Speaking of Letterman, this week is ‘Magician Week’, which prompted me to renew my search for a comedy routine I remember from the late 80’s or early 90’s which I’ve been looking for (obviously not hard enough) for years. 5 minutes of Googling earlier tonight and I’d found it:
Greg Travis as ‘David Sleaze, Punk Magician’.
David Letterman had as his guest Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas. Strangely, instead of the typical interview, they were playing a game that was a cross between miniature golf and soccer, which involved them scooting about on desk chairs while avoiding various obstacles and trying to kick golf balls (they each had their own) into sequentially numbered hole/basket/goals. This game was created by Jerry Lewis, who had appeared earlier to (somewhat comically, somewhat disturbingly) explain it.
As the two of them played the game Paul and the band accompanied the action with calliope “clown music” (I wish I knew the name of the tune; it’s instantly recognizable). They were neck and neck coming down toward the final goal when Dave grabbed the arm of CT’s chair with one hand then with his other hand reached into CT’s suit jacket pocket where there was an asthma inhaler which he discharged 6 or 7 times (as a diversion?)
This allowed Dave to kick the winning goal, whereupon he shouted “35 points!! In your face, Thomas!” (No, I have no idea how he arrived at the 35 point figure.)
What does this all mean?
It could just mean that I’m nuts; or it could simply indicate that when a medication cautions it may cause “vivid dreams” what they really mean is “weird-ass dreams”.
That’s not so much a side-effect as it is a ‘bonus’ in my book. I mean seriously, if you gotta have side effects, that’s not a bad one to get.
I know that most, if not all, cyclists have our tales of forgetting to unclip from our pedals, thus toppling over in super-comical slow-motion in front of various pedestrians, motorists, and other cyclists. CycleDog shared one of his, which led me to post this counter-point, as it were.
I won’t deny that I’ve had my share of those mortifying incidents, but that isn’t what this post is about. This is about the much more satisfying converse of that situation, that special moment in time when we get to revel in the discomfort and embarrassment of another.
A few years ago I was riding here in town when a car whizzed past, as it did the unmistakable voice of a teenaged girl yelled “Nice butt!”
As the car went past I could see only the driver, raptly looking straight ahead. The fates intervened, however, and there was a light changing to red just up ahead. The car stopped and moments later, I rolled up on the passenger side. There a second teenage girl (obviously the ’shouter’) was ducked down in the passenger seat, giggling and thinking herself invisible. With me being on my bike, however, she was nothing of the kind and I was looking right down upon her, not even a window separating us.
The driver was also keenly aware of this situation and was furtively whispering at and prodding her friend.
The friend slowly looked up, our eyes met, and I smiled, giving her a slight ‘tsk tsk’ headshake.
I’d give anything for a photo of that moment. Her face turned such an extreme shade of red, it seemed almost painful.
Thankfully for her, the light quickly turned green and they sped away. The driver, no longer able to contain her mirth, burst into peals of hysterical laughter.
I try to remember that day; that priceless expression, when some idiot yells at me to “get off the road”, squeezes past much too closely, or any of the myriad other abuses we all suffer on a nearly daily basis.
Today after considerable time steeling myself for the inevitable horrors of an ice-cold shower, I bit the bullet and took one (with quite a bit of, shall we say, “colorful language” thrown in for good measure). Along the way I discovered something, an ice-cold shower is a sure way to put me in a foul mood. It’s not “exhilarating”, it’s not “invigorating”. It’s horrible, it’s truly awful. It’s just a blindfold away from being actual torture.
Anyway, after doing my best to put this awfulness behind me it was off to the big reference laboratory where they’ll be drawing blood and doing my labwork, some 30 minutes away. I arrived at 3:40 feeling quite pleased with myself until I discovered that they closed at 3:30! Who the Hell, aside from elementary schools, calls it a day a 3:30?!?
So, having accomplished exactly nothing aside from wasting well over an hour driving, I arrived back home. Imagine my delight when I discovered that I didn’t have my house key. After several minutes attempting the old “credit card trick” I concede that I’m going to have to go retrieve my hidden emergency key.
Guess where it’s hidden? In the basement. The same basement that is filled knee-deep with ice-cold water which backed up through the floor drain from the storm sewer. At least when I was done I could rinse off with yet more ice-cold water and bask in my 55° apartment.
And that was my day.
Thank goodness they warned me, otherwise I surely would have made a peanut butter and silicon* grease sandwich.
*Yes, I know that it’s actually silicone.
The other day I was listening to John Prine’s ‘’Fair and Square'’
This guy looked like he could be the guitar tech for the Doobie Brothers. I’m talking early 1970’s-pre-Michael-McDonald here people!
Anyway just then John Prine hit the “Lord, this world will make you crazy” refrain in “Crazy as a Loon
“I believe that hippie stole that baby…”
As always, I laughed at my cleverness all the way home.
So, I was grocery shopping bright and early this morning when a display of pies caught my eye. Marionberry pies.
“I don’t even know what Marionberries are”, I muttered to myself.
I burst into laughter as my mind immediately conjured the grainy FBI surveillance video of disgraced, then inexplicably re-elected Washington D.C. mayor, Marion Barry smoking crack with his mistress in a hotel room.
Yep, it’s quite a life; 5AM, shopping at Kroger, laughing at pies.
Have I mentioned that I’m easily amused?
Friday morning, returning from my 4am bike ride, I rode by the park. Apparently I awakened one of the white “park ducks” who proceeded to vocalize his displeasure. Bowing to the Dr. Doolittle side of my nature, I replied:
“Shut up, you. I’m not buying your damned insurance.”
I laughed at my own cleverness the rest of the way home.
I really am quite easily amused.
I found this video thanks to Todd at cycling.finial.com. Trust me, it’s hilarious.
Ok, since I’ve already started down this path; here’s a useful term I coined several years ago:
snotrockletize (accent on last syllable) - the generally inadvertent act of blowing a snot rocket onto something (or, heaven forbid, someone). Example: “Damnit, the wind shifted and I snotrockletized my shoulder!”
Here’s a funny story of ’snotrockletization’ from Ireland for your edification.
Yeah, I know; I’m basically just an overgrown ten year old with (a little) more discretionary income and way too much free time.
There are several reasons that I have never eaten, and plan never to eat, a Hot Pocket. The main reason has nothing to do with the bit (see video here) that Jim Gaffigan does about them in his stand-up routine (that is one of the reasons, though).
My reason? I can’t hear the name without automatically thinking ’snot rocket’.
I know what you’re probably thinking: “Yuck! Why on earth are you writing about ’snot rockets’?”
Why? Two words… grass pollen.
Oh, and if you are an eater of Hot Pockets, good luck not thinking “snot rocket” from now on whenever you bite into one.
You’re welcome.
