Face facts. Britain has no practical purpose anymore except providing America with fashions, rock stars, the wonderful Emma Thompson, and that little bald fucker who pimped for Benny Hill.
God save the queen. Because, quite frankly, the rest of us can't be bothered.
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
Abortion
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, because basically this topic is a mine field ... abortion. I couldn't be any more on tiptoe if this rant were being produced by George Balanchine.
This is the big debate. And I'm talking bigger than who was the better Darren on Bewitched.
Abortion is our nation's Final Jeopardy. And I'll wager, Alex, that if America fights another civil war, it will be about this.
And I would remind you that this is all from my perspective. The male perspective. A one-step-removed perspective because I will obviously never have to decide on whether or not I should have an abortion. And, by the way, my belief is that if men were the ones getting pregnant, abortions would be easier to get than food poisoning in Moscow.
Having men decide the fate of a woman's reproductive system makes about as much sense as asking Quentin Crisp to coach the Raiders.
All right, enough qualifying. Let's get on with it. There's no doubt that passions run high on both sides, and this issue has created a divide in this country not seen since Carly Simon last yawned in public.
The prevailing opinions on a woman's freedom to choose are going further to the right than a Greg Norman tee shot. Prolife activists attempt to paint anyone prochoice as having no morals.
On the other side of the ledger, prochoicers are tagging prolifers as crazed and backward Bible thumpers bent on running the lives of the people who disagree with them.
The truth, as always is the case in human endeavors, lies somewhere in between. As much as the advance scouts on either side of this issue might not want to admit it, good people do get abortions and other good people are pained by their decision to get one.
Where do I stand? Well, I'm like most of you. I presume there are far too many abortions performed in this country. And I also believe that at the end of the day, as much as I might disapprove, none of them are really any of my business.
Look, there are always going to be arguments on this issue, the debate will rage until the end of time no matter what the whim of the papal infallibility or politics of the decade, but the simple truth is that such a passionate and persona] issue dictates that the choice be left to the individual.
And, you know, that's really all we can do. Because we're just human beings stumbling around in the dark, trying to get to the bathroom and kickin' the shit out of our shins on the way there.
Now, there're some things that all right-minded human beings should agree on. We should all agree that abortion should be legal in the case of rape, incest, and when the mother's life is at risk. That's just common sense.
But excluding that obvious assumption, everything else in the abortion arena is in play. There are many quagmires complicating this issue.
Religion ... now, it seems that religion is most often the backboard for every bank shot put up by someone making it their business to get into your business.
Roman Catholic doctrine forbids abortion. Fine, take that into consideration when you make your decision. Right-to-life proponents contend that abortion is immoral. Fine, take that into consideration when you make your decision.
Another pothole in the road to a sensible approach to abortion is when does life begin? At conception? When a heartbeat is detected? At the first drawn breath? You know, for me it wasn't until last Tuesday; until then I was still just a sperm with an accountant.
Okay, okay, so those are the variables and there are obviously millions more variables that make each individual case unique. But the more you think about it and the more it makes your head spin, and the more confused you get trying to figure out somebody else's life for them, it becomes increasingly apparent that it has to be the call of the individual who is pregnant.
Because the collective, one way or another, won't have to suffer the consequences of that most personal of all decisions.
My fellow Americans, it is time to suck it up, look deep into your immortal soul if you believe you have one, and do the right thing. Have the courage and strength to live your own life by your own standards and stop trying to call the shots for everyone else. We all live with glaring inconsistencies, and sometimes when you see something going on right in front of you that offends you to the very core of your being, sometimes the best thing you can do is to walk away, because you know that's exactly what you'd want them to do for you.
There is only one judge on this one, and it's God, and you don't get to meet him until you go backstage after the play is over.
And believe me, you do not want to get a thumbs- down from the guy who created thumbs, all right? In the interim, everybody's got to tend their own garden vis-a-vis abortion. And remember, when it comes to your own body, only you wear the robes and only you carry the gavel.
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
Bill Clinton, Second Term
Well, it's been about five and a half years since we've kicked the big guy's tires and said "We'll take it," and now it's time we threw him up on the rack and gave him the standard 26-point check to try and find out where the hell all those funny noises are coming from.
Of course, I'm talking about the President of the United States, the man in charge of looking like someone's in charge. I'm talking about Billy Bob Clinton. How can a guy so chunky be so damn smooth?
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but if somebody were to make a life-sized replica of Bill Clinton entirely out of margarine, WD-40, and banana peels, it would still be less slippery than the original.
Many people thought that Bill Clinton's first election to the presidency was a sign that character was no longer an issue in choosing the leader of this country. It had been established that he had dodged the draft, smoked pot, and his marital vows contained all the fidelity of a Kenner Close 'n Play. In other words, he's most people. Talk about being judged by a jury of your peers. We found him guilty and sentenced him to eight years in a federal institution.
It's easy to joke about Bill Clinton as an aw-shucks hillbilly; hell, I've been skipping to that well for half a decade now. And while that's not an entirely inaccurate portrayal, it's as representative of the total Clinton package as "Octopus's Garden" is of Abbey Road.
For while on the one groping hand he might appear to be a mouth-breathing hick, on the other, he is more adept at slinging bullshit than a street sweeper in Pamplona.
Bill Clinton treats the truth like your mom treats the good china. There's never an occasion special enough to actually use it, although you can take it out and look at it once in a while.
Now, putting aside my personal distaste for a moment, let me say that I do believe our President is a compassionate man. Unfortunately, his good intentions and moist-eyed empathy are derailed with Amtrak-like regularity by his almost pathological need to be liked by all factions and by his attempts to turn every situation to his political advantage. Thus, he can support campaign finance reform while selling White House policy to the highest bidder, decry China's human rights record while granting them favored-nation status, and feel our pain while slashing welfare and food stamps. This guy is a limping contradiction. He wants it both ways more often than Dennis Rodman.
And in spite of every paradox, Clinton's popularity continues to rise. The man can do no wrong. It's astounding. I mean, Christ, he makes Ronald Reagan look like Steve Buscemi.
Let's face it, we as Americans are inexplicably attracted and attached to this guy. Of course he's not innocent of all the scandals he's been tied to, he's far from perfect, and we just don't know if we should trust him. But we keep sticking with him, hoping he'll eventually change. You know, in a nutshell ... we're all Hillary.
The truth abou
t Bill Clinton is that he has an infallible internal leveling bubble that makes him the perfect politician. He has a wonderful way of making you feel as if you're the only person in the room, unless, of course, you're at an orgy with him. And maybe all that he's really guilty of is using that impressive power to craft himself into the President we want and need, someone who's a reflection of our own flawed self-image.
Poll after poll shows that even though Americans find Clinton's character reprehensible, they think he's doing a fine job, which translates to: "Yeah, he's an unbelievable sleazebag, but the economy's good." You know, we may not like what Clinton does, but he's a larger-than-life manifestation of the compromises and concessions we all have to make and the lies we all have to tell ourselves every day so that we can keep going. Cynical? You betcha. But, fuck it, my stocks are going through the roof.
Disgusting as I may find certain aspects of Bill Clinton's character, I have to confess admiration for his astonishing resilience. Our president extricates himself from the most difficult situations with an ability that is nothing short of James Bondian. No matter how bad it looks for him, he always winds up escaping in the lifeboat with a gorgeous babe, a perfectly chilled bottle of Perrier-Jouet, and a big side order of chili fries. Yee-haw!
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
America's Obsession with Beauty
Boy, this country is looks crazy, isn't it?
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but Americans are under the delusion that the sublime physical perfection is the only way to get past the velvet ropes at Club Happy. We're exhausting ourselves in a narcissistic orgy of bingeing, purging, and free consultations, all in the hope that Father Time will cut us the same deal that Dick Clark has.
Now, at the Academy Awards, almost as important as who wins, hell, maybe even more important than who wins, is what are the women wearing. Women's gowns are analyzed, critiqued, and discussed as though this were the Potsdam Summit.
Models and movie stars are the aesthetic benchmarks against which we measure ourselves, regardless of how unattainable their beauty may be without access to personal trainers, extensive cosmetic surgery, and pharmaceutical speedballs. That's why people go to plastic surgeons asking for Juliette Lewis's lips or Mel Gibson's eyes. And your plastic surgeon can even give you Michael Jackson's nose ... literally.
Ask any little girl what she wants to be when she grows up. Chances are she won't say president or astronaut or doctor. Chances are she'll say "Supermodel." What does it say about our culture when Einstein's original draft of the theory of relativity fetches less at auction than what a flat-line electroencephalograph Giacometti statue gets to stroll down a runway? And for God's sake, isn't it about time we passed an absolute edict forbidding these women from uttering the words "Modeling is hard work."
You know, women in our culture, however, find themselves deluged by mixed messages that leave them more rattled than a cocktail shaker in a Noel Coward play. Nowhere is this more evident than in women's magazines. I know that men have their Esquires and GQs, but, come on. A few pages of gay guys in clothes you would never wear, fifty features about sports and cars, and an article about how much chicks really dig love handles. Nobody gets hurt and the status quo is maintained.
Pick up a women's magazine and you're privy to the kind of brainwashing that would make the director of The Manchurian Candidate envious. A glance through one of these tony tomes and you're indoctrinated into a no-win mindfuck parallel universe populated by spindly, overpaid nineteen-year-olds in thousand-dollar frocks, hair and makeup tips so intricate they would confound Oppenheimer, and diets that make the rations at a Sudan refugee camp look like the Viennese table at Pavarotti's wedding. And the biggest irony is, in every single one of these magazines, there are at least five articles about how important it is to like yourself just the way you are.
Y'know, we're conditioned, weaned on, and addicted to "looking like" rather than actually "being" or "feeling." The fact that we prize beauty is the reason that we live in a perpetually disposable society. We worship something that is nothing but transitory. The standards for beauty have changed more over the ages than the names tattooed on Johnny Depp's arm.
One of the most recent beauty gotta-haves is big, full, pouting lips. And it's really easy. The doctor takes a syringe full of fat from your rear end and injects it into your lips ... Well, kiss my own ass, why didn't I think of that?
The fat injection takes care of the fullness, and the doctor's bill takes care of the pouting. Results vary. Some women leave looking like Steven Tyler after a bar fight.
A generation of movies and magazines has convinced many intelligent women to have their breasts enlarged. Now, many women in L.A. seem to take it to the nth-cup degree and they end up looking like something little Mexican kids should be whacking with sticks for candy and toys.
And if you don't want to get surgery, you can now buy the Wonderbra, which pushes your tits together like Japanese subway riders at 7:45 A.M. And as with any money- making innovation, soon there are knockoffs. First there was the Wonderbra, then Victoria's Secret came out with The Miracle Bra, and there's even the Gossard Super- Uplift bra, which is not only a wonderful undergarment, but I believe also set a transatlantic crossing record in the mid thirties.
Oh, and by the way, Wal-Mart just came out with their own version, it's called the Hey, Lurleen, them ain't your titties bra.
And as far as body retooling goes, men are just as guilty as women. Some guys actually pay money to have somebody suck the fat out of their stomach and inject it into their penis. And you know what it cost? It cost $8432 and 25 cents. Worth every penny.
Men are also just as obsessed with what's missing from the top of their big heads. And I'm sorry to report to the follicly challenged that you're not fooling anybody with those mini-micro-mega grafts. If you leave work on Friday bald and come back on Monday looking like your sister's Skipper doll after a trip to Three Mile Island, we know what you did, squid attack-head.
Look, I have no problem with people who choose not to go gently into that saggy night. I don't think there's anything wrong with a little cosmetic surgery or primping and preening, as long as the external procedure isn't an attempt to make up for some internal flaw. Just don't rely on it to make you happier or expect it to make you a better person. To tell you the truth, lately I've been thinking about getting a little liposuction myself because uh, well ... let's just say my belly button's not as close to my spine as it used to be. But, hey, come on, gimme a break, I have two kids and you know that can be hell on a man's body.
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
Parenthood
Ah, kids. You know usually I regale you with something that is nagging me about the modern world. But I would like to talk about something beautiful for a change. I'm talking about the joys of children.
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but along with marrying my wife, having my two sons, Holden and Marlon, is the most important thing I have ever done or will ever do. Before you ask, yes, it's even more important than receiving my ACE awards, the award for cable excellence.
Now, nothing turns an adult inside out like having children. Our biological need to reproduce is stronger than the dining room chairs at Pavarotti's house.
You know, there comes a time in life where it just feels natural to procreate. For my wife and me that time came when I had mastered every level of Donkey Kong, there was a baseball strike, and they took M.A.N.T.I.S. off the air. What the hell else was I to do?
Then one day my wife told me, ah, she was pregnant. At that moment I went through more emotions than Jack Paar with low blood sugar. Believe it or not, I was speechless. But that didn't last. Primal guttural man pride took over. And I leapt to my feet, shouting, "I am a superhero! I am the Progenitor, Master of Fertility! Silly earthlings, your attempts to run from my seed are futile! You cannot hide from the life-giving molten baby juice of the Progenitor!" An
d then the maitre d' asked me to sit back down because I was scaring the other diners. But bottom line— I was secure in the knowledge my dick worked.
Then after you have the baby, you suddenly find yourself so consumed with love that it all becomes quite simple: YOU WILL DO ANYTHING FOR YOUR CHILD. Your life becomes an endless round of sleep-deprivation, viewings of The Little Mermaid, and obsessive worrying about whether the baby-sitter worships Satan. Nothing is as precious to you as your child's physical and mental well-being. Since becoming a parent, I, who once dreamed of tooling around Monte Carlo in my Aston- Martin, breaking the hearts of wealthy contessas while insouciantly playing baccarat, have purposely lost more games of Candy Land to my kid than Brando threw prize fights in On the Waterfront.
Babies are wrinkled, they drool, they can't eat or go to the bathroom on their own, and they constantly need to lake naps. When you think about it, they're like tiny little Hob Doles.
And by the way, shouldn't there be some kind of relationship between how much a baby eats and how much comes out the other end? For God's sake, it's like at the circus, where they've got the tiny VW bug but the clowns just keep coming out and out and out ... Eventually you learn how to hold your breath like a Hokkaido pearl diver.
Ranting Again Page 8
