Wednesday, August 17, 2005
National Network Television Agrees: It's All About Me
I read today that 40% of Mexicans would emigrate to the US if they had the chance. Out of an entire nation, 4 out of 10 people would rather be somewhere else. That's astounding.
To my wide Mexican reader fan-base, I would only say this: don't come. It's not because I'm racist or I don't want Mexicans living here. I'm from southern California. That ship has sailed, people. Mexicans live in the US and I'm kind of over it.
No, I'm saying stay away for your own good. Consider: Billy Murray is set to reprise his role as the voice of Garfield in Garfield 2. Any nation capable of something so horrific must have something terribly, tragically wrong with it. Please, think of your children. Stay out.
I hate the word "rant". It's a blog-ruined word that is chronically abused, literally almost as the word "literally". Any blog that uses the word "rant" in its description, tagline or (shudder) title automatically has a mountain of work to do in order to fix the damage done to my interest.
The problem is that most people mis-identify a "rant" as simply "the capacity to be annoyed". Being frustrated about traffic or your in-laws or the lady at work who smells like cat-food is all fine, but three lines about how you were "so pist off!!!!" and ending with a flourish-y "grrrr!!!" doesn't really necessarily constitute a good rant.
I blame Dennis Miller and his old HBO show. I'm sure in people's minds they sound like Dennis Miller be-boppin' and scattin' through a 3-minute verbal tirade about the erosion of personal responsibility in a victim-society peppered with crazy left-field allusions to Jack Kerouac, Riverdance, the Toledo Mudhens and F-Troop.
Like I said, in their minds they sound just like Dennis Miller the same way I sound just like Anne Murray when I'm in my car howling along to "Snowbird".
Green Day. I mean Green Day. And not "Snowbird", I mean... some... Green Day song. While drinking beer of some kind. And on my way to have sex. With chicks. At a football game. And... no. You know what? Fuck you people. Anne Murray. You heard me right.
OK, where was I? Right, rants.
Look, you can't rant as well as you think, but you know what? Neither can I. I recognize my limitations. It's the same reason I don't jog. I just accept that there are some things Jesus never intended for me to do when He made me.
Even when something upsets me, I know to try to keep it light. A little sarcasm, a little satire maybe (see: yesterday), but you don't get a lot of "everything sucks, man!" here in the Bucket. At least not since the election ended.
This is all my way of telling you that what follows is not/does not qualify as a "rant".
The (non-rant!) topic comes to me from SJ's post a few days ago where she mentioned this new "reality show" called "Meet Mr. Mom".
See? I mentioned the title and... still breathing easily, still regular blood-pressure, still thinking of ways to make funny out of it.
I had to look at the website to create the link and I'm still... OK, I have a slight stabbing pain behind my right eye, but that's OK. That could be anything. Allergy, sinus infection, a horribly lost wasp, brain tumor, anything. Ha ha!
I kind of have a little tingly feeling in my fingers, though. Is that weird? It feels weird.
I admit it, it's a pretty funny premise for a show. See, what happens is that the Mom, like, totally leaves the house. That way the kids and the dog and the housework and the shopping all have to be handled by bumbly ole workaday Dad. See him brush hair! See him burn food! See him reduced to a sobbing, crumpled heap of a man wallowing in a puddle of his own urine, reduced to helpless infancy when faced with the myriad mysterious complexities of the vacuum cleaner! Ha! Look at the funny retard! Hey, someone throw the monkey an egg-beater! I bet he gets his tongue caught in it! Ha ha ha!
If you click on the above link to the show's webpage, you can take a poll. This is the actual multiple choice poll question:
What "chore" do you think the dads will have the most trouble with?
After school activities
Ooh! I know! I know! It's got to be the last one. Everyone knows cooking is totally a chick thing. It's common knowledge that being born with a Y chromosome and the resultant extra genital appendage precludes the brain from being able to navigate the complexities of a Hamburger Helper. I've watched a lot of '70s sitcoms in my day and everybody knows that when it's Dad's night to cook, you leave the maid to clean up the whole bag of flour he managed to spill everywhere before he gives up and you all go get pizza. Yay, pizza!
Kudos, NBC. You've done it again. The same network that brought us the reality show about kids trying to pawn off their widowed geezer father on some poor, unsuspecting failed actress in order to defray nursing home costs in the (near) future now brings you this. Wholesome family entertainment strikes again!
I would totally watch "Meet Mr. Mom", but I have plans to attempt and fail suicide next Tuesday at 8. The cameramen should be here to film it by 7.
This post on the Narcissus Scale: 9.1