Its internal workings comprise several kludgy elements. Inside it are: the wiring of a movie time bomb that forces my coffeemaker to count down from ten seconds over the span of half an hour, a flux capacitor (and I have no 1.21 jiggawat power supply), an Amish water carriage, Dick Cheney’s permanent scowl, and two and half buckets of synovial fluid from the knees of zombies. And I don’t mean the fast zombies from 28 Days Later, I mean the leg-dragging, arms-out-front, ol’ gray bastards from Night of the Living Dead.
Each morning I go to my kitchen, fill my coffeemaker with tap water (careful to skim off the green stuff — thankyouverymuch, San Diego water supply) and dump in a few scoops of ground Love Beans. Then I set my chin on my counter and wait. Moss covers my forehead, my beard grows to the floor, and finally all my teeth fall out and I lose 35 pounds. Tension drives my wall clock insane and it dives from its place above my stove, attempting suicide at its failed life. If an erne carried one grain of sand from Barcelona to Nepal, then returned for another single grain of sand, then another, by the time that bird had displaced all of Europe to the Himalayas, my coffeemaker would have bulged one drop of coffee from its spout…but the drop would not have fallen yet into the tiny carafe.
If I had any coffee in me I’d fling into a red rage, smashing the little percolator against the wall and I’d place one foot atop its carcass for a safari picture. I’d dance naked to the street, aim my truck at a local department store, buy another coffeemaker, and bring it home to fulfill its slave existence. I’d whip my new coffeemaker like a mad Eskimo driving a pack of huskies. But I have no coffee in me. No life’s breath fills my withered husk. So I wait. For coffee.
When it finally brews half a cup, I steal it from the little pitcher. I stare at the sad black puddle in the mug. I look to the next bulging brown droplet of gritty life-swill, daring it to fall into the glass and warmer below. Eventually, I sit on my couch with my handful of despair and I turn on TV news to irritate me awake.
WHAT I WILL AND WON'T WATCH THIS WEEK
Thursday July 17
Greatest American Dog
CBS 8:00 p.m.
Yes, more dogs, please. It’s not enough that they’re allowed in restaurants now; I want them in the kitchen wearing a little bandanna and a stained apron. If a dog is on one of my flights, I want it in first class, lapping champagne from a crystal bowl. I won’t be happy until America has forced every one of its dogs on me and I have a pack of weimaraners playing Marco Polo in my bathtub. America, cram your dog down my throat (eww).
Batman and Robin
TNT 10:00 p.m.
I don’t have any jokes for this because I don’t need a joke for this. All I have is the truth and the truth is good enough. This next line is not a joke, it is a prominent feature of the film: George Clooney in rubber stunt nipples. TA-DAAA!
Friday July 18
ABC 10:00 p.m.
A glitzy game show with glamour models and some douche in a suit. Super. About as appealing as your septuagenarian neighbor jogging in those sweaty Dolfin shorts. Ah, old-man thigh on the move, like a bowl of heavy cream kicked across a cobblestone courtyard. Ripple. Ripple. Ripple.
Saturday July 19
Brooke Knows Best
VH1 8:00 p.m.
Brooke Hogan, casting away any ideas she might be talented at anything, ever, signs a deal with VH1 that gives her state-trooper jawline its own reality show. Watch as she shaves her sideburns, smashes cinder blocks with her chin, then gently cradles a newborn baby lamb between her gum and bottom lip.
MTV 7:00 p.m.
All right, I’m only going to say this once, so everyone even tangentially related to the music industry pull back your damn ears and close your flan hole for three seconds: ENOUGH GODDAMN COLDPLAY. That whiny, wrist-whipping garbage needs to go to the curb, way out to the corner of Bite One and Stuff It.
Sunday July 20
ABC 9:00 a.m.
Here’s an idea: how about we stop kissing Tiger Woods’s ass. All right, he plays golf with a torn ligament… he’s a trooper. But let’s stop pretending it’s something other than golf. He’s walking and then doing a little hip twist with a metal stick in his hands. To hear sportscasters tell it, he wore a vest of meat and gunpowder to fight Osama bin Laden in a pit of wolves. He plays golf, folks. Let’s pull our panties back above the knee.
Monday July 21
ABC 10:00 p.m.
Mensa declared this show the smartest program on television. Which sounds nice and all, but that’s sort of like being the tallest midget in an upper Scottsdale YMCA wrestling match.
Tuesday July 22
Celebrity Family Feud
NBC 8:00 p.m.
Until O.J. Simpson’s family takes on the Osmonds in a Thunderdome competition, I’m out. “MARIE, the chainsaw! Throw me the chainsa-a-a-a-augh! He was too fast! I can’t compete with a former Heisman trophy winner and a hunting knife! GAH! Oh, whatever God Mormons believe in, I’m coming to you!”
Wednesday July 23
NBC 8:00 p.m.
NBC’s collecting bad shows like Angelina Jolie collects stretch marks. (Twins, man. She is ruined. Ruined!)
Thursday July 24
CW 9:00 p.m.
CW, let go. Let go of the blankie. It doesn’t help you. It does nothing. Really, it only gathers spit and dust bunnies and nobody thinks it’s cute anymore. You’re 32 years old. That’s too old to have a woobie. Let go.
I SAID, LET GO!