The man in the white wig and blue glasses was famous.
But not for being an ungrateful monster.
No, the city loved him. For all the wonderful things he did for people.
Except for his cameraman and producer, who he depended on for everything.
When the famous man died, the television station got rid of the producer, but they couldn’t shake the old cameraman.
This was all he truly cared for.
He shot whatever needed shooting. Edited anything needed editing.
They wore him out. He had one knee replaced. Then the other.
But they never brought him to his knees.
Tag: commentary
Combover
My neighbor Ed is a middle school gym teacher.
He’s got the worst comb-over of anyone I know.
And it’s not just his hair.
His lawn’s mostly brown patches, and he’s raked the few remaining green blades of grass over them.
His carpet’s stained and worn, and he’s tried to push the clean shag pile over the worst spots.
His Afghan Hound has a patchy pelt from worms and mange, but he’s pushed the fur around to cover the bare spots.
And when he has me over for dinner, it’s spaghetti.
Just a few strands draped over a huge meatball.
Tires
For my wife’s birthday, we bought her a new truck.
She gave me her old truck to drive, but it needs new tires.
For the past two weeks, instead of helping me get new tires, she’s been watching football.
Fuck it. I’ll go myself.
And when I went out to the parking lot, her new truck was up on blocks.
Someone had stolen her wheels.
Instead of going to get new tires for my truck, she needs to get new tires AND wheels for her truck.
And while she waits for the insurance to process her claim… she’s watching football.
Hate Fills
Hate fills my body. It oozes out through my skin like sweating garlic, and my stomach turns angrily.
I run to the bathroom.
Dry heaves.
It’s still there. And getting stronger.
Fill the tub.
Hot? Cold?
Try hot first.
See if it works. Try to wash off the rage.
Scrub. Scrub hard. Scrub harder.
It’s not working. It’s only getting worse.
Maybe if I drink something?
Water? Beer? Wine?
Vodka. I’ll drink vodka.
Lots of vodka.
It won’t stop the hate. It will make me too drunk to do anything about it.
I drink, and lay back in the tub.
Sports Sunday
The Texans were in Baltimore, doing their best to let the Ravens win.
Schaub threw his obligatory pick-six early, the Ravens ran a punt back for a touchdown, and all the Texans could manage was a pack of field goals.
I spent more time looking at my laptop, watching the live update of the blowout the Astros were suffering in Cleveland.
That’s when I picked up my Steve Jobs biography and headed for the tub.
Sunday is for sports on TV, but the Texans and Astros never got the message.
Maybe when it’s cooler outside, I’ll go read out there.
Crazy One
My sister has severe brain damage.
The surgeries to keep her condition from getting worse have made her unstable.
And the medicine makes her even more unstable.
So when she calls someone fucking crazy, they’re really fucking crazy.
Or are they?
The fact that she’s unstable, brain damaged, and perpetually drugged to the gills casts doubt on her credibility, right?
She can’t even identify colors. Or order anything other than a Big Mac and fries without freaking out.
No, she is the crazy one. Not me.
The voices agree with me, too. I’m not crazy at all.
Not one bit.
Induct the cat
In the Toy Hall of Fame sits a blanket that was inducted. Into the Toy Hall of Fame. Yes, a blanket is a toy. I’ve put a blanket over myself and played with the cats that way. And we had fun.
There is a stick in the Toy Hall of Fame. I’ve played with the cats with a stick that had feathers on it. While under a blanket. We had fun.
There’s also a ball in the Hall of Fame, and the cats sometimes chase or play fetch with one.
I wonder when the Hall of Fame will induct the cat.
Happy as a clam
My friend Billy says he is as happy as a clam.
How happy are clams? And how can you tell?
The government offered millions of dollars in research grants to determine how happy clams are.
It’s part of a greater project to determine the overall happiness of coastal bivalves and mollusks, such as oysters and mussels.
Of course, the research is really just a cover for a bunch of grad students and professors holding clam bakes and oyster parties at the taxpayer’s expense.
Sure, they say the clams are happy, but I’m not happy about getting shucked for this shit.
Santa Yoga
Santa’s really into Yoga these days.
Last year, he came back from his delivery run, and he went through the leftovers in his sack.
The last thing he pulled out was a Yoga DVD.
So, instead of just sitting on his ass watching porn and yelling at Mrs. Claus until November or so, he’s got his yoga mat and a 65-inch flat panel high-definition TV (another delivery he “lost” that year), and he’s stretching and breathing.
I hear he’s lost forty pounds. Had to get his suit resized.
That’s okay. This year, he’ll find leftover porn and gain fifty back.
Specials
Back when all there was to watch was broadcast television, every series ran Christmas specials.
Even the ones that had no business running them, like shows in space or prehistoric times.
There was a Christmas special for Star Wars, despite being long ago and in a galaxy far away.
And it was horrible. The Star Wars special… all of them.
These days, people watch cable television or Netflix and Hulu and Amazon.
You don’t have to watch any of that crap.
Although, if you really wanted to, you could read a book or spend time with family.
Nah. What’s on?