Recovering alcoholics love bumper stickers.
“Easy Does It.”
“One Day At A Time.”
Might as well wear a sandwich sign: “I Used To Drink A Lot But Now I’m Addicted to Corny Bumper Stickers That Use Clichés to Address Serious Dependency Problems.”
All of these make me yearn for the “See Rock City” and “Visit Sea World” stickers we’d see on family vacations when I was a kid.
They were simple and to the point, without a bunch of bragging.
Gosh, I really (hearted) those days.
Wrestlemania
Lately, I’ve taken to watching wrestling on TV. Not the fake stuff, of course. I’m talking about the World Wrestling Federation.
What? You believe it’s ALL fake, especially WWF? In the words of our next president, The Rock (well, after we get rid of those roody-poo, weenie weasels running for office now): “YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH!”
I was watching “The” on a talk show last week—I feel that we’re on a first-name basis he’s on TV so much—and I had to admit he’s the hunkiest of the wrestlers in a buff, brain-dead kind of way.
He’s always saying how smart his wife is—she’s got a doctorate so that makes her Mrs. Dr. The Rock, I suppose—and I’m thinking, “Hon, stop talking about your wife. No one cares about your wife. Know your role!”
I’d like to show that wife of his my own personal version of the showstopper chokeslam, baby. Ph.D this. Whoa. Don’t know where that came from.
I don’t watch WWF to see the actual sport of wrestling, which is probably a good thing since there’s only about two minutes of wrestling jam-packed into an hour of silly posturing and talking ’bout each other’s mamas.
These guys are so comfortable with the mic, you just know they all got Mr. Microphone for Christmas back in the ’eighties, when, incidentally, “Nature Boy: Ric Flair” RULED!
I suspect The Undertaker, The Big Show, and of course “Stone Cold” Steve Austin were once little nippers running around the house in their Jetsons PJ’s saying, “Hey, good lookin’, I’ll be back to pick you up later!” just like in the commercials.
I bet it’s tough for these bad boys to turn off that wrestling star personality when they go out into the real world. Give Austin the wrong change when he buys a Mountain Dew and a Baby Ruth and I bet he holds you up by your neck and demands an apology “’CAUSE STONE COLD SAID SO!”
Wouldn’t you sweat, just a little, if The Rock—oh, yeah, and the smartypants missus—showed up at the monthly PTA meeting?
T.R.: “The Rock says soccer is for roody-poo sissy boys. IT DOESN’T MATTER.”
PTA: “Right away, Mr. Rock, sir. Make a note: cancel soccer. And yes, sir, we certainly do, uh, smell what The Rock is cooking.”
In a way it’s all a little sad. I grew up watching Sadday night wrasslin’ with the likes of Mike Rotundo and tag teams such as George Becker and Johnny Weaver and Rip Hawk and Swede Hanson, men who stepped into the ring and took care of bidness with a minimum of trash-talking, men who were heroes to the National Guard Armory faithful.
And sometimes, when I think about how nobody thinks about the great wrestlers of the past, the ones who played school cafeterias for a hundred bucks a pop, it makes me want to “layeth the smacketh down.”
Whatever that means.
Who’s Hinckley Gonna Visit?
I see where John Hinckley, the guy who tried to assassinate President Reagan back in 1981, is asking for permission to get out of jail for “unsupervised visits.”
Now my question is, who is he going to visit? Old school chums? Friends from the ’hood? Does he honestly think they’re going to open the door and say, “Whoa! John Hinckley! Long time, no see! Marge, put a pot of coffee on, you’re not gonna BELIEVE what the cat drug in!”
He shot a president, for crying out loud.
And what would there be to talk about once Hinckley showed up at the front door for an “unsupervised visit”? Once you’ve gotten past the small talk (“No, John, for the fiftyeleventh time, I told you we sold that Taxi Driver video on a yard sale YEARS ago, buddy”), what else is there to say?
I just can’t imagine who Hinckley wants to visit, although I’ll bet Jodie Foster, onetime object of his obsession, is probably sleeping with one eye open these days. (On the other hand, if she can forgive whoever advised her to make Nell, she should pretty much be able to forgive anyone.)
I never did get the whole Jodie Foster/Ronald Reagan tie-in. If you’re going to be a psychopath, shouldn’t you focus on one theme? Then again, I guess that’s why they call ’em crazy.
This whole thing reminds me of the video we see from time to time in which Charlie Manson says he’s ready to go free. Of course, he’s got what Grandma Clyde would call “the crazy eye,” so he’ll never get out. Oh, and he might want to lose that swastika tattoo between his eyebrows just to show he’s sincere. We still frown on that sort of thing out here on Planet Earth.
So back to the original question. Unsupervised visits to whom? It’s not family because, according to press reports, Hinckley already hangs out with his family more than that loser son in the Holiday Inn commercials. Heck, he’s on the regular “John’ll bring the potato salad” rotation, as far as I can tell.
But those visits are “supervised” and his lawyers and shrinks say it’s high time Hinckley got to prove that he’s ready to hit the streets alone. Their biggest argument—and it’s not much of one—appears to be that that assassination thingy was more than twenty years ago and, hey, didn’t you do some pretty stupid things when you were a pup?
Well, sure. But my stupid stuff was more on the order of actually thinking I looked “tuff” in those Flashdance leg warmers, not gunning down a president, even one whose policies I generally found as appealing as a fever blister on prom night.
If you ask me, I think they should let Hinckley keep his supervised visits for a couple of more decades. Sure, he’s probably made some progress, but you just can’t be too lenient on guys who shoot presidents and popes. They’re a special breed of cat. And I, for one, want to make sure they’re on a mighty short leash.
A History Quiz for Our Young
The U.S. Education Department tells us that in a study of 22,000 students, nearly six out of ten high school seniors lack even a basic understanding of American history.
I haven’t been this disappointed since Milton Berle lost his presidential bid.
That’s right, America. Only forty percent of the students tested knew why the Pilgrims came to America. (The correct answer, is, of course, “Popcorn and lots of it!”)
Only a few students could even begin to chart Columbo’s famous voyage to the New World where he could wear a rumpled trench coat and discover frozen yogurt.
In the meantime, as good students of American history will tell you, Columbo sailed along in his three mighty ships, the Larry, the Curly, and the Moe, carrying yogurt to every port, where natives rushed to greet him yelling, “Hey, yogurt dude!”
The survey also found that fewer than half of the seniors knew the chief goal of American foreign policy after World War II: to make sure we never ran out of nylon hosiery again.
No, I was just kidding about that. It was, of course, to contain the spread of Communism, which may first appear as a small, scaly patch on skin or scalp.
American history was absolutely my best subject in high school, so, in the words of that late, great U.S. President John Wayne, allow me to share a little history quiz that should get you kids, like, thinking and stuff.
The first president of the United States of America was:
A) George Washington
B) Lionel Jefferson
C) Gomez Adams
D) George and Alana Hamilton
Name the stirring patriotic anthem penned during the Civil War that became an emotional inspiration to thousands.
A) “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”
B) “Free Bird”
C) “The Lion Sleeps
Tonight”
D) That creepy theme from The X-Files
Between 1850 and 1890, Indian reservations were established from Texas westward. Name the most famous Indian chief in U.S. history.
A) Sitting Bull
B) Cher
C) Bobby Cox
D) That guy who cries when we litter
Who was the intellectual and charismatic U.S. president best known for his “Fourteen Points” plan, bringing an end to World War I?
A) Woodrow Wilson
B) Mr. Wilson, persnickety neighbor of towheaded comic strip prankster Dennis the Menace
C) Brian Wilson
D) Flip Wilson
In 1927, what famed aviator made the first nonstop flight across the Atlantic?
A) Charles A. Lindbergh
B) Charles A. Parmesan
C) Charles A. Cheddar
D) Chuck E. Cheese
What immortal words were uttered July 20, 1969, by astronaut Neil Armstrong, the first man ever to walk on the moon?
A) “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”
B) “No matter what, there’s always gonna be some inbred loser in Arkansas who thinks this is a desert in Arizona.”
C) “Okay, okay, you got me, guys. I thought you promised there’d be a Hooters up here.”
D) “This is it? Oh, well. Now that we see this is all there is to it, at least we won’t be wasting billions of tax dollars to do THIS again.”
Sadly, that’s all the time we have for today, boys and girls. Give yourself lots of points for each “A” response you selected.
And remember, those who forget the mistakes of the past are probably not getting laid very often.
Or something like that.
Subarus and Lesbians
A recent study found that lesbians are four times more likely than anyone else to buy a Subaru.
No one seems to know why. I’m guessing it has to do with those lumberjack plaid seat covers (standard) or complimentary k.d. lang CD with purchase.
To tell the truth, I would’ve guessed more lesbians bought Saturns.
The Saturn is such an open-minded, we-are-the-world little car. The Saturn plant even hosts barbecues every year for the new owners. Although this is precisely where they lose me.
See, it’s a car. I don’t want to meet the people who made it. I’m sure they’re very nice folks who have wives and husbands and kids who play T-ball and they all eat pizza together at lunch on dress-down Fridays, but I just don’t care.
And I don’t want silly notes tucked in the glove compartment saying how much they hope I like my new car. Give me a coupon for a lube job, something I could really use.
Don’t you just hate that Saturn commercial where the fresh-faced young woman arrives at the dealership to pick up her first new car and all the gender/ethnically correct sales staff gathers around TO APPLAUD HER?
She’s all teary-eyed and I’m thinking, “Don’t get too tore up, toots, ’cause those are the same goobers who will deny they ever met you the first time you have engine trouble.”
(“You say you bought it here? And we applauded because it was your first new car? Ha-ha-ha! That’s a good one. SECURITY!!!!”)
Straight Subaru owners should brace themselves for knowing looks on the interstate. And don’t be surprised if your parents faint when you show up in the driveway in your shiny new Subaru.
(“For heaven’s sake, park that thing in the back so Gladys doesn’t see it and start asking a lot of nosy questions.”)
They might weep and wail about how they always wanted grandchildren while all you’re thinking is, “What are you blubbering about? I just liked the color.”
If you buy a Subaru, chances are your friends and family are going to start reading way too much into the fact that your hair-styles always have the ears out and you only listen to the Indigo Girls on road trips.
A more thorough study of women and the cars they buy was conducted last year. That’s the one, you may recall, that revealed the “startling” discovery that the number one quality women want in a car is “reliability.”
Poor Detroit. Whatever will they do with all those pink vanity mirrors and built-in lipstick caddies?
If you believe the Subaru-lesbian connection, you have to wonder which comes first, the Subaru or the lesbian. That is, if you trade your Subaru for a Cadillac, do you turn into a bridge-playing Republican with impossibly big hair and scarlet gel nails?
What if you just test-drive a Subaru? By the time you get back to the dealership, will you be only slightly confused about your sexuality (“I think I want to be a gym teacher, but I’m not positive”)?
The Subaru folks are thrilled with this study and have started buying advertising space in gay magazines showing outdoorsy women smiling at each other. The ads say: “It loves camping, dogs, and long-term commitment. Too bad it’s only a car.”
Couldn’t have said it better myself.
Commercial Appeal?
You’d think by now that I’d be used to TV commercials in which mothers and daughters walk along the beach discussing “you know, that not-so-fresh feeling.”
When these commercials air, I have that “you know, not-so-able-to-keep-down-my-breakfast feeling.”
The only good news, lately, is that now men get to be humiliated in thirty seconds, too.
Remember the laxative commercial with the high school coach? He’s worried sick that if he doesn’t get enough fiber, he’ll be so constipated he won’t be able to concentrate on the state basketball playoffs.
I haven’t coached a lot of teams—okay, any teams—but I can’t believe I’d be whining in the locker room about how “some fiber laxatives taste chalky and unpleasant” when I should be in there kicking some sixteen-year-old butt.
Well, thank goodness for improved Metamucil. Coach downs a glass of something that looks like sawdust and Coke, smacks his lips, and, next scene, he’s watching his team win the game at the buzzer.
What are they really saying here? That if you take your laxatives your team can win The Big Game?
Imagine the press conference after the big win.
Reporter: “Coach, I saw you looked a little tense back in the quarter-finals but you were so doggone relaxed today. What’s your secret?”
Coach: “Well, we just got a great group of guys and I’m just so proud of ’em. And we owe a lot to the Almighty, of course. And, well, since I’ve gotten rid of my constipation, I feel as happy as a pig in poop. So to speak.”
Even more embarrassing is the ad for a diarrhea remedy. (Pay attention, Coach, you never know when the tide will turn.) An architect has a pinched look when wifey drops him at the office.
Small wonder. He has to spend the day on top of a skyscraper under construction and he’s got diarrhea.
Can you imagine anything more horrible? Hubby blurts his fears to his wife. She nods knowingly and tosses him a box of Immodium AD. (What does the AD stand for, anyway? Agonizing Doofus?)
The happy ending is when she saves her husband from looking like a weenie in front of all those construction workers. (“For the last time, pal, there ain’t no elevator up here.”)
Even laundry detergent commercials are offensive. In a commercial for Surf detergent, we meet a woman who has just finished doing a mountain of laundry. Hubby comes in and asks, “Hey! How do you know that laundry is REALLY clean?”
She’s just spent a couple of hours washing and bleaching and drying and folding and Oliver Stone here asks a dumb question like that?
Instead of taking his clothes out to the driveway and running his truck tires over it a few times (“Gosh, honey, guess you’re right. This stuff doesn’t look all that clean to me, either”), she patiently accepts it when he convinces her to iron part of the wash to “bring out the odors that lurk within.”
I must’ve missed her lobotomy scar because she starts ironing up a storm and squealing, “He’s right. There are all these icky odors!”
The
lesson here is obvious: never iron anything. There’s nothing more embarrassing, after all, than laundry that has that, well, not-so-fresh feeling.
Barbie the Telemarketer
Let’s get this straight: Just because Barbie turned forty this year in a much-ballyhooed birthday celebration and there’s NOT A SINGLE LINE on her perfect Polystyrene face is no reason to hate her.
On the other hand, you could say that, like a hundred telemarketers at the bottom of the ocean, it is a good start.
To tell the truth, I’m mad at Mattel, which could have used the Barbster’s birthday to launch not another Happy Holiday Beach Party Barbie but something more realistic. Say, “Rode Hard and Put Up Wet Barbie.”
Rode Hard Barbie works all day selling time-shares. Her coworkers still make fun of her because under “special skills” on her job application, she wrote “twist-n-turn waist” and “rooted eyelashes.” (“Yeah, doll, be sure to mention that when you’re hawking those timeshares. Should make ALL the difference.”)
Rode Hard Barbie comes home to a couple of mouthy teenage daughters who are nothing like the tidy, freckle-faced friend Midge or perky Stacie. Barbie’s daughters never want to go to the beach, try out for the Olympics, or star in an all-girl pop band. They never want to spend entire decades styling their lustrous, waist-length hair while waiting for that All Important call from Ken.
No, they just want to appear on Maury, looking slutty and saying stuff like, “You are an ungrateful, disrespectful slut, Mama.” Then they tell the world that they’re saving their allowance to become men and IT’S ALL THEIR MOTHER’S FAULT.
And then there’s Ken. Whoa. What has happened to the blond and buff surfer-dude-slash-tycoon, oh he of the Turtle Wax hair, chiseled chin, and safe-sex crotch?
Bless Your Heart, Tramp Page 12