Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but up until a few years ago it was easy for sneering, cappuccino-toting, urban faux hipsters ... like me ... to dismiss country music as the calling card of an alien and somewhat inferior culture which also incorporated protofascist line dancers goose-stepping to a masterwork of musical complexity like "Achy Breaky Heart." But country music has recently experienced an upsurge in popularity that's positively Viagran.
No longer the exclusive domain of big-haired women and men with two first names, it has become as sleek and inescapable a part of the mainstream as the Nike swoosh.
Now, when it comes to country music, I've become as prejudiced as some of the people who listen to it.
Even so, I prefer not to judge another man's music until I've walked a mile in his shoeless, webbed feet.
Why do people love country music? Well, it's away of blowing off steam over what's bad about life, a means of purging our troubles by setting them to music. Basically, it's this show if I wore bib overalls and said "Yee-haw" instead of "Fuck."
There are many types of country music. There is trucker country that is played when you are getting your ass kicked in a truck stop.
There's cowboy country where you are getting your ass kicked by guys in ten-gallon hats; there's hillbilly country where you're getting your ass kicked by guys with no teeth; and there's folk country where you are getting your ass kicked by a lesbian from Saskatchewan.
Now I myself am not a huge fan of any of these forms. I find country music to be a bit simplistic. But while I might be nonplussed by the genre, the typical country music listener is not. God knows, he might not be able to tell you where he was when Kennedy got shot, but he sure as hell knows what two different colored socks he had on the day Billy Joe McCallister jumped off the Tallahatchee Bridge.
And the vortex of that fan base is Branson, Missouri, ground zero for zeros. It's the place where plastic pink flamingos migrate for the winter. Branson is for people who think Graceland isn't quite tacky enough.
Now, I could never go to Branson. There are times I can listen to country music. But I would have a hard time actually watching a show because some of these guys, like Garth Brooks, are wearing jeans so tight that if they tried to squeeze another credit card into their wallets, their dicks would vaporize. Garth Brooks's grafted-on Wranglers make Tom Jones's polyester pelvic tube sock look like a muumuu. Then there's the belt buckles. Christ, these things contain more metal than my grandmother's hip. I've seen belt buckles that big in England, but they serve tea on them.
And back to Garth Brooks for a second. He is officially the biggest ticket seller in the world. The world, folks. That's how far out of the lasso I am. If somebody tells me they're going to watch Garth tonight, I automatically assume they're renting Wayne's World.
So while there's a lot of things about country music that I have a quibble with, there is one ingredient in the critter stew that I do find especially succulent: That would be, of course, the song titles. I want to be the guy who sits around all day coming up with little rhinestone gems like:
"Your Momma Might Be a Bad Woman, but She's the Only Sister I Got."
Or "Hand Me the Pool Cue, Then Call Yourself an Ambulance."
"Tell the Dog to Look Away."
"I Hate You More Than Books."
"My Heart's Burning Like a Cross for You."
Or finally, "Honey, You'd Be History If My Tractor Just Had Tits."
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
One Hundred Shows
As originally aired on 5/8/98
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but when we first began this show, nobody believed a guy just talking into a camera would last. But thirty-two directors, 3,456 writers, and four colonoscopies later here I am. Still standing.
So this is the one hundredth show. One hundred times I've stood on this stage and rifled through the attache case of discontent that is permanently handcuffed to my brain stem.
And you know what else a hundred shows represents? A lot of "fucks." I say the word "fuck" more often than Jake La Motta being Rolfed. In fact, I'll let you in on a secret.
HBO pays me by the "fuck." Fuck fuck fuck. I just paid for my kids' college. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. There's a boat. Fuck fuck fuckity-fuck fuck fuck. Those were just for me.
You know, in all the hoopla surrounding my one hundredth episode haven't we all lost sight of something? You know, "Seinfeld"'s last show is less than a week away. Please, people, please, forget about me. Can't we let Jerry have his moment?
Now, of course, the only way I can do this twenty-sevenminute show once a week, twenty-six weeks a year, with only a week off every four shows, is with the support of my wife and two children. Thank you for being there, honey. I'm truly the luckiest little pirate in all of Puppetland.
My favorite part of the show has to be the rant. I go through each rant with so much attention and care, there's none left when I go to choose my movie roles.
You see, this camera... is my own personal soapbox that lets me vent about the important issues of our day. Like driving in my car yesterday, I jotted down an observation. I wrote it on this napkin. I don't know, let's see, it says: DO
SOMETHING ABOUT STUPID BUMPER STICKERS. YOU See, that's the
joy of doing this show. Taking on the big guys.
Now, tonight I'd like to clear up some misconceptions some of you have about the show. People always ask me how many newspapers do I have to read every day to come up with all those jokes? Well, I usually start at 2 A.M. with the wire service from Hong Kong and work my way through the morning editions of the East Coast papers, and then finish it up around 8 P.M. with the International Herald Tribune. In other words, I read "Beetle Bailey" once a week and occasionally take a stab at the "Jumble."
Honestly, a huge part of the success of this show is the writing. We've won a couple of awards for that and I really want to congratulate all my writers by name. Problem is, I'm so detached from the inner workings of this show, I don't know their names.
So whoever wrote this for me, thank you. You bald losers.
I'd also like to thank the little people. Specifically, Willie and Keno, the two midgets who operate the life-sized Dennis Miller animatronic puppet that you see before you. I'm actually at home right now in my undies scratching my ass with a melon scoop. I haven't been here since show fourteen.
Now, wardrobe is a very important component of this program, the impact of which cannot be overstated. If you only knew how much care I take in making sure that I always borrow pants from a stagehand who is nearly my size.
Now, I know that there are a lot of people who feel that once you've tasted success and achieved a modicum of material comfort, you go soft and lose your edge. Well, I'm living proof that nothing could be further from the truth. From the time I get up in the morning to berate my gamekeeper Kang for overfeeding the peacocks to later that evening when I select my handmade silken ascot for that evening's postprandial harpsichord recital, my mind is constantly teeming with satiric rage about life's injustices. Because I'm still what I always was ... Sir Joseph Six-Pack the Third.
But in all seriousness, if there's one regret I have about the show over the years, it's that somewhere along the way I might have hurt somebody's feelings. I know most people don't realize this, but all I want to do is make a point, puncture a little pomposity, and get a laugh without ever really hurting anyone.
That's actually the hardest part of the job, driving home from a show at night and thinking, "Hey, why did I have to say that?" So if during the past one hundred episodes I may have hurt your feelings, well, blow me.
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
The Republican Party
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but you know, maybe the reason Republicans are so pro-gun is because they need them to constantly shoot themselves in the foot.
It has been nearly seven years since Newt Gingrich and
his band of fascist elves stormed Capitol Hill promising to toss out the old to make room for something even older: greed and fear.
Then, right around the time Clinton and Newt were duking it out over the budget and opening and shutting the federal government like bedroom doors in a Richard Lester movie, the American public began to realize that some of the Congressional Class of '94's ideas were about as humane as running the Iditarod with a team of Taco Bell Chihuahuas pulling the sled.
We listened to this Republican Congress shrieking for two years like the colicky baby of Lou Costello and Bjork about campaign finance reforms only to see them fizzle like charcoal briquettes at a fraternity beer bash. Well, how did that happen?
Oh yeah, didn't I read something about Newt Gingrich receiving illegal campaign contributions? Naw, that would be too perfect. That would be like saying that the nation's most vocal proponent of family values had an affair with another woman while his wife was on her deathbed... Never mind.
Former Speaker Newt Gingrich sums up the Republicans' problems in a nutcase. Their most extreme members are more out of step with the rest of America than Joe Cocker in a line dance. Remember, this is the party of Strom Thurmond and Jesse Helms, men so stiff they make Herman Munster look like Alvin Ailey.
The classic, distilled philosophical difference between Republicans and Democrats has always been about the ideal size and scope of government. Republicans say that Democrats want a huge monolithic federal institution that will compromise personal liberty and freedom by controlling individuals' lives with intrusive policies and a dictatorial agenda. Republicans, of course, believe that is the job of organized religion.
In the end, partisan politics is what it needs to be, a constant tug-o-war anchored by the fattest white asses on each side. So as Newt Gingrich, Trent Lott, and Dick Armey dig their tassel-loafered heels into the muck and strain with all their might to move the weight of public opinion in their favor, old Bill's got his end tied up to the hitch of a Mardi Gras float and he's sitting in a La-Z-Boy with a corn dog, waving to people while Miss Nude America rubs blueberry hot lube into his fleshy shoulders.
And that's because the one thing Clinton has going for him is compassion. And you're about as likely to find a Republican who's connected to the needs of women, minorities, and the poor as you are a naked chick silhouetted on a mud flap in the parking lot of the Lilith Fair.
You know, God has no place in politics. Quite frankly, if God saw the way some Republicans invoked His name, He'd turn atheist.
But you've got to feel sorry for the Republicans. They're constantly painting fake tunnels on the sides of cliff walls, only to see President Clinton somehow beep beep right through them.
See, Clinton is like the bad guy in Terminator 2: Judgment Day; able to assume the shape and voice of his enemies to get what he needs. He appropriated Republican ideas, added a little dash of his inimitable dewy-eyed "Bubba" magic, and presto! The next thing you know, ol' Jed's a millionaire.
The Republicans had no idea of who they were going up against when they took on Clinton. And as any intern who's ever encountered the President in a West Wing hallway can tell you, Clinton does his best work when his back is to the wall.
The Republicans need to stop taking themselves so seriously, pull the American flagpole out of their ass, and lighten the fuck up.
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
The Extinction of Customer Service
Customer service has gone the way of the paddle wheel and the nickel blowjob. Those were heady days.
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but trying to find the customer service counter in a department store in 1998 America is like trying to find a clock in a casino.
Between the catatonic indifference and the Nurse Ratched-like attitudes, you have a better chance of winning the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes, finding the Holy Grail in your garage and the lost city of Atlantis in your septic tank all in the same day than you do of finding one goddamn human being out there who can help you with anything.
I mean, doesn't it seem like the frail consumer seated on the supply and demand seesaw is more and more frequently being catapulted into oblivion by the big fat ass of corporate incompetence?
One main reason for the nosedive in efficient service is the stupidification of America. In the name of quick cash, many businesses have cut their costs by replacing careerminded professionals with lukewarm bodies so close to flatlining they might as well be wearing their name tags on their toes.
And nowadays, many companies are getting smart and putting their employees who don't speak English on the front lines of the consumer service battle. That's fine with me. I love it.
I like to bring my family and watch the show as the customer in line in front of me tries to explain to Kipchogi, who's fresh off the hovercraft from Nepal, just what went wrong with his VCR, or as Kip refers to it, the "magic story box."
You know, personally, I believe the Devil himself handpicked his own favorite children to work in the retail field. Now, granted, I understand that long hours, truculent customers, and lousy pay are as much a part of the job as refolding the same fucking sweater for eight hours. But if you don't like it, go back to school and find another job, but don't take it out on me. It's not my fault that you're fighting with your boyfriend Werner von Methlab or your newly pierced nipple is throbbing, or Heather brought you a latte when you specifically asked for a decaf mocha. I just need a new pair of chinos, Cruella?
And the absolute nexus—Christ, I feel like Gene Roddenberry—the absolute nexus of customer service is the computer industry. You're put on hold longer than Ralph Macchio's career, while listening to a Muzak version of Cheap Trick Live at Budokan, and when you finally get through, you either get a precocious nine-yearold whose primary qualification for the job is an exhaustive knowledge of Lara Croft from Tomb Raider II’s bra size, or an embittered Mountain Dew-aholic who is so burnt out from dealing with cybermorons all day that he can't abide your particular techno-impotence. Well, I'm sorry, but if you're going to take an intricate labyrinth of circuitry and put it on store shelves at the Price Club next to the fruit dehydrators, you'd damn well better be helpful and informative when you get a frantic phone call from some Luddite whose greatest prior technological achievement was Xeroxing his ass. Okay?
Let's face it, when you encounter poor customer service, your options are limited. The classic course of action is to ask for a supervisor. You want to know my theory? There are no supervisors. There are only two people in the room and the imbecile you're talking to and his imbecile buddy take turns pretending to be the supervisor.
Anyway, corporate America has shown its hand and said all it cares about is the bottom line. It cares nothing about customer service or its employees and, as a matter of fact, by shipping jobs overseas, it shows it cares nothing about our country. So when its products don't work, cut it no slack because it cuts us none. You want to make sneakers in a converted reconnaissance tunnel somewhere under the Mekong Delta by embryos earning three cents a year?
Well, they better be good sneakers, or else I'm returning them, motherfucker, and no, I don't have the receipt. Okay?
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
Apathy & Cynicism
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but apathy and cynicism have become so rampant in America that the motto on our coins should be changed from E Pluribus Unum to "Yeah, right."
Sure, many of you might assume that I would include myself among the naysayers. Well, you'd be wrong. As a matter of fact, I'm so optimistic that for years now I've had to put on this curmudgeon act to keep from spontaneously bursting into tears of joy. No kidding, people who know me well actually have a nickname for me, "Dappy," which is an amalgam of "Dennis" and "happy." Dappy!
Truth be told, I'm actually equal parts cynicism and apathy. I'm always willing to believe the worst as long as it doesn't take too much effort.
I
believe that every cloud, every dark cloud has a silver lining that contains abnormally high traces of mercury, which will eventually lead to the onset of neurological disorder.
But that's me. What I don't understand is that there's no reason for society to be moping around like a grounded teenager. I mean, we're not at war, there's no rioting, and the Spice Girls are in their fourteenth minute, you know... Face facts, our economy is on methamphetamine, for Christ's sake. We should be bouncing up and down like those jumpsuit freaks in the Pentium van. Instead, I keep expecting to turn on PBS and catch Barney singing "My Name Is Luka."
And of course, the B-side of this never-ending song of futility is apathy, which feeds like a suckbird on cynicism's bloated carcass. You know, much like Hitchcock's film cameos, I like to weave the phrase "suckbird on cynicism's bloated carcass" into each one of my rants. Sort of like Hirschfeld's "Ninas." But I digress ... I digress like a suckbird on cynicism's bloated carcass.
Now, there's one specific area in which a skeptical frame of mind is a completely necessary and indispensable defense mechanism, an indestructible umbrella against a raging shitstorm called politics. Politics rightfully earns our cynicism and apathy. For many of us, Watergate took our maidenhead, and ever since then we've wondered if it's the cream that rises to the top or something else you see floating around in porcelain bowls.
We are skeptical of our government because we have weathered so many scandals in the past thirty years we don't expect anything different from the people we elect. As long as the economy is sound, you can fuck us all you want, just make sure you leave the money on the dresser when you leave.
And trying to change politics is like trying to turn off "Wheel of Fortune" at the day room of a senior citizens' center. Somewhere along the line, you're gonna catch a urine bag upside the head.
People have become cynical in their jobs as well because of downsizing. You don't believe your boss anymore when he tells you you're part of the family. Your family doesn't move to Brazil and replace you with a cheaper brother.
I Rant Therefore I Am Page 4