Imagine you’re walking down the street, minding your own business when suddenly it approaches: something between the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man and Will Ferrell with a tranquilizer dart in his neck, leaving behind a trail of booze, sweat and drool in its path. What a horror! You exclaim, as it slowly gets bigger and bigger, crying “mmmmmf I waaan sanwichesss! And peeeezzaaaa!” and as you dive to avoid its pale, blubbery, annoying wrath, you see it, and then you know: side boob. What we have here is a big, fat, mess.
A few weeks ago, I was contentedly sprawled across the couch and enjoying my requisite weekend-at-home House / Law and Order SVU combo marathon-extraordinaire, when my mom casually interjected, “Have you read today’s Newsday?” I, seething from the interruption, responded, “You know I don’t read that shit.” She glanced at the screen. “How many times have you seen this episode?” Umm … “How about ENOUGH?” She turned off the TV and Hugh’s face flickered into the darkness. “Read this,” she insisted. “It’s very interesting.”
I have taken seven years of French. I can order a crepe and a glass of red wine. Additionally, I have ordered a Jesus steak, but we will get to that later.
At any rate, my French is super crap, seriously mediocre. Regardless, I have ventured to France with poor friend A in tow, in order to eat many crepes and drink many glasses of red wine. I was a bit afraid to enter the nation of macaroons and bald soccer (futball) players, not to mention that weird skunk guy on Les Loony Tunes, but I went ahead, bravely going where many tres stupide American etudiantes have gone before.
1. Crepes are awesome.
2. Wine is better.
3. Let me tell you our tale.
Last Saturday, I touched down in London-Town with my eyes wide, my hopes high and my fake British accent well-rehearsed and ready to go. I turned my back on the more obvious, tropical, MTV-sponsored locales for the first time and packed my bags for a sun- and body shot-free zone. Just hours into my journey, high above the Atlantic, I was certain I’d made the right choice. Although I admit this may have had something to do with the combination of sitting next to an empty seat on the plane and/or the Valium my lovely mom slipped in my carry-on, my excitement prevailed and after seven pleasant air-borne hours I approached the friendly-looking immigration officer with a skip in my step and a smile.
Officer: “Passport?” … Why of course, sir.
In case you’ve forgotten (which is absurd), the last time we spoke:
1. Snow fell on England.
2. Rachel was being tortured by her dentist.
3. The English turned out to be aliens!
4. A hobo named Jeff taught me all I needed to know about the world.
5. I discovered two previously unknown diseases.
Two of these things have since been proven to be lies. I think we all know which ones. These falsities are neither here nor there. What is here, however, is a recession! And this one’s for keeps.
Last weekend, I counted myself among millions of other vag-having Americans and went to see the movie that many of them hoped would be the Holy Grail, the second coming of Carrie Bradshaw, the answer to all of their questions. Like: why didn’t he text you back? Well, clearly He’s Just Not That Into You. Or: why isn’t he calling? Because he’s probably Just Not That Into You. Why did he change his name and number and move out of the state? Maybe he’s in the witness protection program. No, silly! He’s obviously Just Not That Into You!
“ENGLAND WAKES UP TO SNOW CHAOS,” stated the Guardian. The Associated Press added: “London Crawling.” Hah! A little AP humor soothes the soul. Anyway, there was some sort of massive snow explosion outside, whilst I, under the covers in Merry Old England, was suffering from sympathetic tooth pain/Vicodin craving (known as TPVC, look it up*), and missing my friend who was somewhere suffering from real pain/Vicodin craving on account of the evil dentist Dr. Wonko.**
Unfortunately, after many, many attempts to write this column, I’m forced to admit to myself that the whole is in fact better than the sum of its parts. I, in fact, might not be that funny and I hesitate to say that R might not be either. I’m sure you’d agree with our many (many) fans that together, the two of us are quite a riot, but with an ocean between us? Well, the Dynamic Duo turned Unfortunate Uno may be up for a downgrade from riot to mere hoot, or worse. Mildly amusing, perhaps. Not amusing, perhaps. But if this particular column is disappointing, relax … we’ve found salvation in Skype, so once we figure out what to do about that six hour time difference, all will be as it was.
R: I miss you, R …
In a hopeless, melting world with a collapsing economy, in which oil is becoming more and more scarce, where you can’t get a sandwich after 2 a.m., LiLo and SamRo can’t get married and you always have three prelims, a term paper and a presentation in one week, we have found salvation. While perusing Gawker’s usual tales of fallen Wall Street tycoons and their rundown on the life and times of Paul Rudd, we discovered something magical and wonderfully elegant in its simplicity. We will now share this phenomenon with you: www.ustream.tv/channel/shiba-inu-puppy-cam.