Regis and Kelly on Mute and Things That Annoy Me
I woke up this morning and discovered my Internet access, typically lightning fast, was suffering an apparent hangover in cyberspace and couldn't present Web pages any faster than one or two pages every five minutes. Now, I depend on my dose of news headlines first thing in the morning, if for no other reason because, after reading the news, the rest of my day seems pretty great.
Lacking immediate access to breaking news about the D.C. area sniper and his obsession with killing innocents, I opted to click on the TV, only to be greeted by Regis and Kelly, a show I've never seen. At that moment, my Internet started behaving, apparently shaking off the DTs from last night's Internet drinking binge, so I put the TV on mute.
A funny thing about Regis and Kelly on mute; you can really get a taste for how much those two apparently can't stand each other. I haven't seen so much eye rolling since watching the Cookie Monster on Sesame Street as a child. When Regis was talking, Kelly was doing her incredulous best to let the audience know that she thought Regis was a geriatric pants pooper, and when Kelly opened her chasm to speak, it was plainly obvious through Regis' body language that he regarded Kelly as a no-talent elf about to collapse under the weight of her own make-up. I don't know, maybe I'm wrong. But I'm never wrong, at least according to me.
Oh, and if you want a window into the resume of Kelly Ripa, here's an excerpt from this site: Ripa's television career began in November 1990 when she joined the popular ABC Television Network daytime drama "All My Children" in the role of Hayley Vaughan. Ripa, who sees a little bit of herself in Hayley, had been attending Camden Community College (motto: We're Not Much, but Kelly Ripa Goes Here) in New Jersey and had performed in local theater productions, including "H.M.S. Pinafore," (hey, my cousin was in that about ten years ago) "The Wizard of Oz" and "A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court," (what, no King Lear or something a tad more challenging?) before coming to the show. Her entry into acting came suddenly. After performing in her senior high school play, "The Ugly Duckling," she was encouraged to pursue acting. (did anyone else notice that they just listed a high school performance as somehow constituting acting experience?) Ripa, who has one sibling, is the first in her family to enter the acting profession. (I'm betting her other siblings haven't graduated yet). She has studied ballet since age three, plays the piano and, in her words, is "no Barbra Streisand but can carry a tune" (good, carry it elsewhere, you maddeningly coifed hack).
You know what annoys me? I'll tell you what annoys me. It annoys me when radio DJs feel as though they must creatively speak their way through the opening bars of a good song. This practice, known as a segue, should be stopped immediately. Just because the first 15 seconds of a song have no lyrics, that doesn't mean you should fill the time with irritating crap about the radio station, upcoming events, or just general mindless blather. I want to hear the song! Shut up! Shut up! Just shut the hell up!
Oh, it also annoys me when people at a convenience store pay for purchases totalling less than $5 use a credit card. Argh! Don't you people know about the exchange medium called cash? It's green. There are pictures of past presidents on it. And it's fast, primarily because, when you use cash, you don't have to wait for a machine to dial into a credit database, print out a receipt, and have you sign it. If you can't carry at least $10 in cash with you, you don't deserve to go anywhere. The longer we have to wait for you people and your credit card processing, the longer we have to sit idly in the crosshairs of a sniper's scope. Please, think of the sniper.
"Important News You May Have Missed" c. Ryan Rhodes, Oct. 14, 2002
I feel it is my duty, as a dedicated journalist, to bring to my valued readers the news items deemed unworthy by the "established" media outlets around the nation.
Sure, you're kept up to date on the economy, the war on terrorism, and the establishment of Krispy Kreme outlets in the Twin Cities. But, what about the lesser news stories, the runts of the news world that deserve valuable ink just as much as their more compelling news kin?
Yes, what about important news items about dwarf tossing and toilet paper novels? Don't these stories warrant more than just a passing snobbish sniff from the elitist noses tapping away at computers behind the metropolitan news desks? Yes, I say, yes! So, let's begin.
According to a Sept. 27 Reuters news report out of Geneva, Switzerland, a tiny stuntman named Manuel Wackenheim (a name that is a human rights violation in itself) officially protested, before a U.N. human rights body, a French ban on the practice of "dwarf throwing."
That's right, dwarf throwing, otherwise known as dwarf tossing, a pastime that is practiced around the world, usually in bars (if you can believe that), that involves men competing to see who can throw a dwarf the furthest.
Wackenheim reportedly argued that the 1995 French ban was discriminatory and actually deprived him of his lucrative employment of "being hurled around discotheques by burly men." I don't know about you, but if I were glancing through the classifieds, and I saw an item searching for a person willing to be hurled around discotheques by burly men, I'd probably keep looking. Then again, I guess I don't really know how much a good tossing dwarf makes in an evening. I'm betting it's no small change.
According to the article, the 3'10" inch stuntman, who wears a crash helmet and padded clothing with handles on the back to facilitate better throwing, lost his case before a U.N. human rights body, which said the need to protect human dignity was paramount. Those U.N. human rights bodies are such party poopers.
I feel I should interject a little commentary here. I mean, seriously, if a person makes the conscious decision that he or she wants to wear a crash helmet and padded clothing with handles and be hurled around discotheques by burly men, isn't that their right? I mean. . . *snicker* *giggle* *uncontrollable laughter* I'm sorry, where was I? Oh, yes, toilet paper novels.
According to an Oct. 10 Reuters news item out of Frankfurt, Germany, countrymen who enjoy thumbing through great works of literature while nature calls can now flip through new toilet paper rolls printed with novels and poems.
It's news stories like this that make me slap my forehead forcefully while exclaiming "now why didn't I think of that!" I've been such a fool, carrying a rolled up magazine under my armpit every time I want to catch up on a little bathroom reading. All this time, the answer to my reading dilemma was right under my nose, um, metaphorically speaking.
In actuality, I believe the concept of toilet paper roll novels is a monumentally bad idea. Imagine all the unrolled toilet paper littering bathroom floors due to the Charmin release of "War and Peace." Or, what about the chaos that would ensue in public bathrooms when stall-goers sit down only to discover their roll is in mid-chapter.
BATHROOM GOER #1: *knocking on stall wall* Psst, hey buddy, do you have the first 124 squares of chapter 15?
BATHROOM GOER #2: No! Get your own roll!
To quote the article, "'We want our books to be used. That's our philosophy,' said Georges Hemmerstoffer, head of the Klo-Verlag which publishes the toilet paper literature. About half of all people liked to read on the toilet, he said.'
What I want to know is: what unfortunate soul or souls had to conduct the survey that discovered half of all people liked to read on the toilet? I'm envisioning dogged survey takers, both shoes trailing toilet paper, chasing down bathroom goers to ask whether they enjoy reading in the bathroom.
Yes, I'm pretty sure that, if you find yourself employed as a bathroom survey taker, it's probably time to find employment elsewhere.
I hear there's a bright future in dwarf tossing.
Something Winter This Way Comes
Melissa bounded into her bedroom Sunday morning, in her typically playful way, jumped on me (still shrouded in slumber), and then peeked out the window.
"Did you look outside, Ryan?" she asked, and I grunted negatively, cracking my eyes open just enough to see Mel fully in awe of whatever it was going on outside. She then looked down at me with a big smile and leaned in to kiss me.
"It's snowing," she whispered after removing her tongue from my mouth.
I sat up with her and looked out the window. Indeed, the trees outside her window were sporting a puffy layer of freshly fallen snow, as big, sloppy, wet flakes descended to the ground and quickly melted upon impact. Oh, poop, it's winter.
I've been keenly aware of the encroachment of this accursed season, with it's sudden drop in temperature coinciding with a conspicuous lack of daylight. I've noticed the strange pain in my left knee as I run, a seasonal irritation that seems right out of the pages of The Farmer's Almanac. I've also noticed that my ambition levels have subsided considerably, and I find it more and more difficult to drag myself outdoors to run and to attend my hapkido classes every Tuesday and Thursday night.
My bedroom, now dark by 6 p.m., resembles a bear's den more and more, and I feel it is my duty to hibernate, as I tried to do last night when I fell asleep at 6:30 p.m. and slept straight through to 8:30 this morning (yes, that's 14 straight hours, almost a new record for me).
Each year, as daylight savings time draws ever-closer, I start wondering how I'm going to make it through yet another Minnesota winter, the interminably dark and cold months of window scraping and bundling up. How can anyone choose to live this way? The answer lies in the minute wonders inherent in the season.
The first real snowfall, the one that garners enough strength to cover the ground and hide all that is brown and bleak, is truly a wonder of the season. Every lawn becomes one and the same, and rivalries between neighbors to see who can maintain the most flawless yard are dropped. Snow is the great equalizer, forcing everyone to realize that, no matter how much money they make, they're not going anywhere until their driveway is cleared.
Outdoor Christmas lights, which were a novelty 20 years ago, now bedeck every house pretty much from November until late January, a celebration of light during a season when darkness seems to envelop everything.
Daylight hours, seemingly infinite during the summer months, are a precious commodity in winter, forcing people to really appreciate when the sun emerges, even if it is only for 10 hours at a stretch. And there's nothing brighter than a noonday sun glaring off a fresh blanket of snow.
If I don't acknowledge the tiny miracles of winter as they present themselves, I'll surely go insane suffering its many drawbacks.
I Don't Need Help During toilet Time
It's a funny thing about going to the bathroom. Ever since I solidified my expertise with the bowl, I haven't really sought out the assistance of others. Of all the hygiene activities I like to perform alone, going to the bathroom and washing up afterwards is top among them.
I've relieved myself in an assortment of venues, both clean and not so clean. Truck stop bathrooms are usually among the worst; battered enclaves with stall doors that look like they were attacked by ogres intent on depositing their last 15 meals in one, um, sitting. Seriously, why are the doors of so many men's room stalls so beat up? How bad does the average trucker have to shit that he has to, apparently, lower a shoulder and assault his way to defacatory release?
TRUCKER: Oh God, oh God, oh God!! For the love of all that's pure and holy, let me in this stall so I can dispose of the the $18 Taco Bell meal I ingested last night! Open damn you!! Open!! *punch* *kick* *shoulder* *head butt*
Well, anyway, my gripe this time is not with those bathrooms that look as though they suffered a direct cruise missile attack. Nay, my gripe this evening lies with those bathrooms that look as though they're used by royalty, bedecked with an atmosphere more suited to ballroom dancing than digestive expulsion.
Saturday night, after a lengthy, and I might add frustrating, search for an eating establishment in the Minneapolis/St. Paul area, my girlfriend and I ended up at the Mall of America, that eating Mecca of the culinary world. Why did we go there? Because, we were forced there due to an insane traffic jam on our way to a nice place called the Red Stone. Now, the Mall of America is great if you want to people watch and peruse astronomically priced merchandise, but as far as eating goes, you'd be better off gnawing on an old boot. Your choices are usually deep fried things or batter fried things.
A little known fact about me: when I get seriously hungry, as in 24 hours since my last morsel, I tend to get surly. Melissa sensed my irritation, primarily because I cut off four cars and burned rubber at a stoplight on my way into the parking lot of the Mall of America. I then proceeded to hate everyone we walked past, because they looked full and content, whilst I sustained myself on only the acids my stomach produced.
Mel, desperate to alleviate my sour mood, steered me toward a place called Jillians, a bar/grill/arcade. It's also an annoying place to go if you're hungry. I was so irritable, I could only grunt. I think I actually felt my cranium protruding and desiring a bumpy club in my right hand with which to bludgeon game. I was that hungry.
We sat down and, despite a cacophony of noise, ordered chips and salsa and margaritas. I then made my way to the bathroom, fully expecting a nice, clean, non-intrusive bathroom-going experience. What I encountered was a haze of burning incense and a young man who thought he deserved a tip for spritzing hands with soap and handing out folded pieces of paper towel.
Don't ge me wrong. I've known since I was quite young that there are bathrooms in the world that sport such opulence. But, why in the world would you want one in a sports bar, in the Mall of America, in Minnesota (state motto: leave me alone, especially in the bathroom)?
So, I walk into the bathroom, absorb the aura of burning incense, acknowledge the gentleman awaiting a tip for doing nothing at the counter, and realize that I'm already too far into the experience to back out. There I was, in the bathroom. I couldn't just slink out and pretend I didn't know why I was in there. I had to tinkle. So I did.
But now, I had an audience. I couldn't just leave, not after holding onto my own wang as I urinated, without washing my hands. I'm usually diligent about washing my hands after a bathroom-going experience, but I don't usually have an expectant attendant eager to douse my hands in Dove for a tip. I didn't want his attention, but neither did I want to go back out with unwashed hands and eat chips and salsa with my girlfriend.
I went up to the sink counter, careful to select the sink furthest away from the attendant (maybe he's lazy, I thought). Unperturbed, he hustled over and asked me to extend my hands so he could slather them with soap. I accepted. Then, he hurried over with a mat of folded paper towel, and I dried my hands with it. As I dabbed my hands, I noticed a wicker basket of cash, consisting of $1s, $5s, $10s and, yes, $20s. Oh, puh-lease! If I had known I was going to be sent on a guilt trip, I would have packed more. So, I pulled out my wallet, made a gesture like I was going to fish out some cash, and opted simply put it back in my pocket. I then left, throwing the towel in the trash, my hands clean and dry.
So I'm ass. Sue me.
