I used to be a skeptic but not anymore, because now I am positive that I am getting screwed. I don't see the glass as half-empty or half-full. As a matter of fact, I don't even see the glass because the fucking kid at Pottery Barn who promised me the champagne flutes would be here in time for my Oscar party no doubt never even put the order in and I'm serving my guests Moet & Chandon in Welch's grape jelly jars commemorating the birth of Bamm Bamm Rubble.
And skepticism is everywhere. I took my nine-year-old to see the cartoon Anastasia. Afterward, I said, "What did you think?" He said, "She's definitely had a boob job."
Oh, it all starts to wear on you and when I need to refresh my gray tired soul from the ravages of skepticism, I look no further than the kindly face of Dr. Jack Kevorkian. Such faith. Such honesty. Doesn't lie, doesn't waver, just firmly believes in the healing power of death. God love ya, Jackie. Keep on snuffin'.
Skeptics had a field day with the Lewis-Holyfield fight last year. But even with something that obvious, you'll still get your cockeyed optimistic innocent who argues that the judge from New Jersey really scored the fight the way she saw it. Please. This woman had car keys snagged on her little toe from when Don King pulled her out of his pocket. She couldn't have been more bought if she had a bar code stamped on her forehead.
And Don King comes off like Hank Fonda in The Grapes of Wrath when you stack him up next to the prevaricator in chief, William Jefferson Clinton—if that is indeed your name, sir.
Like Michael Jordan with basketball and Mark McGwire with home runs, Bill Clinton has taken lying and elevated it to an exalted art form, setting new levels in fibbery that future generations can only hope to aspire to. Watching
Clinton lie is like watching Secretariat in the stretch at the Belmont Stakes. It's really quite stirring. You realize you are witnessing a beautiful creature who's been bred and trained to perform one task instinctively without thought or reservation, like a finely tuned machine. Only difference being, Clinton was put out to stud before retirement.
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
Bad Taste
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but is there anything that goes down smoother than somebody else's bad taste? My definition of bad taste? Owning anything with the Mona Lisa on it that isn't the actual Mona Lisa.
The lowbrow aesthetic is as prevalent in our culture as fringed T-shirts saying I'M DUCKING FISGUSTED.
Bad taste is the uncanny ability to take any experience, no matter how pure and beautiful, and distill it down to its most cringe-worthy elements. It's the belief that the greatest tribute one can pay to the infinite joys of parenthood is a limited edition porcelain figurine of a curly-haired tot with saucer eyes and a massive Vanna White-sized head, sitting on a potty below a little plaque that reads MY FIRST WEEWEE.
Bad taste is having the subtlety and depth of feeling to realize that if the Venus de Milo was a great work of art and
Marilyn Monroe was a great movie star, then a Venus deMilo with Marilyn Monroe's head is even greater yet, and if that Venus de Marilyn happens to be outfitted with a water spout at the mouth and hot and cold taps where the breasts are, then even an everyday shower can be a monument to true beauty.
Accuse me of stereotyping, but when I see people with bad taste, I believe I know their lives through their uniquely tacky thumbprint. I saw a guy the other day who was perfect. He had on navy blue polyester Hagar slacks with brown snakeskin cowboy boots and a pink muscle shirt with green stripes. This guy had sideburns like I haven't seen since TBS last ran Play Misty for Me, topped with a comb-over that looked like it had been done by a spider on Xanax. Now, I know this man. He does not drive a Saab. He will only refer to pasta as "noodles." There are jumper cables sitting on his dining room table. His name is Don, but he goes by Ricky, which confuses relatives who want to buy him bowling shirts.
His wife's name is June, but he calls her Candy, except when she dips below four hundred pounds, he then calls her Dot. When he wants to make love, he winks at her and says, "Doggy needs a walk," which prompts her to put on a miniskirt, which is comprised of more black velvet than the den of a West Virginia lottery winner. Then he puts on the Oak Ridge Boys to camouflage the squeak of Dot's gigantic ass on his sky blue Naugahyde recliner, which they have to use because he hurt his back throwing a half a keg of beer through the windshield of his ex-wife's boyfriend's Dodge Charger. Ricky times his thrusts with the "woo-boppa, wooboppa, woo-boppa mao mao" part of the song "Elvira" and attempts to hold off his orgasm by trying to remember the nicknames of Richard Petty's pit crew... but then he remembers the fuel man Nick was named "Boob," causing him to blow his wad. So Don slash Ricky pinches the filter off one of Candy slash Dot's Virginia Slims and grabs the remote to try to find a fishing show or a lumberjack competition and . . . and . . . I'm lost, what was this rant about? Oh yeah, these people have really bad taste.
And never forget, bad taste is simply that. Scholars may hail this cultural flotsam and jetsam as American "folk art," but they're missing the point. The point is, IT'S CRAP. And that's why we love it. It's purely representational, purely visceral, nothing to understand, nothing to ponder. The beer cans go in the hat, the tubes go in the beer, the beer goes in your mouth. Poetic in its simplicity.
But even though there's a part of each of us that clings to bad taste like a Garfield suction cup doll on the inside windshield of an AMC Pacer, there are certain rules of decorum that must never be violated.
Cheese should never come in a spray can. Unless, of course, you're trying to market a new deodorant for the French.
And never order anything from the Franklin Mint. You know why they call it a mint? Because right after their uberjunk arrives in the mail, that is exactly what you need to take the shitty taste out of your mouth.
And oh yeah, if any of you out there are wearing a lucky horseshoe belt buckle, I want you to stop, take a beat, and think about your life. That's it. Put your pricing gun back in your pricing gun holster for a minute and actually think about your life. Now, how lucky has that belt buckle really been for you? You see my point, Jimmy Jimmy Jo-Jo?
Finally, some people will say bad taste is purely subjective, because it's a matter of personal likes and dislikes. Well, I disagree. I think it's inherently objective, because it's a matter of my personal likes and dislikes. You see, if you think your two-tone, lime green, fur-lined six-inch platform shoes are in good taste, well then, you're wrong. And you know who made me the arbiter of taste? Well, you did, Dr. Nehru, when you walked in with two dead fucking Muppets on your feet.
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
U.S. as Global Police
Originally aired on 4/9/99
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but much like the crew of the starship Enterprise visiting a new planet, the United States always starts out by stating we have no intention of interfering with a nation's infrastructure, but the next thing you know, we're walking around Kosovo like Barney Fife in lederhosen.
Now, there are many laudable reasons for the United States to serve as a global policeman. For one thing, it pisses off the French. But it's also very risky. Serbian leaders may characterize the current situation in Yugoslavia as nothing more than a domestic squabble, but any cop will tell you that's the most dangerous kind of call to answer.
This war in Kosovo must be serious, because this is the first crisis that hasn't just been President Clinton's attempt to rodeo-clown our attention away from some seedy indiscretion.
I just hope that when all this global busywork is finished and the Kosovars are back in their homes, they don't forget the help we gave them and jack up our oil prices. Wait a minute, Kosovo doesn't have vast oil supplies. Hey, what the hell are we even doing there?
I'll be honest with you, most of the time I'd rather not get involved in other people's blood feuds. Some of these grudges run deeper than the crack of Ernest Borgnine's ass. I'm sorry, Tova. Apparently, the Serbia
n people's desire to rid Kosovo of the ethnic Albanians stems from a defeat they suffered over six centuries ago at the hands of the Ottoman Turks. The Ottomans, if memory serves, were able to secure victory by hiding soldiers inside a huge cushioned footstool they built and offering it to the Serbs as a gift. Or wait, was that the Hassocks?
Got a little civil insurrection under way right here. Anyway, justifying police actions since the fall of the Soviet Union has been a real problem for America because we can no longer rely on the one-size-fits-all political excuse, "We were fighting communism." Boy, the Commies ... What a great enemy, huh? A combination of Professor Moriarty, Ming the Merciless, and Craig Kilborn all rolled up into one. Now, Lenin's tomb is a recycling bin for old Stoli bottles, and Yeltsin's more hammered than Bob Vila's left thumb.
But in selecting our enemies, there's always been one constant: America hates bullies. Make no mistake. This country is the greatest country in the world, because we've got a national conscience and at least some of the time, in between Oval Office blowjobs, we act on it.
When some jackass finally yanks our chain long enough and we drop two hundred tons of explosives on him, the wussier countries of the world like to accuse us of being cowboys. Okay, Senor Speedo, you win. That's right. We're Gary goddamn Cooper, and you know what? Saddle up and get in the posse or shut the fuck up. All right?
And don't expect us to be embarrassed about our wading into Kosovo. You know why? We've already got Grenada on our resume. Okay? We entered into Grenada simply because some Castro-backed steel drum band was building the Ricky Ricardo Memorial Airstrip there.
So after connecting through Atlanta, our boys stormed the beaches, and before you could say "I got my medical degree from the University of Gilligan," the fighting was over. You know, to this day, the people of Grenada have no idea what happened. They just talk about that one weird weekend when all the tourists were so pissed off and rude.
I'll tell you one thing about Grenada, at least we had to get up off the couch, put on something green, and actually go there. Watching the battle for Kosovo on CNN, I'm struck by how similar it is to a Nintendo game. As a matter of fact, you probably have kids at home who could fly a Stealth bomber if their feet could only reach the pedals. And when I say a "Nintendo war," I don't just mean the fact that we can push a button in a submarine and launch a missile that flies eight hundred miles before exploding its target. I'm also talking about the fact that our enemies are brightly colored cartoon creatures whom we defeat by jumping on their heads at exactly the right moment. Wait, that actually is Nintendo. What channel is CNN on?
Look, I'm never happy to see America at war. But admit it. It feels great to hate again with reckless abandon. Doesn't it? Huh? Slobodan Milosevic is a monster. Even by the way his first name trips off your tongue—Slobodan—you can just tell, he's begging for an ass kicking.
Now, I'm not sure that the air war is the total answer, but then again, I would have never let Luke Perry return to "90210." And I worry about sending in ground troops. But tell me something. When did we take assassination off the menu? Huh? I read that, so far, this little Balkan junket has cost us $500 million. Why not take one one-hundredth of that, $5 million American, and pay Stosh the bodyguard to leave Sloby's back door open one night. Then send some jacked-up ex-CIA cyberninja over there with one of those tape on the handle/Michael Corleone pistols and tell him to make sure that the last words Milosevic ever hears are "Consider yourself cleansed, motherfucker."
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
Charity & Philanthropy
As originally aired on 4/9/99
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but from slimy televangelists to Greenpeace enviro-geeks to the interminable PBS pledge break that cuts in just as the cheetah is about to whack the gazelle, Americans are increasingly swamped with requests to give their hard-earned money away to charity. You can't get through the day any more without seeing more outstretched hands than a Bob Fosse finale.
Now, look, obviously, I'm all for charity, except when aging hippies use it as a name for their daughter. This is the land of plenty and most of us are damn fortunate that we were hooked up to the embryo static line when the drop zone was over North America. Just your blind luck for being in the right place at the right time should make you want to do right by the disenfranchised among us.
And really, how much money does one person need? You know, I'm not sure, but I will tell you when I'm closing in on it.
Now, let's be honest with each other. A lot of people give to charity for one reason and one reason alone. They fear the wrath of the Almighty. They don't care about the whales, never watch a telethon, couldn't give a rat's ass about poverty. Cut the checks for one reason. Sucking up to God.
But if drawing the ire of the Supreme Being isn't really a bee in your bonnet, there's an extra incentive to be generous: You can deduct charitable donations from your income taxes. So you tell me. Why is it that if I give a buck to that sunburned guy and his dog at the end of the off-ramp and I demand a receipt for two bucks, all of a sudden I'm a bad guy.
Truth be told, on the giving scale, I'm about average: When an organization sends me personalized address labels along with a request for a donation, I use the labels without sending them anything, but at least I feel guilty about it... about three or four labels into the packet.
I also give $100 a month to a kid in Africa. People say that's great, but actually I was over there in the Peace Corps and I think he might really be mine.
Of course I'm kidding. For me, charity is keeping six bald losers whom their union insists on calling "writers" employed in spite of their drunken binges and $900-amonth phone sex bills without firing their unfunny fat asses for making me try to sell their hackneyed "it should be me out there" lines of witless dung.
You know, generosity shows itself in many guises. Donating money is one way to help. But you can also donate time and energy. Take me, for example. I'm currently working with my best friend in his basement lab every weekend trying to figure out a way to give cancer to cancer. It's crazy, but I think it just might work.
Look, give a man a fish, he eats for a day; teach a man to fish and he eats for a lifetime. But teach a man to be a fish, and he can eat himself. Teach a man to eat himself, and fish no longer matter.
So that's my Good Samaritan profile and you know something? It works for me. And I think most Americans have their priorities straight when it comes to helping their fellow man. But when the philanthropic turns bureaucratic, well, that's when things start to get really really ugly.
Charity has become big business. And charitable organizations use a range of guilt-inducing techniques to play exquisitely on our sense of obligation like Lurch on a harpsichord.
Why can't I satisfy my sweet tooth without it now being some sort of a political statement? Like Ben and Jerry telling me that a portion of the proceeds from their ice cream is now going to save the endangered albino mudskippers of the Galapagos. Hey, maybe I just want the fucking ice cream. All right? Maybe I got a bug up my ass about albino mudskippers. And hey, how much cheaper would the ice cream be if you weren't giving some of the profits away? How's about you lower the price and let me decide what jagoff species I want to prop up, okay? Listen, boys, you caught a cosmic break in the frozen dessert field. Don't get all gorillas in the misty-eyed on me. Just comb your beards, churn the butterfat, and get me my Monkey Chunky Hunky Bunky, all right?
But you know what my biggest beef about present-day charity is? I thought it was supposed to begin at home. And I don't happen to live in Kosovo. We level the place, then we offer to pay to rebuild it. Now, maybe it's the right thing to do, but I just want to be sure that we're going Dutch with the Netherlands on this, okay? 'Cause if I'm a street person walking around Boston in a pair of Kleenex boxes for shoes and a dropcloth muumuu and I look into the window of a USA Today dispenser and see this nonsense staring out at me from the front page, I'm going to feel pretty jus
tified about constantly screaming "Bullshit! Bullshit! Bullshit!" at the top of my lungs for the last seventeen years.
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
College Life
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but is there any fourto ten-year period of your life more glorious than college?
Ah, college. What other institution charges you ninety grand to prepare you for a $20,000-a-year job?
And by the way, I don't think you should have to pay back college loans unless you get a job in your field. Put some pressure on the school. If I can't pay my bills, I'm not paying yours.
When I went to college, I lived on campus, and the guys I hung out with made the characters in Revenge of the Nerds look like the Rat Pack in 1962.1 myself made that kid Booger look like Remington Steele. I remember finally breaking down and trying to wash a pair of socks by shaking them around in a rinsed-out Skippy peanut butter jar full of hot water and a squeeze of Colgate Tartar Control toothpaste.
Now, my sophomore year, I had three completely different roommates: Sidney was a grade-grubber, Tom was a ladies' man, and then there was Carver. Carver was a total stoner. He smoked more bud on an average day than Ziggy Marley's entire band the night before they had to go through customs. Carver showed me that the real fun to be derived from a Frisbee was not in throwing it or catching it, but in staring at it for hours on end and marveling at "how fuckin' round it is, man!"
The one thing I did learn right off the bat is, never have a roommate who's really good-looking unless you like sleeping out in the hall using a bag of Cheetos for a pillow. Fortunately, my junior year roommate Wayne and I got along really well. We each had a signal to use to let the other know we were in bed with a girl, so don't come in. His sign was, he'd leave a belt hanging on the doorknob. My sign was, Hell would freeze over. So it worked out well for both of us.
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