More rantings...


UNBAYERABLE!

File this under “You can’t make this shit up.” This morning while at the gym I saw a commercial for Bayer aspirin. It was a woman who stated, with a straight face, that she avoided a heart attack by popping a Bayer aspirin into her mouth and chewing on it two days before Christmas. Memo to the thinking public: if you’re having a heart attack and the first thing you reach for is a bottle of aspirin, you need to be bludgeoned to death; you are not allowed to make a complete fool of yourself in a TV commercial.


IF AT FIRST YOU DON’T SECEDE.

After considerable review and only after much soul-searching I have come to a decision. The South can leave after all. I know we fought a gruesome war there almost a century and a half ago, but I feel we owe it to them to give them their independence. It’s the right thing to do. No more red states vs. blue states. Just two countries going their separate ways. Really, it will be good for everybody. They can have their NASCAR, their rednecks, their country and western music, their creationism, their Iraq war, their moral values. We’ll take our balanced budget, our peace and prosperity, our scientific breakthroughs, and our rock-n-roll. One caveat, we get south Florida. There are more New Yorkers there than there are in all of Brooklyn, and besides I want a fucking palm tree somewhere in my new Republic!

BARE ESSENTIALS

Lindsay Lohan does her impersonation of Marilyn Monroe in this month’s New York magazine, and, like the blond bombshell of fifty years ago, nothing is left to the imagination. Apparently she didn’t quite understand it that when her A.A. sponsor told her she had to reveal everything she was talking about her soul.

I know we’re living in perilous times when I’m on line at the deli and the 40 something year-old mom in front of me is doing her damnedest to look like Paris Hilton. If you’re that desperate to win the approval of your 16 year-old, trust me, you’ve got more problems than not knowing what your little Suzy might be doing in the back seat with Brad. When I was a teenager we had posters of Farrah Fawcett and her protruding nipples; at least my mother didn’t dress up like a whore.

And speaking of baring it all, why is it that women, particularly older women, feel compelled to draw attention to their bodies at gyms. It’s getting so that a guy can’t get in a decent hour’s workout without some love-starved, soon-to-be-grandmother admiring her ass in the mirror. I realize your husband of thirty years hasn’t touched you in nearly a decade and, yes, I’m impressed you’ve managed to fight off the effects of gravity so impressively, but if I wanted to get turned on while I was on the treadmill, I’d ask the attendant to turn on the Playboy channel. So zip it up and tuck it in, please!