Hey, there is no greater joy than the simple realization that you own a home. But getting to that point invariably involves careful navigation through the narrow straits of the free enterprise system. As an aid to you, the potential home buyer, I'm going to play codebreaker here and decipher some of the real estate ad terminology you will encounter on your journey home.
"Charming" means small. "Cute" means small. "Quaint" means old and small. "Airy, spacious, and big" means small.
"Conveniently located" means it's built beneath a freeway overpass.
"Needs tender loving care." Yeah, like Ralph Fiennes in The English Patient.
"Ocean view." Uh-huh. On a stepladder, in the attic, with a telescope.
And finally, "Well lit." "Well lit" means a million-watt searchlight from the prison for the criminally insane across the street shines directly into your bedroom every night.
Now, you also have to get your finances in order before you can go house hunting. Remember when you thought taxes were for squares and you were too cool to pay them? You might want to clear that up, Shaggy, before you go for the mortgage app. on that haunted house, okay?
And keep in mind, you never want to work with a mortgage broker who says, "Man, I wish I could buy a house someday." Now, even though interest rates are currently favorable, it is still not easy. The paperwork is harder to understand than Jar Jar Binks on Novocain.
I remember applying for my first mortgage and I got passed around like a goatskin flask at a Dead concert.
But eventually, you machete your way through the thick bureaucratic undergrowth of paperwork, and the mortgage bwana shepherds you into the lost kingdom of Escrow. Now, escrow involves working with a group of people roughly the size of Darryl Strawberry's legal team.
All you have to do is go into their office and sign more forms than there are liability waivers for a White House internship. If all goes well, after a few weeks, you'll close escrow. The closing is a traditional procedure, where, before you can officially call a house your own, you must first lie facedown over a desk while everyone involved with the purchase of your new home ... the seller, the real estate agent, the lender, the escrow officer, the insurance agent, the mortgage broker, everybody's assistants, and the Sparklet's guy who just happens to be in the office at that time ... all take turns fucking you in the ass.
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
Models
You know, when it comes to the subject of modeling, I know what I'm talking about. I don't mention it much, but before I got into comedy, I was an ass model for medical journals. Not proud of it. Not ashamed of it, either.
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but when you see models gathered at a New York City nightspot surrounded by a fawning entourage, it looks very, very glamorous. And you know why? Because it is fucking glamorous, all right. And that's what drives us crazy. It's not that they're beautiful people who look like they're having more fun than you. They are beautiful people having more fun than you. Let's face facts, there are people in Kosovo having more fun than you.
There's no arguing that models get preferential treatment just because they're models. But at least it's honest. I mean, let's quit bullshitting each other. Looks make the world go round. The prettier you are, the better your life. Makeup case closed. And, you know, if you have the right look, it all happens really quickly. One day you're the coltish beauty mixing the corn dog batter at Hot Dog on a Stick, and the next day you're on a hotel balcony in Paris at sunrise and Bono is asking you how you like your eggs.
But it's not all glamour. Modeling is cutthroat at every level. Even baby modeling. Just when you're getting the hang of sitting in a Michelin tire, along comes a cuddlier kid with bigger eyes and more dimples, and next thing you know, you're the fussy brat with the loaded diaper in the background of the Huggies ad.
There are all types of models. There are hand models who advertise gloves, rings, and dishwashing liquid. There are leg models who help sell stockings, shoes, and razors. And then there are breast models who help sell bras, blouses, and swimsuits ... and beer, tires, lawn mowers, socks, golf clubs, pest-control services, shock absorbers, cheese, paneling, toothpaste.
Then there's the average-looking models: the chunky dad on the John Deere tractor; the gingham-aproned, hasall-the-answers mom; and my personal favorite, the guy who needs Mylanta. That combination of droopy eyes and tight grimace. You know, it must be hell to go through life knowing you were born with a face that conveys the message: "I have painful gas."
You know, even if you are stunning, it takes more than good looks to be a model. It takes guts. You face constant rejection, enormous pressure, and lots of middle-aged guys with ponytails driving around in Paco Rabanne-drenched Corvettes who call themselves "producers" and complain that there's no topless shots in your portfolio.
Young models are chum for asshole sharks. How ironic that the most exquisite-looking people in the world should end up choosing the profession that requires them to spend all day by the phone waiting for the most hideous people to call them.
There are some guys who only date models. Donald Trump has a different model on his doughy arm every night. Yeah, well, believe me, it's not his choice, one night with Trump is like a winter night in Norway. It seems like six months.
Guys like Trump date lots of models, but the tiny peter principle kicks in when it comes to dating supermodels. Now, what is the difference between a model and a supermodel? Well, a regular model will look at you and tell you to fuck off, but a supermodel doesn't even have to look at you to tell you to go fuck off.
The era of the supermodel began when Linda Evangelista uttered the now infamous remark: "I don't get out of bed for less than $10,000 a day." I hope you've all noticed, Linda hasn't been out of bed for about thirteen months now.
Don't waste your energy being jealous of models. Sure, they're the best of show of the human race, but let's not forget that their careers can be shorter than Mini-Me bending over to pick up Dr. Evil's monocle.
And that's the hardest part of a model's career: knowing when to bow out gracefully. There's no Senior Tour here, folks. Only a handful get the lucrative makeup deals or acting jobs. The ones who don't are left to audition for housecoat ads in Parade magazine or get so much plastic surgery that their face is eventually tied back like the end of a roll of braunschweiger.
Some people criticize modeling. They say it's superficial and that it causes men and women to obsess over physical beauty. Well, you know, I was just at the mall this week, looking around. I don't think we're obsessing enough. You know, if you feel that Americans place too much emphasis on good looks, well then, I suggest that you go to the food court right there near Sears, and you stare at the unending Noah's Ark off-ramp of Ugly parading by with Stealth bomber-sized slices of Sbarro pizza dripping out of their three-toothed pieholes, and I guarantee you, you will sprint home and light a candle for Gia.
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
Wrestling
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but for all its gritty, everyman appeal, pro wrestling exists in its own odd parallel universe, a world where bad guys are good guys, good guys are bad guys, there's more spandex than in Michael Flatley's overnight bag, and Dennis Rodman's ring name is "the Quiet Man."
Wrestling today fuses postpubescent rage with our overwhelming, deep-rooted sense of powerlessness and disappointment. Who am I bullshittin'? It's fun. It's bad, filthy American fun.
You know, I'd love to be able to sit down and watch wrestling with my kids, but so much of it now involves behavior that I don't want them emulating, like giving people the finger and yelling, "Kiss my ass!" I've told them time and time again, that is behavior which is only acceptable from Daddy when he's stuck in traffic.
What makes wrestling so attractive to the masses? Well, it embodies the age-old struggle of good vs. evil. Do you know how much more popular politics would be if the Senate solved its problems like profes
sional wrestling matches? Wouldn't you love to see Ted Kennedy body-slamming Trent "the Rifleman" Lott over gun control? Or Bill "the President of Love" Clinton throwing rose petals and blowing kisses to the crowd after ramming Ken Starr's head into the knee of a Hispanic midget manning the turnbuckle?
One question that pops into people's minds when you mention professional wrestling is, of course, "Is it real?" And the answer to that is: "Yes, it is." I mean, how phony can it be if Don King isn't making any money off it?
And then there's female wrestling. Glistening, surgically enhanced Amazons with names like Tammy Lynn Bytch scissor-locking their scrappy little hearts out. If you've never had the pleasure, I suggest you tune in on a Monday night and watch how real women work out their problems. Far more entertaining than that gutless simp Ally McBeal? Yeah, you bet your ass it is! Have you seen Nicole Bass? Pull off her wig and call Austin, 'cause she's a man, baby!
Now, how does one become a professional wrestler? The easiest way is to go to Harvard. They've got a great program there, only no one seems to know much about it.
Professional wrestlers choose their noms de guerre with all the care of Bond villains. The names must be catchy, short, descriptive, and communicate the essential qualities of their character instantly. Sable. Sleek and powerful.
Hollywood Hulk Hogan. Flamboyant, massive, and powerful. Goldberg. Talmudic, non-pork-eating, won't wrestle on Yom Kippur, and powerful.
Years ago, I myself wrestled under the moniker Sarcasmoblaster. I would immobilize my adversaries by determining their psychological weak points and then hammering away at them with demeaning observations, until they finally became paralyzed with low self-esteem, allowing me to easily pin them for the win. I was doing great until some huge deaf guy kicked my ass.
Hey, let's put our cards on the canvas here. Pro wrestling involves an incredible amount of athleticism, but strictly speaking, I'm not quite sure it's a sport in the traditional sense. It's also entertainment. To call pro wrestling a sport is akin to calling the French loyal and brave, or Hillary Clinton a New Yorker.
Sure, it's easy to take the holier-than-thou route, and criticize pro wrestling for glamorizing violence, or selling T-shirts with an upraised middle finger and the words SUCK IT emblazoned on the front. But you know what? I choose not to go that route. I choose to look deeper, to see within pro wrestling a mirror for our own times, a mirror that, like all great works of art, forces us to probe our own troubled human natures. For who among us has not wrestled with the colorfully masked demons of self-doubt, trying to smash them with the folding chairs of daily routine, all the while dreading the pile driver of rejection?
So kudos to you, Diamond Dallas Page! Fight the good fight, Disco Inferno! Bravo to you, Buff Bagwell and Mr. Ass!
You make America great! God bless you all! And from the bottom of my heart, I salute you. Suck it, you magnificent bastards!
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
Special Interest Groups
You know what the biggest problem is with our country? Too many special interest groups. A bunch of whiny jag-offs whose core belief is: What's good for them must be good for all of us.
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but it seems that the special interest groups have narrowed the stripes on Old Glory into a democracy-for-sale computer bar code. Do you realize it's almost as easy to buy a politician these days as it is to buy a semiautomatic rifle?
From the NRA to the AARP, any group with enough brains to slap a few initials together can have an influence on Congress.
In case you're not familiar with the way our political system works, our government is like a wild party and you and I are not invited. We pay for the party, but we can never go.
We send other people to the party for us, but once they get there, they tell us they can't get us in to the party, and we end up stuck behind the velvet rope with some mook named Joey G. from Staten Island.
Lobbyists exist in a world of polished loafers, golden handshakes, and hearty, conspiratorial laughs that chill you to the bone because, every time you hear one, you know another of your elected leaders has just been bought. With one swipe of their fat Mont Blanc pens, lobbyists erase the work of a thousand pulled levers behind a thousand sliding curtains.
What special interest groups are best at is magnifying their pinprick causes into yawning chasms of need. I hear the Lesbian Farmers of America want all silos taken down because they represent a phallocentric vision of American agriculture. Hey, sorry, but where else are we gonna store our seed?
You know, it appears that many of the most powerful special interest groups have a conservative bent.
That's because conservatives desire to make other people live the way they think they should live, as opposed to liberals, who think other people should live any way they want to as long as they don't wear fur.
You know, the competition for campaign contributions in Washington has resulted in a body of lawmakers who go about courting the support of special interest groups with all the restrained dignity of a wolverine on a Fatburger.
And it's probably going to be that way for a long time. Because the power to change the laws lies in the hands of politicians, the exact people who have the greatest stake in maintaining the status quo. You might as well appoint a crack addict as drug czar.
In Washington money not only talks, it walks, eats, sleeps, golfs, fishes, and goes to the Super Bowl. You can have access to any politician for a price. You might not be able to get tickets to see Springsteen, but if the money's right, I'm pretty sure you can get A1 Gore to sing "Born to Run" at your kid's wedding.
Hey, I don't begrudge lobbyists their livelihood. Anybody willing to sit in a fancy restaurant for three hours watching Strom Thurmond trying to gum open a lobster tail is working hard for their money.
And truth be told, no matter what laws you pass to rid politics of big money, special interest groups will always figure out how to worm their way into the system because Congress will always be up for sale. That is why I propose we remove all pretense and simply turn the proceedings over to the good people from Sotheby's. Stand each congressman before a group of special interest lobbyists and just sell him to the highest bidder. Ladies and gentlemen of the tobacco industry, the next lot up for bid is Trent.
All kidding aside, folks, we have to figure out a way of stopping a small minority of highly organized zealots from beating the shit out of the rest of us just because we're all apathetic fuck-ups.
And if events of the last few months show us anything, we should start with the NRA. The NRA is notorious for sabotaging essentially decent lawmakers who want a little sanity in our nation's gun laws by showering their political opponents with money. And if the antigun politician doesn't have an opponent, the NRA will prop up some halfwit, nondescript right wing jerk-off with a bad toupee and a midnight cable access show and run him. Now, your voice in Congress is some guy in a forty-dollar suit whose brain, in ballistic terms, is a hollow-point, but that doesn't matter because all he's got to do is remember who took him to the dance when the floor calls for a vote to ban bazookas from church.
In watching the debates over gun control, I just have to sit back and admire the unique brand of effrontery displayed by the NRA. These guys are relentless at thumping away on the American Constitution to block even a childproof lock on the trigger of a snub-nosed pistol, but at the same time, they turn a blind eye to the central tenet of that very Constitution, that the will of we, the people, must prevail.
We want the guns off the street. All of us, except the NRA. So if the whores in Congress would just tell us what their votes are fetching these days, I think all of us would be more than willing to cut the check and stop letting Moses, Magnum, and the rest of the NRA call all the shots around here.
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
Is Everything Getting Worse?
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but is everything gettin
g worse? Well, it's hard to say. Of course we tend to romanticize the past. You know why? Because it's groovy, baby!
It's human nature to glorify the past and preserve it in our minds in a delicious, if inaccurate, candied haze. I mean, granted, at one time movies cost a buck and the ozone layer was intact. But you also have to remember that back then women and blacks were treated like dirt and you had to walk all the way across the room to change channels on the TV I mean, it was fucking barbaric.
So let's see. On the one hand, the economy is booming and technology is a cornucopia from which new wonders constantly tumble. On the other hand, the world seems just as war-torn as ever, and the global environment is heating up faster than President Clinton watching Jennifer Lopez stoop over to pick up a quarter on the floor. That's why I believe we need to step back and ask the one single question that will allow us to accurately and objectively assess the true state of the world: How are things for Dennis Miller? And the answer is: Pretty good, thank you. So I guess the world's doing all right.
Seriously, are things really getting worse? Well, a pessimist might say that everything in the world is steadily going downhill—that nowadays, everything is shit. Well, call me a cockeyed optimist, but I don't think that's true. I think everything has always been shit...
Yes, there were some great movies or novels or politicians back in the old days, but we remember them precisely because everything they were surrounded by was shit. Most old movies? Shit. Most old novels? Shit. Most actors? Shit. Most rock music? Shit. Most shit? Shit.
I think it's safe to say that we're financially richer, but morally poorer, these days. We expect those in power to lie, we expect our contemporaries to cheat, and we expect our employees to steal. I'm not even the most cynical guy at parties anymore. It's usually some Amish coke dealer off in the corner, with a windmill-powered cellphone.
Yes, we have more gadgets in our houses to make our lives easier, but I'm spending half my life driving back to the store to ask them how these things work. Fucking shoelaces.
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