Maybe you have a philosophy. Maybe it has to do with Santa Claus clapping his hands and pop! out comes everything. Out comes the Milky Way and our solar system and down here, on our swimming pool we call Earth, out came puppies and lollipops and cordless drills. All at once. Maybe you don't believe in Santa. Rather, you believe that sugar from a passing comet landed in the ocean and after a million years it grew a tail and eventually that tail grew a fish. Soon those fish became things like aardvarks and cavemen, and the cavemen tinkered with nature and voila! out popped puppies and lollipops and cordless drills and palm trees and Matlock on TBS.
Either way, what the hell does it matter? You've got about 75 years here. You can sit around and argue about which came first, Nietzsche or smug self-satisfaction. In the end we all wind up in the dirt with little Xs over our eyes and a halo around our head.
Some people say, "It's all what you do with that 75 years that counts," but that's a crock pot full of mayonnaise, too. Because, given a couple hundred years, nobody remembers what you did even if you were a big shot, like president or the inventor of rubber tires or the first caveman to squish up berries and let it rot in a jar and drink it on a Saturday night.
You could do something big, like take that jar of squeezed berry juice and put two different types of metal in it and hook wires up to it and call it a "battery." Your "battery" could be condensed and put into digital watches that remind you to walk your dog or into machines that ball up sugar and put it at the end of a paper stick. Your battery could revolutionize tools so that they no longer need a cord. And nobody will remember your name.
Or you could be a total turd, born rich and beautiful -- by society's standards -- frittering away your 75 years taking ecstasy in glittery clubs, wearing jewels on the straps of your shoes, and drinking rotten berry juice, and then they'll fold your arms up like you're sleeping, shave your legs one last time so you don't look like you crawled out of a cave, put you in a box, and lower you into the ground.
Most of you will work 50 years, and when you can't enjoy the time off anymore, they'll let you retire and you'll be happy to sit around and watch bad television that's been made so old farts can sit around and watch bad television until you croak and they plant you in the dirt.
That's my philosophy.
WHAT I WILL AND WON'T WATCH THIS WEEK
Thursday, June 8
Animal Planet Report
ANIMAL 2:00 p.m. I've synthesized the compound that will allow me to take over the baboon community. I thought injecting the serum into my leg would be hard, but that was the easy part. Feeling my bones crack and watching my big toe migrate to my heel was about the toughest thing so far. But, I can open a door with my feet. So, I've got that.
Game show Marathon
CBS 8:00 p.m. Here's a good example of "would you rather." Would you rather (a) watch this putrid display of stinking non-entertainment (hosted by Rikki Lake!) or (b) cover your head in melted marshmallow gunk and stick it through a hole in the wall of the polar bear exhibit while handlers shoot the animals in their asses with bb guns? Also, you'd have to yell, "Bleah! Bleah! Bleah!" so the bears could find you when they were good and pissed off. I know which one I'd choose, and it wouldn't have anything to do with Rikki Lake's pillowy cheeks or -- Hi-ho, Silver! -- jaw line.
Friday, June 9
MTVHIT 7:00 p.m. Even though I don't play any instruments or sing, my new theoretical band name -- if I were in a band -- would be Maybe a Ringo Ate Your Baby .
Saturday, June 10
WB 8:30 a.m. It's recently been revealed that Batwoman is lesbian. I think it's only a clever plan to conceal her identity from those who would seek to stop her crime- fighting ways. The only way to find her will be to go through all the PT Cruisers in the parking lot at Home Depot and find the one with red and black tights in the back.
The Outer Limits
KUSI 7:00 p.m. I'm not making this up; I read this in Popular Science. There's been a recent phenomenon of red rain over India. The red particles that were mixed with rain have been studied in a lab. The microscopic bits reproduce but do not have cellular linings or DNA. Some have speculated that it is fungal spores from the Arabian Peninsula. Others believe the microorganisms came from a passing meteorite and are, in fact, alien life. Either way, I want to drink the red goop and get quickly to the mutating. If someone in India is reading this, get me a jar of that crap! This breaking news could make my whole transformation into the Baboon King the stuff of a child's playpen. Oh, I want it. I want the power of the red alien elixir!
Sunday, June 11
Take My Advice: The Ann and Abby Story
KUSI 11:00 a.m. Her folks called her Abby. Her real name was Abigail. We called her Boots. One night the heel came free from her standard military issue combats and she was so raging pissed that she cut the high tops off with an electric turkey carver and drank tequila out of the remaining vessel. I don't remember her sister Ann too much. Ann was always a little too wild for our taste. I hear they had rival advice columns or some such things. I can't imagine what advice those two could give outside of prepping a hypodermic needle. I miss those ol' girls. I still have an old doily Abby gave me.