Nothing Worse.

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My greatest fear has always been the prospect of having some trauma or some injury that turns me stupid. As it stands now, I am no towering intellect; I was once fooled into thinking that The Love Boat was actually the USS Nimitz. Regardless, I am chilled to the bone at the prospect of a post-injury SinisterDan who would be incapable of understanding the present SinisterDan; I’d hate to ever be incapable of telling that I’m not a very good writer.

This was going to be the focus of this post. After all that brain damage angle is some funny shit.

I changed the topic not because came to my senses, but because I have a headache. Actually, I just don’t have a headache, I have a migraine. If you are now saying, “A migraine is a headache” then I’d invite you to take a moment to inject Windex into your neck with a shovel.

I have two major migraine symptoms; pain and hate. The pain is obvious. As a result in the fluctuations of vascular pressure, there is a defined line of white hot pain that runs from behind my left eye, back through my head and into the top of my left shoulder. Light hurts, movement hurts– well, every damn thing hurts. Typing this post is excruciating, but between you and me, I’m guessing that it’s worse for you.

When I am in this level of discomfort, I hate nearly everyone and everything. The obvious exceptions are my children (I simply find them to be clouds of pure, deafening chaos) and my wife (it is only her good graces that permit my ongoing crapulence).

But the rest of you are in pretty deep pudding. Seriously, Jim, watch it.

I don’t hate you all personally of course, but I do hate you. Each of you, probably without knowing, are causing the vibration of air molecules through your bodily motion and generally being alive. These molecules chain react and strike the pain wire in my head. The fact that you don’t know about this only makes it worse.

And you’re ugly.

The cat purred at me, so I punched it. Moving my arm hurts, so then I punched myself in the face. I really hate the Quakers right now.

Since I’m an idiot, I’m watching TV and writing at the same time while I have a migraine. The eye-to-shoulder pain wire is now humming along with alarming efficiency and I think that I’m about thirty minutes away from a stroke.

As I’ve been typing, I’ve flipped through the channels to find five normally innocuous subjects that I must presently, because of my deplorable condition, despise.

1. Barack Obama; Normally, I would be glad that Senator Obama gave a speech that has, according to most pundits, solved all racial problems in the world forever. Well, there’s one problem he hasn’t solved: my migraine. I hate all races, all speeches about race, and all speeches by Senators. I even hate all of the world’s nations that either have Senators or do not. Yes, this enmity and rage includes sports teams called ‘Senators’, in case you were wondering.

2. Jamaica; I just saw a commercial encouraging all of us to travel to Jamaica and spend our money on their stuff. I kind of liked this commercial, because if true, it seems that really attractive, bikini-clad women shower together on Jamaican beaches. However, the bikinis are brightly colored, and now I hate them too. Also, the pit of mind-bending fury that I hold for Jamaica only deepens as I imagine myself there, sweltering in the Caribbean sun. So stimulated, my pain wire causes my head to explode. Thanks, but no thanks, Jamaica; you can go to hell.

3. John McCain; I’m not trying to be political when I say this, but I want to tear his jowls off and scream at him to shut up. I’ve got a really bad migraine and I don’t need to hear his stupid, old ass keep confusing Iran and Iraq. Do what Ronald Reagan did when his stupid, old ass needed to speak; read a terrible speech about a shining city and call it a day.

4. The Indiana Jones sequel; I shouldn’t need to explain this.

5. Gordon Ramsay; I already hated him, but the migraine is not the best advocate for moderation. How has this man not gotten most of his face cooked off on a gas burner already? While I’m sure he’s a great chef (or not) he is only famous for yelling at people. Without the migraine, I’d toss him into the salamander by the time he got halfway through his second exceptionally accented and falsely amplified f-bomb. With the migraine, I’d make him give Jamie Oliver an open-mouthed kiss, and then burn his face off.

Too much?

Who cares? I’m going to bed.

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Batman versus the Democrats.

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I didn’t want to write this but in reviewing some of the blogs that I’ve committed against you, I realized that this was sadly inevitable. About ten months ago, I wrote the definitive early assessment of the Republican presidential primary: Batman versus the Republicans.

In looking back at that post, it seems that all I really did was explain how President The Batman would be far superior to any of the Republican alternatives. Since this consisted of President The Batman handing out Presidential Vicious Beatings with his idiomatic combination of violence and stealth, I don’t think we need to cover that ground again.

Also, since the biggest issue for the Dems appears to be the sitting President, the Batman would simply need to crumple George W into a heap with a spine-fracturing scissor-kick. I’m objecting to this on the grounds that such an action would be wrong.

…wrong for The Batman…

I made some notes while watching the last debate between the final pair of Democrats before the definitive and impending vote on Super Tuesday. If I’m not funny, that’s why.

…tedious…predictable…pointless…

And the candidates weren’t great either. It’s all very nice, friendly slightly saccharine and non-threatening. Under the table, I think Clinton and Obama were holding hands…or fending off Bill.

This is not a race fit for The Batman; presented with this dilemma, The Batman would simply move on and go beat the crap out of some hippies. This isn’t even a race for the stupid Electric Superman or even Aquaman, who’s the really obvious choice.

This is a race for Captain Marvel.

After all, in a race where one candidate wants to be her husband and the other hopes to be John Kennedy, you really need a superhero who is just an unimaginably lame clone of Superman. It’s also noteworthy that Hillary’s pantsuits would be similar to the Captain Marvel uniform if she started wearing capes. I’m not 100% sure about this, but I also think Fox News made a big deal out of the fact that Barack Obama’s middle name is Shazaam.

Captain Marvel lacks an obvious focus; he’s not the mysterious vigilante fighting to avenge his murdered parents. Captain Marvel is a creepy man-boy hybrid who really just serves as the biznitch for some old guy who claims to be a wizard and lives in a cave (hint: imagine Tom Cruise in 20 years…).

Worst.
Analogy.
Ever.

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New Hampshire: Not Important Very Often.

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I’ve been watching American Presidential elections with the single mindedness of three-pouch-a-day Tang addict since 1992. In that time, I have become really, really tired of New Frikkin’ Hampshire. Seriously – the Granite State primaries can drink plumbing seepage as far as this impartial and aloof commentator is concerned.

Plumbing seepage with a skin on it…

Otherwise, I like New Hampshire. As a Canadian, I find the lack of sales tax both delightful and a little creepy. However, once every four years this little bump of a state becomes the center of the electoral universe and the only fuel in the tank of the 24/7 Cable News Hole.

The worst part of all of this is that New Hampshire is not always a key to victory, except when it is. It’s true that almost every candidate who wins Iowa and New Hampshire usually wins the nomination; but let’s think about that bit of greasy wisdom for a second: if you win the first two elections, your chances of winning more of them are very good.

It should be noted that if you fall down two stairs, you may roll down all of them. Thanks, Gandalf.

You SHALL NOT PASS!! Sorry.

So New Hampshire is really the key to an area adjacent to the kingdom – remember that girl from high school with the really big boobs that you wanted to fu…ahem…to date? Well, New Hampshire is her pal with bad hair and orthopedic sweaters who tells her that you have head lice.

Both the Democrats and the Republicans will go forward regardless of what happens in New Hampshire, and they will probably do so in basically the same order that they entered. But since I’m feeling tricky, let’s break this down so you know what I knew would happen before it did.

I guess I should finish this before the polls close.

1. Barack Obama will win New Hampshire by about 10 points as everyone predicted (or not). Upon winning, Senator Obama will give a speech about change and hope. We hope for change, and we change so that we might hope. We hope that the attention span of the voters does not change or else Mr. Obama may need to eventually have a point. Soon after this speech he will repair broken watches with a smile, make sweet love to both Oprah and Dr. Phil and then get to work on finishing the Grand Unified Theory before midnight. Remember, if you vote for Obama, you will no longer need yeast or sugar to make bread. Yes Jim, he is that good.

2. Hillary Clinton will lose and not understand why New Hampshire humans persist in not voting for her like she told them. Hillary Clinton will declare that she is on the comeback trail even if she loses by 32 points, her headquarters burn down and former President Bubba has an act of carnal knowledge with a wedding cake during her time at the podium.

3. John Edwards will tell you a very sad story about someone who died, followed up by a heartening tale of pithy survival about someone who also died, but voted for John Edwards before they did. He will also explain why he hates corporations – in a fit of confusion, Mr. Edwards will beat his pharmacist with a club.

4. Bill Richardson will negotiate with himself.

On the Dark Side;

1. John McCain will win by three or four points (or not) and claim that he is back on the rise while he fires up the Straight Talk Express into three States that he cannot possibly win.

2. Mittens “Mitt” Romney will not win, but he will sell you shingles that tell you that he did. He’ll also explain that everyone is out to get him and that despite being an awful automaton bred with well-coiffed rodents, that you should make him your first entirely synthetic President.

3. Mike Huckabee will do better than expected and his speech will consist of nothing more than Chuck Norris doing 67 year old spin kicks while the former Arkansas Governor plays Black Dog on the bass guitar. One or both of them may be nude. Neither of them will realize how lame it is to have Chuck Norris on your side.

4. Ron Paul’s supporters, regardless of the outcome will continue to scamper around scaring the hell out of everyone like the vomiting zombies from 28 Days Later.

Good for them.

So long, New Hampshire. Hopefully my resentment will have cooled by 2012. But don’t bet on it.

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I Watched It, Now You Read It.

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.

I’ve again spent a Sunday watching Meet the Press and This Week – but I’m okay, thanks for asking. I did not watch Face the Nation since I live in constant fear of Bob Schieffer telling his story about how he dated Lee Harvey Oswald’s mom.

In an ongoing an attempt to drive me mad, Tim “Big Potatoes” Russert is interviewing another candidate for the 2008 Presidential election. In this instance, it is the ever more puzzling Fred Thompson. Now Fred has roughly the same chance of becoming President as former slugger Mookie Wilson, but I guess it’s easier for Russert and crew to interview an also-ran than discuss any actual news.

I don’t know if Mookie Wilson really was a slugger, but next to Ickey Woods, he has the best name in sports history.

Fred waited about 12 years between hinting that he would run, and actually announcing it. Now we can see why; the man is exhausted. While being grilled by Tim (speaking of which, I bet Russert and Thompson could do well at an all-you-can-eat rib dinner), Fred honestly seemed as if he could not care less. Maybe he’s on medication, maybe he was up all night giving Sam Waterston tips on scowling but he was pretty sedate through this appearance. I’m not entirely sure, but maybe I like this.

A disinterested man is probably a man too hard to corrupt or co-opt. Fred has an aide with a conviction for a drug crime. Fred doesn’t care – in the most sincere statement in this campaign, he just really doesn’t care; “he’s my pal, he’ll remain my pal…did your producer said that I would get a mug? “

As President, he’ll get done precisely what he needs to and not one more damn thing. Now I’m sure – that does appeal to me. A guy worried about getting the day done by 2pm will not start a war. Those late night sessions in the Situation Room are just too much work for President Fred.

The second half of the show was then devoted to Tom Brokaw, and Potatoes spent a great deal of time fawning over Tom’s book about Baby Boomers. Brokaw had already written a volume on the Greatest Generation and now he’s on to this. In a few months he’ll issue a volume on guys who are frightened of geese.

This Week had former senator John Edwards, who seems like a genuinely nice man – but most charming, vote-wanting rich guys do. I’ll make a bold prediction now and bet that come January of 2009, President Edwards will be settling in at whatever huge corporation places him at the head of their board. I was very interested to hear what Edwards had to say since he’s stalled in the polls, but that changed and within about thirteen seconds as his Carolina drawl rendered me insensible, having shut down my entire nervous system. Soon, I sat pith-eyed and wondered how much John Edwards and George Stephanopoulos, combined, spend on hair conditioner.

Really, it was all I can do to remember anything other than the commercial that split Edwards’ interview; Flomax.

Flomax – unless you’re a woman who is pregnant or may become pregnant – helps you pee. Other than that, I can’t distinguish between these ads and the ads for power-washing attachments for the garden hose.

There’s an odd and vaguely troubling equivalence in these ads being manliness and how well you shake the dew off of the lily. There are genuine medical conditions that I’m sure need to be taken care of, but when did “stream strength” get added to the list?

Short of saying “Hey, Mr. Pissy Pants!” this commercial really avoids any attempt at either subtlety or dignity. Replete with pictures of happy and vigorous men doing manly things and ALWAYS holding ninety-seven ounce beverages, the message of this add is clear:

Unless you are a four-year old sissy girl, you should be able to drink a Dr. Pepper of the same volume as a Panamax oil tanker and watch 11 NFL games back to back.

When you finally release the precious contents of your vault-like bladder, if your urine is not flying out in such a mad torrent that you are aggressively chipping away at porcelain with industrial force, then you sir, are simply not up to snuff. You and your fragile, meek trickle of non-masculine urine are a dead give away that you don’t make enough money, that your wife is not satisfied with your mojo and, by the way, your accountant told me over coffee that he just thought you were ‘maybe kind of gay’. You know that thing in Ghostbusters where you couldn’t cross the streams? Well, it turns out that you can.

Flomax knows. Your friends are laughing at you.

That was my Sunday morning – pity me.

 

 

 

 

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