You probably don't know this. I mean, how could you? Unless you hang out in vampire bars, that is. But I'll tell you something -- it's not a secret, but it's not broadcast, either -- the abominable snowman is "abominable" because he is a vainglorious, egomaniacal, arrogant ass. "Don't you know who I am!?" the snowman yelled at the vampire who tended bar the evening I met him. He shouted, "I was on a TV show!"
"That was in the '70s," I said. I'd listened to this fuzzy white nerd go on and on about how damn great he was all night long. I wanted to bring him down a notch. "And what the hell are you doing in a vampire bar? You're an abominable snowman."
"What are you doing in a vampire bar? You're a drug-junkie writer!"
He looked at me with haughty disdain, his fluffy white beard, eyebrows, and everywhere-else hair blowing in the wind from a fan behind the barman. Damn, I hated this guy. I hated his faux British accent. I hated his thick hoary head and feet so wide his crumbly toenails jabbed at the leather boots of all the vampire girls who surrounded him and bought into his line of B.S.
He was high on ecstasy and wanted to roll around on the couches and ottomans and have the vampire wenches rub his furry haunches and roll cold bottles of water around on his face and chest.
"You're shedding all over!" I yelled at him and sloshed my bourbon on his back fur. "Get up! Get out of here!"
"You jealous little bastard!" he yelled and pawed at his love handles soaked in booze. "I was groomed nice and proper just this morning."
"Oh, knock it off! You're not British!"
He roared up, spread his long arms, and opened his paws wide. I socked him in the gut.
"Ooof!" he bellowed and bent in the middle. His vampire groupies arched their backs and hissed.
"Beat it, you pointy-eared ass-aches!" I shooed them off.
I got the snowman in a headlock and dragged him outside. On the corner, I told some bicycle kids to watch him while I went into the 7-Eleven.
"What are you going to do to me?" he cried.
"Shut it!" I said, gave him a quick rap on the lips, and entered the convenience store.
In the household goods aisle, I hauled up the whole shelf of shaving cream and razors and whistled a tune I call "Shavin' a Snowman."
Thursday, August 9
MyTV13 10:00 a.m.
Fran Drescher is the male-pattern-baldness fairy. She falls into my bedroom on paper wings and kisses my eyelids while I sleep. She harvests my bundles of baby thin curls and leaves heaps of quarters under my pillow. Last time she came, I woke early and snatched her by her leopard-print high heel. "Please," I begged. "Leave me my hair. Glue it back on; I don't care. Keep the money!" She bonked me on the head with a glittery wand and flew out the window. I shouted after her, "GIVE ME HAIR!"
CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
CBS 9:00 p.m.
Whenever police are dispatched to my neighborhood, I don my Sherlock Holmes hat, glue-on mustache, and purple felt vest. With the magnifying glass up to my face, the picture of my eye zooms large in the lens. "Looks like the crackheads next to my apartment did it, Watson, what what?" I say. "Don't Taser me again. DAMN! That stings! Ouch!"
Friday, August 10
School of Rock
Fox 8:00 p.m.
I went to college with Jack Black's lack of dignity. We all rolled our eyes in Chemistry 101 when it drank a beaker of phosphorescent liquid and spit up into a Bunsen burner. The last straw was when Jack Black's lack of dignity lit Karina Nguyen's skirt on fire and yelled, "I'm funny! I'm so funny!" It was expelled, and rightfully so.
Saturday, August 11
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
Fox 9:30 a.m.
One of the Ninja Turtles, and I'm not going to say who, but one of them is a terrible racist and xenophobe. Sure, you were born and raised here, and yes, maybe immigrants are taking some jobs that could be done by American amphibians and reptiles, but c'mon. Those are problems that the government has to deal with, and really, aren't we all the same under our shells? Hold my hand and sing " Kumbaya," you scaly green jerk. SING " KUMBAYA ," I said!
Charlie's Angels Full Throttle
ABC 8:00 p.m.
After her role on ET, Drew Barrymore was up to a gallon of vodka per day. To keep her alive, doctors replaced her liver with a retarded Indian child. The retarded Indian child sits in her abdomen and sucks her impurities out through a straw. There's a little door and table that folds out from under her ribs and she changes his diapers there. Some days she forgets and the coursing filth in her blood strikes her bed-sick for a week.
Sunday, August 12
Football Night in San Diego
NBC 8:00 p.m.
Sweet. Get drunk, pumped up on steroids, drive your car to a dog kennel, pick out the biggest dog, fight him, fight him against other dogs, sic him on people. Shoot police officers; stow away in the trunk of a car. Dump meth into a 40 oz. bottle of malt liquor and chug. Solicit prostitutes. It's football night in San Diego! Woo!
Monday, August 13
NBC 9:00 p.m.
Oh, thank you, God. I've been a mess since this left the air. I haven't cleaned my apartment; it's cluttered with pizza boxes, flies, and underpants. I haven't eaten whole foods. I have only slept an hour each night. Now, I am complete again. Oh, you stubby Japanese man with the cowlick hair, I need you. I need you!
Tuesday, August 14
America's Got Talent
NBC 8:00 p.m.
This show gave me herpes. Yeah, it's only the mouth variety, but still. That's a mean thing to do, not tell someone that you've got cold sores and then plant one on them. I'll be okay; I'll live and work and exercise like everyone else, but twice a year I'll get a big ol' reminder on the front of my face that this television show exists, and I hate that. I hate that it was our time together and this show did that to me.