Wow. 2008 can choke on it.
First day, I was shot in the butt with a BB gun. I’m not kidding. Some little terrorist with a pump-action Daisy and a swift bicycle lay in wait to ambush me at my mailbox. Before the sweet sting of copper and a short spasm of my left butt cheekie, I heard rustling and giggling in a nearby Bird of Paradise plant. When I leaned over to investigate, there was a darling little Himalayan girl, built like a stout Sherpa only about two feet high.
When I said, “Hello there. Are you lost?” I felt the hot sizzle of a ball bearing in my can, right next to my cell phone pocket. As I jerked upward, covered my wounded rear with both hands, and let out an alarmed holler, the Sherpa girl bolted from the Bird of Paradise plant and her older brother dashed from an alleyway behind me; the little bandito waving a chintzy rifle around, its barrel smoking in the sunlight, and he hopped onto a waiting red and white Schwinn — his daring steed.
I spun back to catch the Sherpa girl flip me the bird and throw a gluey stick of green swirly candy that affixed itself to my T-shirt between my left nipple and bellybutton. “Why you little...” I shouted and dragged the colorful stick of the candy away from me, trailing behind it long arcs of goo and leaving a viscous puddle of gunk.
“Happy New Year!” I called to the fleeing juvenile delinquents.
Second day I was run over by a schoolteacher on a Vespa. I was bicycling up 35th Street when from a cross street a bright blue scooter shot through an intersection and glanced against my rear wheel. The tiny front wheel of the aspiring-motorcycle-to-be knocked me down. I was lying sideways on the asphalt with my shoulder in the gravel and a black trashcan against my face — locked in a kiss although we hardly knew each other.
“I’m late,” the woman shouted. “It’s my first day teaching third grade!”
“Well, then, we better sort all this...”
Before I could convey my sentiment, she had untangled my twisted bike from her uninspired moped and sped off. I stood up stiff and bleeding through my clothes and resolved to not step one foot out of my bedroom the rest of the year. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to order TiVo and tend to some wounds.
WHAT I WILL AND WON'T WATCH THIS WEEK
Thursday, January 3
PBS 7:00 a.m.
In other news, I’m rapidly losing my memory. Since I hit my 30s, I’ve noticed a startling forgetfulness. There’s a disease, but I can’t think of the name right now. I’m pretty sure I have that. I’ve heard of medication that can help with...whatever we’re talking about. Who are you?
ABC 9:00 p.m.
This cold is my own damn fault. Riding bikes drunk in the rain to ease depression really only works to add misery to one’s life. However, this cold’s shining bright spot is that it has revealed to me the nastiest phrase in the English language, found on the side of a cough syrup bottle, “encourages a productive cough.” The imagery. Oh, the imagery.
Friday, January 4
1 vs. 100
NBC 8:00 p.m.
Friday night on TV is like that dozen or so strands of hair that magically appear in your mouth anytime you make out with someone. You really have to fight through the tough ones, ignore most of it, and pick at your lips with wet fingers. Wait. Then, no, Friday night TV is not like that at all. I take it back. I’m not sure where I was going with that. Carry on.
Saturday, January 5
Good Morning San Diego, Weekend
KUSI 7:00 a.m.
Every Saturday morning since being dumped, I have sat up from my spot on the couch, wiped the white ring of snot and narcotic dust from my nose and the snot trough above my lip, shot green liquor with beer backs, and thought to myself, It’s a long drive; I can sober up on the freeway. 2008, here I come.
Meet the Parents
Family 5:30 p.m.
Since I’m single and using this column as an online dating tool, I’d like to get some preferences out of the way. My new favorite shape is umbrella, and my new favorite taste is oblong. My favorite smell is the checks and balances system. Oh, I’m one to take home to mom.
Sunday, January 6
NBC 9:00 p.m.
Oof! Nobody remembers that spandex + hair gel + Nerf weapons doesn’t equal cool? Allow me to refresh any TV producers who may be reading. Spandex + hair gel + Nerf weapons = sad confused teenagers wearing high heels and a powder wig and crying in the shower. Not cool. (God, how supremely uncool I was.)
Monday, January 7
Fox 5:15 p.m.
Come on Edwards! Bring home our 44th win for the white males! Here we go, Edwards! Here we go! Wait. Is this the same thing? I get American ritualized entertainment mixed up sometimes.
Tuesday, January 8
Elvis Presley Tribute
QVC 10:00 a.m.
As if Michael Jackson’s camouflaged picnic surprise hovering around his daughter’s furry forearm were not insult enough...
Wednesday, January 9
The Jewish Americans
PBS 9:00 p.m.
I can only imagine Mel Gibson’s consternation at this program’s airing. I’m sure he puts on a yarmulke, lipsticks up, and does the Silence of the Lamb’s tuck and wiggle in front of a mirror every time something like this is played. Outside his Malibu ranch, you can hear the shouts of “Put the lotion in the basket! They’ll never take our freedom!”
Thursday, January 10
NBC 9:00 p.m.
We should hope that pancake makeup is made from something other than petroleum because the supply drain created by this show may bring crude oil over the 100-dollar-per-barrel mark. Four bucks for a gallon of gas so we can see one of the Baldwins row a duck-shaped boat across a pond and then do long division isn’t a trade I’m willing to make.