I invoke thee, Thalia, Muse of Comedy, to tell me of the ancient Olympics, so that I may compare them to the modern Olympics, and be generally snarky while I do so. Tell of the events and the origins, the purposes and prizes, the flames and the fanfare. And tell of them in as flashy a way as possible, maybe involving some well-placed literary devices and a laser light show, for I bore easily. Sing of the athletes, Muse, and of their feats of strength and endurance and whatnot. Tell me of their hopes, dreams and extreme nudity. Tell us this story, goddess daughter of Zeus, beginning at whatever point you will, but remember- don’t leave out the nudity.
There are many myths involving the origin of the Olympic Games, some of which I have casually glanced at. I didn’t really read any, because let’s face it: chances are good that they’re like every other Greek myth and prominently feature adultery, magic and deities being born out of other deities’ brain cavities with both living to be petty and jealous another day. A popular story is that the Olympic Games were held to celebrate Zeus’ victory over the titan Cronos in a wrestling match, with the prize being the entire earth. The prizes in the ancient Olympic Games were olive wreaths, since there was only one earth to give away, and no one wanted to ask Zeus to share. These were eventually changed to medals, because it’s hard to polish olive wreaths and then angle them to reflect an annoying circle of light into the eyes of the losers. Whatever the Games’ origin, though, the first few probably involved Zeus, leaves and lots of naked running- and that’s definitely not providing the kind of support you’d need.
For your arches- I meant for your arches.
As old as the Olympic Games are, several aspects are similar to the ancient Games. For instance, the motto of the Olympics – ‘Swifter, Higher, Stronger,’ is a loose translation from the ancient Greek motto, which was actually closer to ‘Let’s get nekkid and rastle.' Many events and even more brightly colored Spandex have been added, much to the disappointment of many ardent fans of male swimming I know.
Many of the events that were originally in the Olympics have myths associated with them. One legend is that of a herald named Phidippides running 25 miles to Athens from– who can see where this is going? – Marathon to announce an Athenian victory, and then promptly dropping dead. Other sources say that it was a man named Eukles who performed the run-announce-die shtick. I don’t know how fiercely this is debated; in either case, they’re both dead now. The fact remains that many people today voluntarily run in an event that ended with a dead guy. Good call, folks. Some events, like the late pankration, have been eliminated from the roster. To get an approximation of pankration, multiply wrestling with boxing, subtract holds and add legal punches to the stomach. Now that’s an equation for internal hemorrhaging. Whee!
The flame is an ancient Greek tradition. Originally, it is thought that the flame was lit at the Games to symbolize the death and rebirth of Greek heroes. It was lit using a parabolic mirror, which displayed the Greeks’ algebraic and metallurgy prowess as well as their ability to subjugate all ant species by fire. Today, the torch is still lit using a parabolic mirror in Olympia by an actress (I’m sorry, what’s my motivation in this scene?) dressed as a priestess. The flame is played by an actual flame. It is then run by thousands of people all over the world in an amazing spectacle of unity and compressed, lightweight accelerants.
The flame passes over the soil of every nation as well as through every gas station, warehouse, farmhouse, henhouse, outhouse and doghouse as well as your house, if you play your cards right. It is then brought to the city hosting the Olympics and, in a symbolic link to the site of the ancient Games, used to light a gigantic joint. Seriously- did you see that thing? I don’t know what that architect was thinking, but I think I know what he was smoking. Swifter, higher, stronger, indeed.
Also, I haven’t been able to find any definitive information on this, because I haven’t looked, but I’m assuming that the current theme song hasn’t been around since ancient Greece. So that’s probably a ‘recent’ addition as well. You know the one- da, da! Da-da da da… hmmm. Perhaps that doesn’t translate very well to prose. There go my plans for Name that Tune: A Murder Mystery Novel. Anyway, you know it. During the ‘96 Olympics, in a fit of ‘vacation with your family’ zaniness, my sister and I choreographed a dance – and I use the word ‘dance’ in the loosest sense possible – to that song, and performed it at every opportunity. This was quite often, considering they play it when they go to commercials, when they come back from commercials, during promos and the in-depth looks at the struggles of all the athletes. Thanks to my subconscious mind and muscle memory, I now have an uncontrollable urge to perform this dance whenever I hear this song. This, as we’ve been through, is quite often. Luckily, it’s a hip, trendy dance with fist pumping a la Ace Ventura and large arm sweeps a la Vanna White, otherwise this involuntary performance might be embarrassing. Phew.
I also believe a new feature is that of the superfluous on-the-spot reporter who, as soon as an event ends, snatches the athlete and asks asinine questions so he or she can say something sportsmanlike whilst gasping for breath.
“Michael Phelps! Michael. That was a close race, congratulations on your win. What do you think you’ll have to do tomorrow for the gold?”
“Well, since we all have to start the race at the same time, I’m planning on swimming faster than everyone else.”
“Thanks! Good plan… can I touch your torso?”
I can’t imagine ancient Greeks waiting for an interview with microphone in hand, mostly because microphones hadn’t been invented yet. What do you think this is, some sort of anachronistic Disney movie? If they had, though, I would imagine the questions would be just as stupid as they are today:
“Nikos! Nikos! A minute of your time- you just received the beating of a lifetime from Papas over there. What will you have to do to win?”
“Well, (wheeze) I guess I’m going to try to avoid getting kicked square in the (gasp) stomach so much, I really think if I (choke) kicked him in the stomach a few times, instead of lying facedown in the dirt (gasp) swiping at the clouds of dust he kicked at me, I might have a better cha- would you excuse me? I think my kidney just fell out.”
Another new edition is the five-ringed Olympic flag. The five rings, of course, represent the five continents whose countries compete in the Games. Er, if you count North and South America as one continent. Note that we totally exclude Antarctica from this equation, because everyone knows that penguins are phenomenal athletes and would completely dominate all the events. So we just don’t tell them about the Games, rather than listen to them complain about how they’re running out of room on their ice floes for all these gold medals, but oh, that silver one is pretty, too and really, isn’t just competing an honor in itself? Stupid penguins.
As you can see, the Olympics have a great history, steeped in tradition and symbolism. Though the athletes now travel from all around the world and compete for shiny objects rather than circular foliage, the spirit of the Games remains the same: male swimmers should wear less clothing. What were you expecting, something unifying and profound? Pfft. It’s your first time here, I see. Thalia? You’re free to go. Why don’t you go see what you can do for SNL? I’ll meet you back here next week.
Thursday, August 26, 2004
Friday, August 13, 2004
The Velveteen Armadilla
In these reality television infested days, there is the ever-present danger of imitation: individuals see an action on TV, decide to try it, and suddenly we’ve got countless amateur rose ceremonies and civilians eating cow snouts all willy-nilly. At the risk of sounding like a wet blanket, the stunts on these shows can be dangerous without professional supervision. People don’t realize that there are dangers involved. Roses have thorns, people! And cow snouts have… well, please just put the snouts down. Really. I’ll buy you some crackers or something.
The dangerous and gross stunts are the main ones that seem to attract this mimicry. You never read about someone suing the producers of Seinfeld for a botched attempt at amiable sarcasm. But this past weekend, I was a willing participant in a cinematic reenactment of epic - or at least ‘double batch’- proportions. Tasty and danger-free – who could ask for anything more?
Let me set the scene for you. Apparently, in a little place I like to call “the South,” they have some unique wedding traditions. No, not marrying your siblings. A different tradition. While we northern folk usually have a single tiered wedding cake, these “Southerners” have been known to also serve what’s known as the Groom’s cake. Now, why the groom can’t just suck it up and eat the other cake, I don’t know. I’m not a southerner. I do know that ‘groom’ quickly stops looking like a real word, though. Groom, groom, groom. The Groom’s cake is usually a non-white confection, in compliance with the equal opportunity cake-flavor selection act of 1875.
Usually, the Groom’s cake is in an unusual shape, usually reflective of the hobbies or lifestyle of the groom. Most of these cakes are made in the South, and an extremely informal survey I just conducted reveals that most of the cakes are either the General Lee, some sort of visual tribute to illiteracy, or maybe a picture of his cousin or something. You know, as a tribute to “the one that got away.” Or as a tribute to his new bride, who knows.
About a week ago, I helped bake a red velvet armadilla Groom’s cake- complete with the obligatory gray icing and one of us saying “that looks like an autopsy” at least once every few minutes. Here follows the account of this creation.
“I can make anything – except snakes. I don’t have the counter space.”
We decided to make a double batch of red velvet cake, because according to Heather, we were, ahem, serious about this enterprise. We had already been to the store and purchased all the necessary ingredients. Then we had Jessie pick up more red food coloring, because we grossly underestimated the maximum recommended daily allowance for red food coloring. After a delicate and impressive kitchen ballet, it appeared that we were mid-way through the cleanup at the scene of Gumby’s grisly murder. The only real casualty was Kim’s shirt, which now bears a tiny red badge of courage. Way to soldier on, Kim’s shirt. We salute you and your resistance to laundry detergent.
Now, when you’re making a red velvet armadilla cake, it’s a commonly held tenet that crafting the beast out of seven smaller cakes is, well, a bit “too much.” And since five cakes is obviously too few, we decided to make six. Double batch, folks. We didn’t really have a choice. As luck would have it, the oven had a six-cake capacity. Sometimes, things just work out. This cake was meant to be.
“I can’t even begin to think how you’d make gray icing.”
Gray icing production can be quit complicated. First, you have to buy black food coloring. You still with me? Okay- I know this sounds crazy, but you’re gonna want to put a few drops into some white icing. Stir, and voila! Gray icing for all your gray icing needs. Incidentally, the process for making gray icing is remarkably similar to that of making gray teeth and a black tongue. Some of us knew that instinctively, Denise had to find it out through trial and error. For a more realistic looking armadilla, mix a few different shades of gray icing for the detail work. Also, Google armadillas for an appropriate model. So ugly they almost go right around the spectrum to cute again. Almost. Bonus trivia fact: gray icing is just as tasty as white icing, so how ‘bout you put some plastic wrap on that until you need it and get your fingers out of the bowl.
“Thanks, Ouiser. Nothin’ like a good piece of ass.”
Piece of ass, indeed. But once your cakes have baked and cooled, there’ll be pieces of lots of things on your counter. Pieces of feet, ears, me, you, torsos, ileums, aortas… it really depends on how detailed you want this thing to be. Now, be sure to refer to your Internet photo (no, not that one) to form a realistically posed armadilla, because the Internet is completely trustworthy in all respects. This could take some time, unless the picture you printed off shows an armadilla curled up into a ball, in which case it’s obvious to me you’re in this for all the wrong reasons. You may as well go buy a cookie cake from the mall for all the creativity you’re exhibiting. Please excuse yourself.
Now, the rest of you – you should have what looks like a naked armadilla, if skin were clothes and yours didn’t have any. That red velvet cake sure adds a disturbing amount of realism, doesn’t it? Ha! And eew. Let’s get some of that frosting on there. Quickly. You can used your knife to create the banded-plate pattern most armadillas have, or just spread it on there already, because we’re all getting hungry. If you’re into animalizing your food (well, more than we already have) you can put googly eyes on your cake. Or, if you forgot to buy googly eyes, raisins work too. You can also use cut-up Nilla wafers as claws. We don’t know if armadillas have claws, but we’ve been wanting to get rid of those Nilla wafers. Plus, they rhyme: armadilla, Nilla… I don’t know where I’m going with this.
“People are gonna be hackin’ into this poor animal that looks like it’s bleedin’ to death.”
Go ahead, dig in. The jokes really write themselves. Also, be sure to serve the cake by making guests specify what part of the corpse they wish to consume. It adds a whimsical touch to the event. Red velvet armadillo Groom’s cake is great to eat while watching the movie, best to eat at a wedding reception, but really, good to eat anytime. Well, not anytime. Calories, calories!
The dangerous and gross stunts are the main ones that seem to attract this mimicry. You never read about someone suing the producers of Seinfeld for a botched attempt at amiable sarcasm. But this past weekend, I was a willing participant in a cinematic reenactment of epic - or at least ‘double batch’- proportions. Tasty and danger-free – who could ask for anything more?
Let me set the scene for you. Apparently, in a little place I like to call “the South,” they have some unique wedding traditions. No, not marrying your siblings. A different tradition. While we northern folk usually have a single tiered wedding cake, these “Southerners” have been known to also serve what’s known as the Groom’s cake. Now, why the groom can’t just suck it up and eat the other cake, I don’t know. I’m not a southerner. I do know that ‘groom’ quickly stops looking like a real word, though. Groom, groom, groom. The Groom’s cake is usually a non-white confection, in compliance with the equal opportunity cake-flavor selection act of 1875.
Usually, the Groom’s cake is in an unusual shape, usually reflective of the hobbies or lifestyle of the groom. Most of these cakes are made in the South, and an extremely informal survey I just conducted reveals that most of the cakes are either the General Lee, some sort of visual tribute to illiteracy, or maybe a picture of his cousin or something. You know, as a tribute to “the one that got away.” Or as a tribute to his new bride, who knows.
About a week ago, I helped bake a red velvet armadilla Groom’s cake- complete with the obligatory gray icing and one of us saying “that looks like an autopsy” at least once every few minutes. Here follows the account of this creation.
“I can make anything – except snakes. I don’t have the counter space.”
We decided to make a double batch of red velvet cake, because according to Heather, we were, ahem, serious about this enterprise. We had already been to the store and purchased all the necessary ingredients. Then we had Jessie pick up more red food coloring, because we grossly underestimated the maximum recommended daily allowance for red food coloring. After a delicate and impressive kitchen ballet, it appeared that we were mid-way through the cleanup at the scene of Gumby’s grisly murder. The only real casualty was Kim’s shirt, which now bears a tiny red badge of courage. Way to soldier on, Kim’s shirt. We salute you and your resistance to laundry detergent.
Now, when you’re making a red velvet armadilla cake, it’s a commonly held tenet that crafting the beast out of seven smaller cakes is, well, a bit “too much.” And since five cakes is obviously too few, we decided to make six. Double batch, folks. We didn’t really have a choice. As luck would have it, the oven had a six-cake capacity. Sometimes, things just work out. This cake was meant to be.
“I can’t even begin to think how you’d make gray icing.”
Gray icing production can be quit complicated. First, you have to buy black food coloring. You still with me? Okay- I know this sounds crazy, but you’re gonna want to put a few drops into some white icing. Stir, and voila! Gray icing for all your gray icing needs. Incidentally, the process for making gray icing is remarkably similar to that of making gray teeth and a black tongue. Some of us knew that instinctively, Denise had to find it out through trial and error. For a more realistic looking armadilla, mix a few different shades of gray icing for the detail work. Also, Google armadillas for an appropriate model. So ugly they almost go right around the spectrum to cute again. Almost. Bonus trivia fact: gray icing is just as tasty as white icing, so how ‘bout you put some plastic wrap on that until you need it and get your fingers out of the bowl.
“Thanks, Ouiser. Nothin’ like a good piece of ass.”
Piece of ass, indeed. But once your cakes have baked and cooled, there’ll be pieces of lots of things on your counter. Pieces of feet, ears, me, you, torsos, ileums, aortas… it really depends on how detailed you want this thing to be. Now, be sure to refer to your Internet photo (no, not that one) to form a realistically posed armadilla, because the Internet is completely trustworthy in all respects. This could take some time, unless the picture you printed off shows an armadilla curled up into a ball, in which case it’s obvious to me you’re in this for all the wrong reasons. You may as well go buy a cookie cake from the mall for all the creativity you’re exhibiting. Please excuse yourself.
Now, the rest of you – you should have what looks like a naked armadilla, if skin were clothes and yours didn’t have any. That red velvet cake sure adds a disturbing amount of realism, doesn’t it? Ha! And eew. Let’s get some of that frosting on there. Quickly. You can used your knife to create the banded-plate pattern most armadillas have, or just spread it on there already, because we’re all getting hungry. If you’re into animalizing your food (well, more than we already have) you can put googly eyes on your cake. Or, if you forgot to buy googly eyes, raisins work too. You can also use cut-up Nilla wafers as claws. We don’t know if armadillas have claws, but we’ve been wanting to get rid of those Nilla wafers. Plus, they rhyme: armadilla, Nilla… I don’t know where I’m going with this.
“People are gonna be hackin’ into this poor animal that looks like it’s bleedin’ to death.”
Go ahead, dig in. The jokes really write themselves. Also, be sure to serve the cake by making guests specify what part of the corpse they wish to consume. It adds a whimsical touch to the event. Red velvet armadillo Groom’s cake is great to eat while watching the movie, best to eat at a wedding reception, but really, good to eat anytime. Well, not anytime. Calories, calories!
Thursday, August 05, 2004
Brain Drain-O
I remember reading somewhere that humans only use 10% of our brains. Admittedly I don’t recall where I read this, it could have been a medical journal; it could just as easily have been a Calvin and Hobbes comic. The source is not important, what is important is that I’m adopting it as true and basing the rest of this on that newly christened fact. Because wow- 10% - that’s a pretty meager slice of the brain pie. Mmm, brain pie a la mode with a Creutzfeldt-Jakob crust. Ymmm.
I’ve crunched some numbers with the help of Google and my algebra abilities, and I now know that we each have approximately six cups of gray matter jiggling about betwixt our ears. Keep in mind that this is only an average, some people will have more; others, considerably less. Your mileage may vary, but one tenth of this quivering gray mass is about one heaping half-cup of working neurons. The others laze about, napping and basking in the sunlight that probably shouldn’t be there, so why don’t you get that head wound checked out already? Surely there’s a reason that 90% of our brains are on perma-vacation. I actually thing they do work, albeit a kind of passive work. In my head, the lazy cells are receptacles for useless knowledge- and they’re good at what they do.
One area my brain specializes in is “knowledge so useless it would make the Trivial Pursuit card-writers roll their eyes and ask, ‘Where on earth did you learn that?’” I am an embarrassment when it comes to geography, but ask me about Stockholm syndrome and I’m there for ya. Stock market? I’ll pass. But if you’re curious about the intricacies of card organization at Hallmark, I got your back. I know strange medical terms, but would probably have to stop and think for a while if called upon to perform CPR, which probably wouldn’t bode well for the victim. I can tell you what a syzygy is (near-alignment of three celestial bodies in a gravitational system), the average number of dimples on a golf ball (336), or what Britney Spears has been subsisting on lately (Cheetos, Red Bull and whatever the complimentary meal tonight is on an acne-riddled one-way flight to oblivion). I can’t remember half the streets around my house, but I can lead you through the plot-arcs of X-Files (except for that last season, and I doubt even the writers could help you there). My Spanish is iffy, but I can tell a Burmese cat from an Abyssinian from twenty paces. I can sing Barenaked Ladies’ “One Week” with 100% accuracy, tell you who broke what during the filming of The Lord of the Rings, explain how luminol works, and I’m going to end this paragraph before I begin to wonder how I function as a normal member of society.
Another large portion (I’d estimate a cup of brain) is used for some knowledge that I didn’t even think I had retained. I played Super Mario Brothers 3 for the first time in many moons, and I’m happy to report that my Nintendo reflexes have not been dulled in the least. I know where the warp whistles are, how to get the white coin ship to appear, and that the princess isn’t going to be in any of the first seven castles. Let me also clarify that my skills have not increased, they have merely remained the same. I still cannot beat the memory card game. And while I can zip right to level seven without cheating, I then promptly lose every single 1UP I’ve earned and die with virtually no chance of ever saving Peach. Sorry. No, not sorry. She’s nothing but annoying in MarioKart. Also retained: all Dr. Mario ability, my feckless PowerPad skills, and my knack for grabbing the good controller. Congratulations, Player One.
I believe the majority of my otherwise dormant neurons are clogged with an oft-used repertoire of movie quotes. It’s amazing I can think at all considering the number of movie scripts I have stored up there. I could possibly have an entire conversation using only- oh, who am I kidding? I have done that. Without even really trying that hard. And most of them were probably from Tommy Boy, because really, is there anything to do in this town besides eat? Sure, there’s lots of stuff to do. Late night at the Pitch’n’Putt, throw stuff off a bridge- and here we go again. It is intriguing to think what I could accomplish if my synapses weren’t so encumbered with the likes of “Avoid the clap” and “If I could go back in time, I’d want to meet Snoopy.”
There has been speculation about what we would be able to do if we utilized a greater percentage of our brainpower. Besides just being really good at multiplication tables, but that’d be cool too. I was thinking powers like in the movie Phenomenon. But let’s not go there specifically, because A) that brings us back to movies again and B) that movie sucked. And also kinda because C) that was one of the most misleading trailers ever in life, I mean, come on- the trailer screamed “OH MY GOD ALIENS!” and the movie just chuckled derisively and said, “Thanks for your money, suckers- try tumor” and not even in a funny Schwarzenegger accent. Awful, possibly Scientology-linked movies aside, brains are a mystery. Lots of people seem to think that more brainpower could mean telekinesis. That’d be cool, like a metaphysical version of those shark-head-on-a-stick grabbers. But there comes a point where it’s like, come on, man. Just get up and get the cheese salsa yourself. This from a girl who didn’t get up to answer the phone until the machine picked up to see if it was first of all for me and second of all “worth it” to get up. (If I ever picked up after the beep when you called, heh- remember that? If you never got an answering machine pickup- uh, I wasn’t home.) Sweet, sweet hypocrisy. Delicious.
But, seriously? Let’s branch out a little bit. How about pyrokinetics? That’d be fun. And useful! S’mores, whenever you wanted ‘em! But probably, what you saved in not buying matches would be made up for in buying burn ointments. At least until you got the hang of it. Or how about flying? Well, I suppose that’s just telekinesis on yourself. Maybe you could... solve complex differential equations without a graphing calculator or an abacus. Read entire obscure Russian novels in a single sitting! Master the Spanish subjunctivo without the aid of flashcards! You know, if you read those claims like they’re the opening credits of the old Superman show, the lameness is decreased by... not much at all. Sigh. Maybe I could think of more if my brain weren’t so hopelessly clogged. Or maybe I should just go watch tv, since clearly, that’s where my mind is going anyway. Did you know the first wireless television remote was invented in 1955? Speaking of which, I can’t seem to find mine. The tv is so far away... maybe I’ll just watch- what’s this? QVC? Ah well, the phone is safely out of reach, and my brain’s not clogged enough to make me think I need a crying ceramic clown. Shill on, QVC. Shill on.
I’ve crunched some numbers with the help of Google and my algebra abilities, and I now know that we each have approximately six cups of gray matter jiggling about betwixt our ears. Keep in mind that this is only an average, some people will have more; others, considerably less. Your mileage may vary, but one tenth of this quivering gray mass is about one heaping half-cup of working neurons. The others laze about, napping and basking in the sunlight that probably shouldn’t be there, so why don’t you get that head wound checked out already? Surely there’s a reason that 90% of our brains are on perma-vacation. I actually thing they do work, albeit a kind of passive work. In my head, the lazy cells are receptacles for useless knowledge- and they’re good at what they do.
One area my brain specializes in is “knowledge so useless it would make the Trivial Pursuit card-writers roll their eyes and ask, ‘Where on earth did you learn that?’” I am an embarrassment when it comes to geography, but ask me about Stockholm syndrome and I’m there for ya. Stock market? I’ll pass. But if you’re curious about the intricacies of card organization at Hallmark, I got your back. I know strange medical terms, but would probably have to stop and think for a while if called upon to perform CPR, which probably wouldn’t bode well for the victim. I can tell you what a syzygy is (near-alignment of three celestial bodies in a gravitational system), the average number of dimples on a golf ball (336), or what Britney Spears has been subsisting on lately (Cheetos, Red Bull and whatever the complimentary meal tonight is on an acne-riddled one-way flight to oblivion). I can’t remember half the streets around my house, but I can lead you through the plot-arcs of X-Files (except for that last season, and I doubt even the writers could help you there). My Spanish is iffy, but I can tell a Burmese cat from an Abyssinian from twenty paces. I can sing Barenaked Ladies’ “One Week” with 100% accuracy, tell you who broke what during the filming of The Lord of the Rings, explain how luminol works, and I’m going to end this paragraph before I begin to wonder how I function as a normal member of society.
Another large portion (I’d estimate a cup of brain) is used for some knowledge that I didn’t even think I had retained. I played Super Mario Brothers 3 for the first time in many moons, and I’m happy to report that my Nintendo reflexes have not been dulled in the least. I know where the warp whistles are, how to get the white coin ship to appear, and that the princess isn’t going to be in any of the first seven castles. Let me also clarify that my skills have not increased, they have merely remained the same. I still cannot beat the memory card game. And while I can zip right to level seven without cheating, I then promptly lose every single 1UP I’ve earned and die with virtually no chance of ever saving Peach. Sorry. No, not sorry. She’s nothing but annoying in MarioKart. Also retained: all Dr. Mario ability, my feckless PowerPad skills, and my knack for grabbing the good controller. Congratulations, Player One.
I believe the majority of my otherwise dormant neurons are clogged with an oft-used repertoire of movie quotes. It’s amazing I can think at all considering the number of movie scripts I have stored up there. I could possibly have an entire conversation using only- oh, who am I kidding? I have done that. Without even really trying that hard. And most of them were probably from Tommy Boy, because really, is there anything to do in this town besides eat? Sure, there’s lots of stuff to do. Late night at the Pitch’n’Putt, throw stuff off a bridge- and here we go again. It is intriguing to think what I could accomplish if my synapses weren’t so encumbered with the likes of “Avoid the clap” and “If I could go back in time, I’d want to meet Snoopy.”
There has been speculation about what we would be able to do if we utilized a greater percentage of our brainpower. Besides just being really good at multiplication tables, but that’d be cool too. I was thinking powers like in the movie Phenomenon. But let’s not go there specifically, because A) that brings us back to movies again and B) that movie sucked. And also kinda because C) that was one of the most misleading trailers ever in life, I mean, come on- the trailer screamed “OH MY GOD ALIENS!” and the movie just chuckled derisively and said, “Thanks for your money, suckers- try tumor” and not even in a funny Schwarzenegger accent. Awful, possibly Scientology-linked movies aside, brains are a mystery. Lots of people seem to think that more brainpower could mean telekinesis. That’d be cool, like a metaphysical version of those shark-head-on-a-stick grabbers. But there comes a point where it’s like, come on, man. Just get up and get the cheese salsa yourself. This from a girl who didn’t get up to answer the phone until the machine picked up to see if it was first of all for me and second of all “worth it” to get up. (If I ever picked up after the beep when you called, heh- remember that? If you never got an answering machine pickup- uh, I wasn’t home.) Sweet, sweet hypocrisy. Delicious.
But, seriously? Let’s branch out a little bit. How about pyrokinetics? That’d be fun. And useful! S’mores, whenever you wanted ‘em! But probably, what you saved in not buying matches would be made up for in buying burn ointments. At least until you got the hang of it. Or how about flying? Well, I suppose that’s just telekinesis on yourself. Maybe you could... solve complex differential equations without a graphing calculator or an abacus. Read entire obscure Russian novels in a single sitting! Master the Spanish subjunctivo without the aid of flashcards! You know, if you read those claims like they’re the opening credits of the old Superman show, the lameness is decreased by... not much at all. Sigh. Maybe I could think of more if my brain weren’t so hopelessly clogged. Or maybe I should just go watch tv, since clearly, that’s where my mind is going anyway. Did you know the first wireless television remote was invented in 1955? Speaking of which, I can’t seem to find mine. The tv is so far away... maybe I’ll just watch- what’s this? QVC? Ah well, the phone is safely out of reach, and my brain’s not clogged enough to make me think I need a crying ceramic clown. Shill on, QVC. Shill on.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
