I’ll Promise You the Moon

Now that I’ve got a modest body of work on this blog, I have been horrified to discover that I seem to have standards. As such, I feel the need to put some genuine effort into my columns.

While I may be perfectly justified in writing, “When the President talks, it’s like a dog pooping…” this would not meet the requirements that I self apply as a pundit. Most importantly, it’s much too short – only nine words when I usually aim for about eight hundred. I can only bulk that up so much by adding that the dog is a malamute, or perhaps a hilarious dachshund-St Bernard mix. Even if I added two additional modes of bodily egress and three more species of pet, that still tops out at about a buck and a quarter at best.

Not that I’m aiming to replace the New York Times, although they also appear to share length as the only criterion for publication. An obvious distinction between the Times and me is that in addition to being even more convinced that I am the center of the universe, you know ahead of time that I’m making all of my columns up as I go. You won’t need to investigate me, Jim; I rang that bell when I breezed in through the swinging doors.

The most important standard I have is regularity; my last attempts at blogging failed because I never made time for it. Like an idiot I was concentrating on things like my family or my career when I could have been cluttering up teh internets with columns about the fleshy, bloviating pod-person who so ably represents the Catholics of the United States.

On the other hand, I come up with plenty of ideas that can never be sufficiently fluffed to make it to the aluminum-standard of eight hundred words. Combining these truths I have decided to take these lemons (rather than whine and bleat) and make lemonade in tiny, tiny cups.

So, it’s with no pleasure at all that I present to you the first installment of “Bits of Stuff I Thought I Might Write About Eventually”;

Volume One. (pronounced; [boh-zee-tim-way], tell your friends).

I. As a sure sign of the ongoing mental decline that starts after every Super Bowl and speeds me drooling and smearing my food on the walls into the pre-season, I watched the live coverage of the NFL Scouting Combine.

For those of you who have never seen this, it’s three-hundred pro football prospects who work out, run fast and jump for an unidentified gang of older men. If this were college-aged women cavorting about, this stuff would be rolling behind the opening credits of a porn movie.

While I won’t make a lot of suggestions to the Combine, I will propose that all prospects for the position of middle linebacker emulate the great Lawrence Taylor and break Joe Theisman’s leg. This would also provide the ancillary benefit of keeping Joe the hell off of ESPN.

II. As a sure sign of my more general, ongoing mental decline I watched snippets of the hearing to determine who gets to bury the remains of Anna Nicole Smith. The first thing I hope is that someone takes all of the money and sends the baby girl to the distant suburbs of Neptune so that she can grow up halfway normal.

I was never a fan of the fried chicken waitress from Mexia, Texas but barring a Viking funeral pyre held next Dick Clark’s Rocking New Year’s Eve, I can’t imagine anything more exploitative than this. Maybe next time they’ll get a real judge and not some guy who thinks he’s Alan Arkin.

Finally I think the participants of any legal proceeding should aim for much higher and principled ground. I’d suggest that jurists emulate the brilliant and incomparable Chief Justice Thurgood Marshall, and break Joe Theisman’s leg.

III. I watched the Oscars last night (thank you for asking, but I’ll be fine) and it occurs to me that I’d much rather attend the Scientific and Technical awards where they have a very pretty actress (2006; Maggie Gyllenhaal, 2005;  Rachel McAdams, 2004;  Scarlett Johansson) host a dinner and ceremony for a group of geeks so alarming that they will no longer even show clips for the Sci-Tech awards on broadcast television.

Initially I assumed that Maggie, Rachel and Scarlett must have drawn the short straw for each of their respective years. I know now that this is the one room in the universe where they can be absolutely positive that no one will hit on them. At best, these guys would be rendered insensible by such beauty and mumble something about “…Skittles for pretty girl…” and then return to the lab in order to assist Professor Nerdlinger in completing the Interplexing Formal-Wear Removatron.

IV. When the President talks, it’s like a dog pooping.

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