladies ranging from dehydration to projectile flatulence and a neck that is stiffer than a seventeen-year-old Amish kid at a strip club?

  Every flight I'm on there's a screaming baby. Me. And the thing that makes me most nervous about flying is the other passengers. When I watch a fucking moron try for ten minutes to stuff a Jet Ski into an overhead bin, I am overwhelmed by the fallibility of all humankind and I realize that the engineers who designed the plane, the pilots, and the air traffic controllers all share in the same fakokta genetic code.

  Now, I don't want to just whine about flying without offering some constructive solutions. Here's a tip on how to deal with your fear of flying. I've told my wife and my manager not to tell me if I'm supposed to fly somewhere. Then a team of men comes to my house in the middle of the night, kidnaps me, puts me in a large pet carrier, and keeps me sedated until I get to my destination.

  Another suggestion is to try talking to the person next to you .. . Unless it's me . . . Then shut the fuck up. Because I am filled with anxiety and I will chill you like a head of lettuce because I'm too nervous to be interested in what you do for a living, okay? It's nothing personal, I'm sure you're very nice, I just don't want the last words I utter in this life to be, "Wow, aluminum siding, that's great..."

  Also you should know that if you are seated in the exit row, you had better be ready to move and move fast because if you miss a step you are going to have a Dennis Miller-sized hole right through your ass. All right? I'm not willing to have my vital organs cooked al dente just because I drew the short straw on the seating chart.

  Hey, bottom line, the problem with flying is that it is not a natural state of affairs. The first time we get on a plane we all have that look on our face like a donkey being airlifted in a sling out of a flooded ravine.

  Now you add to that the fact that there's something very cocky and presumptuous about three hundred humans taunting God and nature by eating bad lasagna and drinking screw-top wine while adjusting their headphones to better hear the audio track of Dunston Checks In, all the while barreling along at 600 mph at 32,000 feet.

  Hey, come to think of it, no wonder God invented clear air turbulence. If you were the supreme being of the universe, wouldn't you keep everybody in line by occasionally jostling the shit out of all these uppity punks like we were Michael Flatley's nut sack?

  Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.

  Capital Punishment

  Has anybody else noticed how the death penalty is becoming a way of life in this country? Texas is executing so many prisoners now they've erected a ticking sign like the one outside the Hard Rock Cafe.

  Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but the reason it's called capital punishment is that it's a capital idea. It's reserved for those we deem the worst of the worst, the curdled cream of the crop, humans possessed of an evil so malignant, so virulent, and indeed so original that their continued existence is an insult to the rest of us.

  Critics of the death penalty say that when we execute a murderer then we as a society are no better than he is. Hey, I'm
not an elitist snob, I don't think I'm better than anyone. So fry the motherfucker.

  On the other hand, executing a human being, no matter how hopelessly broken he or she is, is not a fun or an easy thing, but I believe that sometimes it has to be done for the good of society. Could I personally throw the switch? Well, say in the case of Tim McVeigh, yeah. I believe I could do him with a bucket of water and a bad extension cord. And really I don't say that with any degree of joy but rather with the resolute knowledge that this is how it has to be. We can't live with you, Tim, you can't live with us, sorry it didn't work out, see you at God's place.

  It's not that I'm not open-minded about the issue. I liked the movie Dead Man Walking and it made me think. Because Susan Sarandon was really hot and she was also a nun. So does that mean I'm, like, attracted to a nun?

  If there is a problem with capital punishment in this nation, it's that we try to be too civilized about it. It doesn't surprise me that statistics often show that the death penalty is not a deterrent to crime. I believe our half-stepping when it comes to meting out the ultimate spanking softens the psychological blow necessary to drive the consequence nail home.

  It's no mystery why we try to find the least painful way to whack our psychos. We think it's humane. We automatically assume that we are elevated in stature by replacing the mayhem of violent death with a clean, quiet, clinical hum. We allow the condemned "60 Minutes" interviews, favorite meals, and an appeals process that drags out longer than Porky Pig singing "Hey Jude."

  And that last meal thing is a rather odd little step in our dance of death, isn't it? You know, for one thing, most executions are scheduled for 12:01 A.M. and, you know, eating that late could really screw up your digestive system.

  I also don't understand why we go to such great lengths to protect the well-being of condemned prisoners. From twenty-four-hour suicide watches to the alcohol swab before the lethal injection, time, money, and effort are spent trying to keep these inmates healthy enough to execute. Why? The one thing I would afford these people is the opportunity to give us all a break and off themselves. We ought to decorate their cell with every sharp object known to man, make the bed with preknotted sheets, and place a footstool directly under a strong pipe. I say we put them all in a thirtieth-floor cell with an open window and a bull's-eye painted on the concrete below.

  Hey, capital punishment is not about deterrence. We have the police for that. Capital punishment is and always will be about one thing and one thing only: vengeance.

  Whether we want to admit it or not, one of the basic characteristics bundled into 99.9 percent of us is a deeply embedded appetite for paybacks. And I believe the people who deny this, who actually maintain that we can evolve to a higher plane, are missing the point. The next step in our evolution should be recognizing the fact that no matter how many eons we place between ourselves and our cave dweller kin, at the core we're just a bunch of primates with beepers looking to crush those who threaten us with a fibula bone left behind at the mud pit. It's time to get back to our primal roots. And I'm willing to do that by accepting the limitations of my species and, when necessary, seeking retribution. Sure, it would be nice if I didn't have to, but it would also be nice if I could flutter my arms and fly.

  If you think we take capital punishment too far in the United States, don't spit on the sidewalk with your shoelace untied in Singapore.

  There are many countries where the only appeal you get is when you ask the guy with the scimitar to make it snappy. China is to capital punishment what France is to wine. The Chinese will execute you for taking a hit in blackjack on sixteen.

  Yeah, I'll tell you the real problem with executions in this country: They just don't sparkle anymore. They need more pizzazz. And if we are going to make capital punishment a spectacle, I say we go all out. Put it on pay per view and give the money to the victims' families. Tostitos presents The Menendez Brothers' Razzle-Dazzle Tag Team Snufforama.

  You know, if it were up to me, I'd bring back some of capital punishment's pomp and mystery Make the executioner wear a hood. Get rid of the fluorescent lights, give the death chamber that moody, Susan Hayward I Want to Live! lighting.

  Bring back beheadings, hangings, the firing squad. If you're gonna do it, do it right. And for Christ's sake, the guy's about to pop his clogs, let him have a cigarette. After all, if you're in Florida in the electric chair, there's a good chance that there's going to be plenty of secondhand smoke in the room anyway.

  And finally I say we appoint a Secretary of Death. And I would like to personally nominate Jack Kevorkian to be in charge of executions in this country. Yeah. Forget the chair. Good old Dr. Special K can get the job done with a leaf blower, a pool hose, and a smile.

  Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.

  Neighbors

  Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but it hit me yesterday as I found myself in the front yard in my Josie and the Pussie Cats boxer shorts yelling at those damn Fliegelman kids to get the hell off my damn lawn and keep their damn freaky music down, that I am a neighbor.

  Aside from your family, no one has more power to hit your buttons than your neighbors. The fact that they live so close to you means they can affect your mood faster than a ladle full of the fruit punch at a techno-rave.

  To my way of thinking, neighbors are like hair plugs: The less you notice them, the better they are.

  Now, when I say neighbors, I'm talking about the people in your immediate vicinity. I have many wonderful friends in my neighborhood, but it seems like tensions run higher with the folks you directly abut. That's why scouting out the Joneses should be part of the house-buying checklist. How stupid will you feel after signing the deed to your personal Shangri-la, only to arrive home just in time to see your neighbor's boy Mongo pulling up on his no-muffler dirt bike that sounds like an Uzi being fired at a gong?

  Now, on a scale of neighborliness where one end is Ned Flanders and the other is Michael Keaton's character in Pacific Heights, I fall somewhere in the middle. I've never sat in a dunking chair for the good of a canned food drive, but then again, I've never been arrested for running an unlicensed gator farm out of my crystal meth lab.

  But if there is a neighborhood bone of contention about me, it would have to be my fence. While it's true that the fence around my home is sixty feet high, in deference to my neighbors and at great expense to me, it has been expertly painted with a lovely re-creation of exactly what their view was before I built the fence, which includes me, jumping on a trampoline while wearing nothing but a sombrero.

  Neighborly relationships take on many forms. In urban environments, say New York City, the first time you learn your neighbor's name is when you see it on the body bag he's being carried out in. Only in New York is "Shut the fuck up, some of us work in the morning" considered a Christmas carol.

  Of course, there is an especially dank little corner of Hell in New York that's known as apartment dwelling, where home sweet home is a cramped, poorly ventilated sarcophagus with a subatomic particle's thickness worth of wall separating you from the John Waters casting call of assorted freaks surrounding you on all four sides. You are an unwilling party to your neighbors' most depraved intimacies and Albee-esque dustups as well as conversations that make you wonder if they've got a pet mouse named Algernon.

  My New York neighbors were newlyweds. And while they were a sweet, innocent-looking yuppie couple whenever I saw them in the hall, as soon as they shut their balsa wood door behind them, she turned into an insatiably nymphomaniacal Joanne Worley with a cupboard-shaking orgasmic honk that sounded like a migrating goose hooked up to a Peavey thousand-watt amplifier.

  And when the husband, whom I came to know as Thor, the human jackhammer, would Sonny Corleone her up against the wall, their headboard would bang so loudly, I would rent action movies and pretend I had Sensurround.

  The key to successfully dealing with neighbor problems is simple, I call it the two C's: communication and compromi
se. For example, I've given all of my neighbors blaze orange hats to wear whenever they are outside their homes so that the guards manning my perimeter towers of the Miller compound don't mistake them for prowlers and accidentally take them out. As you might expect, some of my neighbors are taking exception to this. I can understand that, so I've contracted with a designer to conjure up three distinctive styles of iridescent chapeaux a I'orange, at least one of which even the most obstinate neighbor is bound to feel just divine in—especially when they find out that extra hats for visiting friends and relatives are available at cost.

  Now this is just one solution. But invariably, the first step toward neighborhood recovery is knowing if you are a bad neighbor. Here are some signs that you just might be:

  1. Mr. Rogers files a restraining order against you.

  2. The production crew from "Cops" forward all their calls to your house.

  3. Your Christmas lights have been up since Christ was born.

  And 4. You let your schnauzer shit on your neighbor's lawn so frequently that the dog begins to knock on his door and ask him for reading material.

  So if you do have serious problems with a neighbor, here's a great way to deal with it. Don't scream at him; give him a gift.

  Go out and buy him the same exact TV that you have. Wrap it up in a big box with a nice ribbon and leave it on his doorstep. Then go home and point your remote out the window at his TV and let the games begin.

  Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.

  Country Music

  You know who's good on that "Celebrity Jeopardy"? Jeff Foxworthy. Yeah. He kinda surprises you because he plays a country rube for a living, but he's actually a very sharp guy. And very of the moment. Because, as anybody who has ever tuned in to Jerry Springer or watched a Clinton press conference knows, it's a country music world, and those of us who don't accessorize our wardrobe with the Bedazzler, well, just live in it.