I have nothing to say today. Too much nothing going on. Even on the news this morning, the place where I usually hijack an idea seconds before I sit down to post. Nothing but Desperate Housewives tie-ins. Retarded.
Hey, I was once in a play called Angry Housewives. I played Larry, the asshole. I got to sing and junk. It was a musical. There were eight people in it. One of my theatre instructors was in the original cast in Seattle. I had fun. It was really fantastic. You know what’s also fantastic and has housewives in the title? Naked Housewives. Although I’m just going to have to guess about that because I’ve never actually seen anything titled Naked Housewives. Nothing that I’m going to admit to anyway.
Hey, you know what else is fun? Writing like a grade-schooler. It’s neat. I like small sentences. They’re really fun. I said fun already. It’s redundant. I could have found another word to use just then. A word like “enjoyable.” That would have been fun, too.
Damnit. I said fun again.
You know what? There’s really not all that much hard work involved in being this lame after all. It’s surprisingly simple. Maybe I’m just a natural. A prodigy. A lameness genius. Perhaps. Perhaps not. Maybe I’m not a certified “lameness genius.” But my LQ (Lameness Quotient) is definitely hovering around 140. That’s superlame! High enough to fool your colleagues into thinking that you’re the lamest person around but not high enough to apply for the man-on-the-street reporter job at the local TV news station.
I’m so lame that I chose to watch the “Happy Days” reunion last night on TV. And while it was on commercial break, I flipped back to Will and Grace and the Apprentice. How’s that for lame?
But I enjoyed the Happy Days reunion. I used to watch that show all the time. Sure, they didn’t show me anything that I hadn’t already seen, but I get a warm fuzzy feeling when the entire cast of an old TV show gets together for a reunion. Usually, with these reunions, there’s always one obvious hold-out. It happened to the Brady Bunch. But then they were making stupid Christmas specials. And they had already had that hideous musical review and the stupid cartoon.
Happy Days may not have known when to quit, and they may have had a stupid cartoon as well, but it was still a good show. And I like the fact that none of its stars pulled the old “I enjoyed my time on *insert 70s/80s TV show here* but that chapter of my life is over and I just want to move forward instead of trying to live in the past blah blah blah…”
That’s just about the lamest thing I’ve ever heard. I hate it. I understand that you don’t want to be called Tootie for the rest of your life, but come on, the show made you rich and famous. It’s time to embrace the past instead of allowing yourself to be held hostage by it. Only then will you be truly free.
There. Blanket advice for all victims of child acting. Not necessarily for Tootie because she bucked up and did the 2001 Facts of Life reunion. Good for her. The healing has begun.
But I also liked the fact that they played the “pumps your blood” song on the show last night. The song from the St. Joseph aspirin commercials. I’ve had a lot of blog hits lately because of that song. I hope to get many more. If you came to my blog looking for a download of the song, you won’t find one. You should have watched the Happy Days 30th Anniversary special on ABC last night. Tough.
Well, that’s it for this post. It was as lame as promised. Yeah me. To sum up, I’m lame, Kim Fields has a good head on her shoulders, Happy Days was cool even after they jumped the shark, “pumps you blood” is good blogging business, I was in a musical called Angry Housewives in college and Naked Housewives are better than desperate ones, although I can’t really be sure because I haven’t seen either.
Fun Fact: I’m yard-saling away all my beloved possessions this weekend. I don’t know what I’ll do without my old Vans with the holes in them or my old humongous tee shirts with the holes in them or my old broken video camera…with the holes in it.
But more difficult than figuring out how I’ll live life without these great things is trying to figure out what the loving hell other people are going to do with them.
“How much for that moth eaten pair of acid-washed jeans with the holey crotch that I’ve almost thrown out three times in the last year? Because I like you sir/m’am…it’ll only be three bucks. What a deal!”
Why do I assume that people are so desperate for my tattered crap that I insist on charging them even a quarter for it? Lame.
Oh, and the latest (and moderately creepy) TAM Cartoon is up! Holeycrotchational!