(Barbie: “Mom, can I go out tonight? It’s that dreamy Ken calling…”
Mom: “You betcha! Stay out all night and—snicker, snicker—don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”)
Today, Ken comes home to the “dream house” after a tough twenty minutes of job-hunting, sinks into his plaid Herculon recliner (somebody find that Febreze), and kills a twelve-pack while watching a Knight Rider marathon on TNT. Forty-year-old Ken looks like those losers you see hanging around the bar at the interstate Holiday Inn on drink-free-til-you-pee night. You just know that pink convertible is up on blocks in the side yard.
Mattel blew it. They had the chance to make it up to those of us who grew up waiting to develop ta-ta’s big enough to block out the sun.
They could’ve told the truth about what Barbie would really go through at forty. Make her talking Barbie, though, so she can hear herself say dumb stuff like, “Oh, I can’t drink anything with caffeine in it after noon or I’ll be up all night!”
Or how about they make a Barbie at forty that gets that one little annoying stray hair that just keeps coming back on her chin every couple of weeks or so for no apparent reason. Talk about your Totally Hair Barbie.
And at forty, why couldn’t Mattel make Barbie suddenly start shrieking phrases in public places like “WHERE’S MY PURSE?” only to find it on her lap. Right alongside her ta-ta’s.
To her credit, Barbie has been one heck of a role model for womankind. She’s been a doctor, skydiver, race car driver, mother of triplets, professional lambada dancer, Twirling Ballerina, everything but a double-naught spy.
The problem is she’s done it all with what the experts have deduced through mathematical calculations would be a physique measuring six feet tall and weighing 110 pounds. Y’all put your hands together and show some love for Bulimic Barbie!
Of course she’s just a doll and such measurements are just part of the fantasy. Remember, with dolls, all things are possible. Including having triplets with Ken.
Negativity in the Workplace
Some loser in our office just posted a notice for a mandatory workshop on “Fighting Negative Attitudes in the Workplace.”
It probably costs too much and lasts all day, and even though they say you’ll be out by four P.M., these things never end on time and the traffic will be so bad you’ll wish you’d never gone in the first place.
Plus the food usually tastes like it was catered by the nursing home and just your luck to get paired at lunch with a moron who thinks “fixin’s” is a vegetable.
Hope that doesn’t sound too negative, but journalists tend to be curmudgeons in the womb.
A former coworker who went to work for a bigger newspaper said she can hardly get anything done because of the paper’s constant touchy-feely seminars and “trust exercises.”
Recently, she had to spend an entire Saturday in the wilderness doing things like learning to trust coworkers to catch her if she allowed herself to fall backward. Why should you expect a coworker who hasn’t caught a typo since LBJ was in the White House to catch your tumbling, trusting little body?
This is so stupid.
The workshop literature promises to help you recognize the early warning signs of low morale and excessive negativity in your office.
Who needs a workshop? I’ve got my own TOP TEN WARNING SIGNS OF EXCESSIVE WORKPLACE NEGATIVITY.
If your workplace has any one of these telltale signs, you may have a significant negativity problem:
No. 10: Christmas party planning committee frittered away money on ergonomic wrist rests instead of hiring Stripping Santa.
No. 9: Annual company picnic features popular “Stab the Boss in the Eye” booth.
No. 8: Colors for company softball team are black and black.
No. 7: When new employee arrives at first staff meeting with list of innovative ideas, surly coworkers toss him into “that shredding gizmo beside the copier.”
No. 6: Employees’ voice mail replaces cheery catch-all “I am either away from my desk or answering another call” with “I’m here, but I’m not answering my phone today because You People Make Me Sick.”
No. 5: Two words: early retirement.
No. 4: Fax machine actually used for business correspondence instead of sending those funny little obscene drawings showing the back side of Mount Rushmore to friends in offices across the country.
No. 3: No one laughs anymore when portly coworker shouts “Look! I can make my stomach look like a butt!” while squeezing either side toward the middle.
No. 2: Bit o’ Honey bars replaced by Prozac in employee lounge vending machine.
And the No. 1 sign there may be low morale and too much negativity in your workplace:
Coworkers stubbornly refuse to replenish coffee supplies because “we’re all going to die anyway.”
If the seminar reveals that you have excess negativism, they will help you develop something called “learned optimism,” which I am not sure but believe involves hooking up your brain to little electrodes and forcing you to watch The Sound of Music. Every time you have a negative thought about any of those little Von Claptrap kids, it shocks you.
Another concept the workshop will help you with is called “flexible optimism.” (This is not to be confused with “flexible benefits” offered by some companies and also known as “cafeteria” plans. The difference is that with flexible benefits programs, you do not get those little cubes of lime Jell-O like you do in the “cafeteria” plan.)
After reading through this, it occurs to me that I might be a tad too negative for my own good. Maybe this seminar is really a good idea. I think I’ll go. If it doesn’t rain, which it probably will…
Calling Mom from the Train Tracks
I’m sure y’all read about the Indiana college student whose car was rear-ended into a moving train and dragged four miles down the tracks.
Now that’s a pretty awful way to start the day. Kind of makes that time you were brushing your teeth and the brush went up your nose for no apparent reason seem like no big deal, doesn’t it?
The good news is that Amber Scott wasn’t seriously hurt and was yakking, albeit tearfully, about the whole experience with Today Show host Matt Lauer the very next day.
Amber shared her sad and awful tale with Matt, who, being a graduate of many excellent broadcast journalism courses, resorted to asking the skilled interviewer’s stock questions, such as, “What was going through your head at the time?” to which Amber should have responded, “The gearshift, you mo-ron!” but she was too polite for that.
Mercifully, time was running short so Matt didn’t get to ask her if she could be any animal in the forest, what would she choose and why.
That said, am I the only one who thinks it more than a little weird that the first person Amber Scott called on her cell phone while she was bouncing down the train tracks was her mama? Not 911. That was her second call. First she called her mama.
Her mama didn’t answer the first time so Amber LEFT A MESSAGE.
Now that must’ve been something.
Beeeep. “Hey, mom, it’s me, Amber, and I’m being drug down the train tracks to what appears to be certain death. Whatchudoing?”
Don’t you just hate it when somebody calls you and the first thing they ask is, “Whatchudoing?” It drives me crazy because the only thing you can think to say, even if you’re right in the middle of dinner with Ashton Kutcher and he’s saying how much he’s tired of Demi and wants you, only you, you’re going to say, “Nuttin’. WhatCHUdoing?”
But back to Amber.
Turns out her mom was drying her hair and didn’t hear the phone. Amber’s cell phone battery was weak so mom didn’t understand the message and resumed her grooming.
(“Hmmmm, sounds like a young woman screaming for help. Fiddle-dee-dee. Now where’s my mousse?”)
The reason you don’t ever call your mama when you’re hurtling down train tracks at sixty mph is that you know what she’s going to say.
> “So you say your car is stuck under a train and there’s just about no way you’re going to get out of this alive, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, are you wearing good underwear?”
You know I’m right because ever since you were born, hasn’t your mama spent an inordinate amount of time and energy worried about the cleanliness and elasticity of your drawers just in case you, God forbid, ever have to be rescued by ambulance personnel? Your mama is convinced there’s a little checklist at the emergency room with boxes listing Condition of Underwear: (check one) “clean” or “raggedy and must have one evermore triflin’ mama.”
I’m imagining the conversation that followed with Amber and her mom.
“I’m wearing the ones Aunt Tosey gave me, Mama, with the little hearts on ’em.”
“Didn’t she say she got those at Victoria’s Secret?”
“What? Uh-oh. Mama, I got a cow on the hood of my car.”
Mama (louder): “I said, didn’t she get those at Victoria’s Secret?”
“I think so. Wait a minute. Lemme check.” (Sound of cow mooing.) “Yep. That’s what the label says.”
Mama (brightening): “Well, all right then. Didn’t she get a gift-with-purchase with those? I always thought you shoulda got that, too, instead of her wrapping it up and giving it to your sister for Christmas just like it was something she’d bought and paid for. That’s just like Tosey.”
Fortunately, as we said earlier, the story has a happy ending. Amber’s car got dislodged after hitting a railroad signpost and a couple of young men found her standing in a driveway and called for help.
(“Nine-one-one, may I help you?” “Uh, yeah. Whatchudoing?”)
According to Associated Press reports, no one asked about the condition of Amber’s underwear.
Weirdos.
Al Gore in Campaign 2000: Too Sexy for Himself?
Presidential hopeful Al Gore is clinging to the news that, among women, he’s a good thirty points ahead of the competition.
Gore, who has taken to jazzing up his image in hopes of removing that nagging description of “lifelike” before his name, has always been thought of as sort of a Ken doll with a conscience. Women love that crap.
Gore is undeniably handsome in a conventional let’s-meet-mummy-and-daddy-at-the-club kind of way. Personally, I go more for the adorably disheveled and still-clinging-to-his-Molly-Hatchet-albums kind of guy, but to each her own.
So what do we have here? A candidate with looks and brains who is doing everything short of guest shots on MTV’s Real World to improve his hip quotient. One imagines it’s only a matter of time before Gore busts in to counsel the relationship-phobic Amaya and Colin or “rap” about drugs with Ruthie. (“Of course, Ruthie, if you REALLY want the, how do you kids say it, the four-one-one on drugs, you might want to talk to George W. I understand he is quite knowledgeable about, er, blow.”)
Gore’s debate performance included an almost manic giddiness. He strutted and pranced about the stage like Tina Turner on Ike’s grave. He joked, he gestured, he chatted animatedly with audience members, he blew his nose on his sleeve. Well, maybe not. But it could certainly happen as Gore digs deeper for ways to prove that he’s just as normal and fun-loving as the next person.
Can we expect more of this new zany-brainy Al Gore as the primaries heat up? Is a bear Catholic?
It’s only a matter of time before he names his V.P. choice, the Honorable Chris Rock.
One could say that Gore’s transformation is all phony, just a political ploy to get votes, and that, if elected, he’ll immediately toss his newly acquired, toe-pinching Tony Lamas for his beloved wing tips. Once again, he’ll numb us to sleep with long, looping narratives about how he constructed the Internet in his backyard fort while growing up a poor black child on the shores of the Mississippi.
Unlike most people, I thought that whole inventing-the-Internet gaffe was endearing in a Forest Gumpian way. I think Al should step boldly forward and position himself in all sorts of settings, from framer of the Constitution (“I’m really much older than I look”) to moon walker (“Ever notice how you never see me and Neil Armstrong in the same room?”).
Al Gore gives women a safe-sex alternative to the current White House occupant. You’ll never catch Al Gore doing the devil’s aerobics with some hottie on the floor of the Oval Office. For starters, Tipper would kill him in his sleep.
Sure, Al’s campaign does seem a bit desperate these days, but these are desperate times. And, as we all know, desperate times call for lots of margaritas.
Hey, I hear Al’s buying.
Fashion Takes a Holiday
Why must we sacrifice fashion just because we’re on vacation?
Most tourists I observed on vacation in New Orleans were wearing fanny packs—awful cow bladders strapped around their waists—and puffy white athletic shoes.
True story: During a visit to the bayou country, our Cajun guide, Phillippe, tossed marshmallows to a hungry alligator and encouraged us to do the same when more gators approached the boat. Heck, I had one woman’s foot halfway out of the boat before realizing those were super padded athletic shoes, not bags of Sta-Pufs on her feet.
I can still hear her screams in my sleep.
Men are the worst. Normally sensible types think vacation is the perfect time to dig out the tank top with “Help! I’ve Fallen And I Can’t Reach My Beer” on the front.
(This is, coincidentally, the uniform of those great patriots who roam the country in search of tornadoes so they can tell TV cameras “she sounded just like a freight train.” The tacky tank is usually accompanied by a ball cap with the provocative slogan: “Don’t Ask Me. I Don’t Give A Damn,” which always amuses me because, hey, if you’re going to try to find someone to interview, why would you go up to that guy?)
Men love to wear sun visors on vacation, failing to realize that almost no one looks good in a visor. Sun visors are for cars, not humans, unless you’re on the PGA tour.
Trust me, guys. It’s doubtful anybody’s going to mistake you for a famous golfer when you’re also wearing a tank top emblazoned with “Sex Lessons…Inquire Within.” And those T-shirts with drawings of different sizes of breasts with fruit descriptions below each one? Take it from a tangerine: it doesn’t help your cause.
Honest.
Is That a Penis in the Petunias?
The notorious Bobbitectomy a while back made the Southern man sit up, scratch himself, and take notice—then scratch himself again, grateful he still had something to scratch.
Although Lorena Bobbitt was hardly a Southern woman, she did live in Virginia, and that’s just too close for comfort for the menfolk I know.
Maybe I’m jaded from too many years of reading and reporting heinous crimes, but the very first thing I thought about when I heard about the Bobbitt episode was, “Now, why can’t I find a knife that sharp when I need to cut up a chicken?”
None of the knives in my kitchen would cut hot butter. After this initial knife envy passed, I pondered the plight of the man who awoke to discover he was, mathematically speaking, half the man he used to be.
John Wayne Bobbitt’s buddy, you remember, was sleeping on the living room couch the night it happened. Right away, you know you’re dealing with a pack of rednecks.
I’m imagining the conversation that must’ve taken place.
Bobbitt: “Hey, Rupert, wake up and help me find the rest of my tallywhacker. It was here when I went to sleep.”
So Rupert (I have no idea what the friend’s real name was and this sounds as good as any) realizes the severity of the situation and rushes his friend to the hospital.
And, as you remember, a pure-T miracle happened shortly thereafter. Lorena Bobbitt was so upset after the incident, she actually fled with her husband’s business still in her hand!
A few miles from home, she looked down and realized what she’d done. Horrified, she rolled down the car window and tossed it onto the grassy sho
ulder of the road.
As you know, it was found, of course. I like to speculate that it must have been spotted by a ladies’ garden club during their “Adopt-A-Highway” roadside cleanup.
First woman: “Thelma, what’s that thing over there?”
Second woman: “I dunno, Pearl, but it sure reminds me of my late husband, Oscar.”
Perhaps, about this time, a frazzled Rupert was combing the roadside himself. I mean, if a friend won’t look for your missing manhood, what kind of friend is he?
Perhaps Rupert happened upon the cleanup crew and one “Hey, gimme that!” later was rushing to the hospital, his best buddy’s pee pistol rolling around with the empties in his Igloo cooler.
At any rate, SOMEONE not only found it, but was wise enough to return it to its rightful owner. Many hours in surgery later, the reattachment was complete and John Wayne Bobbitt went on to star in porno films.
Of course, not long after the incident, Lorena Bobbitt filed for divorce. And when this woman files for divorce, she really files for divorce, if you know what I mean.
The thing that puzzles me is that Bobbitt wasn’t the one beating down the lawyer’s door to be first to file.
I mean it’s not like this is the kind of thing the average man can put behind him. And if he can, well, give him my phone number. (Oh, I’m just being naughty, but once I did receive a signed letter from a reader in Alabamy who informed me that he was indeed sorry that I was “done spoke for” ’cause he had “a good job, a nice house, and a jawnson as big ’round as a salmon can.”)
Anywho, I kept waiting for Rupert to appear on one of those reenactment segments on Rescue 911 interviewed by William Shatner, but if it happened, I guess I missed it. Can’t you just hear him?
“See, Bill, I was over in them there weeds when two sweet old ladies came toward me with my buddy’s…”
Bless Your Heart, Tramp Page 13