THE GREAT GADFLY:

Always The Bridesmaid, Never The Corpse



Just walking down the street on any given day, I see so many signs of the apocalypse that I don't even bother counting them anymore. "Oh, is that the seventh sign? Eh. It's probably like the fourth or fifth. Today, anyway. Whatever. Oh, well HELLO, Mr. Pestilence! Your hellhorse is looking lovely today - its skull has quite the buffed-up shine this afternoon. I'm sorry, am I in your way?"

Walking around town tonight, I passed a pub with a big banner that said RETURN OF SMELT in great big letters.

Well, that's just great, isn't it. I don't have to spell out for you the sinister undertones in this signage, I'm sure. As if we weren't already on a speeding wheelbarrow trundling into oblivion. Yeah, this is just what we needed. AT A TIME LIKE THIS!

Smelt. SMELT! Jesus.

Oh, and as if THAT weren't enough to send reality into a total headspin, I then noticed among the rush hour pedestrian traffic a very confident looking, briskly-striding man of Yuppish descent, trotting his way down the street in his perky little suit with his perky little blondish hair bounce-bounce-bouncing in the air and oh yeah, he wasn't wearing any shoes. He was wearing RED SOCKS. That's what he was wearing. How did I notice this? Because. You NOTICE people who walk around in their red sock feet downtown during rush hour. That's how.

And now, here I am, back home and eating a bright blue Pop Tart with purple frosting and yellow squiggles. It's meant to be some kind of post-modern strawberry flavor, but to me it tastes like Play-Doh filled with toothpaste. Here's where I get all shame-filled and Piper Laurie-esque: I LIKE IT. Yes, I actually think it's quite the treat. I bought 'em because the box was shiny and purple, and there was a big picture of Smashmouth on it.

Yeah, okay: not true. They were on sale. And I thought, screw it, I never buy bright blue foods. And who knows - in some roundabout, bizarro digestive system karma kinda way, it could wind up saving me money on those blue tablets I drop in the toilet tank every month.

Don't think too hard about that last comment. It isn't very attractive when the visuals kick in.

Is Samantha Mumba ever going to make it in the States? That poor thing is on my Pop Tarts box too, right next to Smashmouth, who look right at home on breakfast foods packaging. She looks kind of, well, uncomfortable. According to this here shiny packaging, she has a song called "I Don't Need You To Tell Me I'm Pretty". But apparently she needs to advertise it on a box of unnaturally blue toaster pastries. Come on, Sam. Get it together, snap it into place. Something.

I think as long as everything's going to hell, there should be a violent coup in which '70s TV icons bum rush today's shows. I think Mary Hartman should kick Jennifer Garner's ass and take over on "Alias", I think the cast of "Laugh In" should hijack "American Idol", and I think Chuck Barris should take over CNN. Giorgio Moroder? You're wanted at the MTV studios. Haul some ass, buddy. Erin Grey? Grab Twiggy and his Flava Flav robot necklace buddy and kick the shit out of those fools on "Enterprise". Lives may be lost, but we must continue fighting until the evil reign of Monica Lewinsky hosting a reality show about dudes in creepy masks has come to an end. Make sure Pink Lady & Jeff are in position, and get Bea Arthur on my direct line. NOW!!!

I feel better now.

Smelt notwithstanding, that is.

Sweet dreams.


2003-10-14 - Last Haiku
2003-10-09 - Don't Cry Out Loud
2003-10-09 - Sit Down, You're Making Me Nervous
2003-10-08 - I'm Sure Miss Thing, I'm Sure
2003-10-07 - Carbonated Water, Caramel Color, Aspartame

index
archives
profile
Uffish
Jonno
Kiera Bombshell
Wonderboy
Dogpoet
email
notes
design
host

chicago blogs