Since one of my ex-girlfriend’s ideas of the most fun one could have was to sprinkle red wine about my bedroom floor, I decided I needed to rent a carpet cleaner and turn my burgundy rug back to its original gray-ish.
Now, I must tell you that I’ve seen log cabins hung on Christmas trees that are larger than my apartment. Birds step from their holes, walk out on their little stick perch, point a wing, and laugh and mock my dinky place. As you can imagine, my bedroom has the square acreage of a Wheat Thin, so ten minutes after I got the rented cleaner home, I was finished.
If you ever rent a cleaner from a grocery store, you’ll learn that the endeavor is a clever scam. What you get: a faulty cleaning machine. What you pay: if by accident, while using your rented carpet cleaner, you contract monkey pox, your medical bills will be cheaper than the rental. (Those S.O.B.s at Vons!)
So, there I was with a sparkling bedroom floor, ten minutes of perspiration in my armpits, and an incredibly expensive carpet cleaner I could use for the next 23 hours and 50 minutes. With cleaning wand still in hand, I turned to inspect the tile in my front room and kitchen. Why the hell not? I thought and removed all the furniture, bicycles, taxidermy supplies, teddy bears, and prosthetic limbs from the rooms and started to wash my tiles with the carpet cleaner.
Here’s the thing: One of those contraptions puts out about 10,000 gallons, while its inadequate sucking device pulls in around three ounces. On a carpet, that’s fine — it soaks in; but that thing’s not built for tile. After cruising the cleaner around my kitchen floor like a midget Zamboni, I noticed I stood ankle deep in the world’s smallest brown lake. And the cleaner’s electrical cord sparked and bubbled because it was submerged.
I shrieked and made a diving lunge for the plug. After watching blue headlights blink on and off behind my eyelids and wondering why my mouth tasted like I was sucking a penny (thank you, Edison), I got the plug freed from its power source and safely out of water. I sat in the puddle, smelling of burnt hair, and I imagined the scroll-y thing beneath a news anchor’s smiling face: “Moron Proves Theory of Natural Selection, Story at 11.”
WHAT I WILL AND WON'T WATCH THIS WEEK
Thursday, September 18
Hole in the Wall
Fox 8:00 p.m.
Every day we inch closer and closer to reveling in the idiotic. This show is a predecessor to such future hits as: The Great Big Fart Contest, What’s in My Nose? and Watch this Fat Guy Drop Ice Cream on His Shirt!
Rain: The Beatles Experience
PBS 8:00 p.m.
Someone please explain to me what in the hell it is about the Beatles that makes them the most popular band in history. This is a crock. When I’m emperor, I’ll force Ringo to square off against Lemmy from Motörhead in a Thunderdome match. TWO MEN ENTER! ONE MAN LEAVES! Go for the chainsaw, Lemmy! Go for the chainsaw!
Friday, September 19
The Hippo: Africa’s King of the River
Animal Planet 8:00 p.m.
How fitting that this airs on Friday night while I’m in a bar stalking similar prey. I’m in my pith helmet. My pygmy guides point her out to me. She sits at the edge of the watering hole on her suffering barstool pouring a sugary drink into her gaping maw as a tiny bird picks at the bits of leftover fish between her teeth. I level my blunderbuss. So beautiful, yet so deadly.
Saturday, September 20
ABC 7:00 p.m.
Alex Trebek’s mustache lies in a small iron keep box at the bottom of a vault in my armament cellar, south wing, beneath the zebra stables. When I’m drunk on brandy, I take the lip decoration out and sniff it. Ah, the smell of power. You want it back, Canadian? Come and take it from me!
NBC 8:00 p.m.
Who wants to punch Chuck in the nose? Show of hands. Okay, looks like everyone who’s ever seen the show, watched a preview, or heard of its premise. Obviously, there are too many people to line up and poke Chuck in the beak, but since I’ve got you all here, I’d like to show you the hair around my bellybutton; it kinda looks like Abraham Lincoln.
Sunday, September 21
CBS 7:00 p.m.
The other day I saw little Halloween costumes of the 60 Minutes anchors. Really, they were just dangerously long, gray, stick-on eyebrows. The only one that was different was Lesley Stahl’s; along with the eyebrows, hers came with a cheek scar, eye patch, and antlers. On the corner of each package was a starburst with the words “Now with 30 percent more cantankerousness...and a flask!”
Monday, September 22
NBC 9:00 p.m.
OH, SWEET MERCIFUL CORN ON THE COB, IT’S HERE! I’m going to lie spread-eagle and naked in front of the TV and hope that I’m impregnated by this show’s awesomeness. Perhaps my chances would be better if I smear myself with ice cream. Would you like...nuts with that? (That’s my sexy-talkin’. Gets you hot, doesn’t it?)
Tuesday, September 23
ABC 8:00 p.m.
More reality game shows, that’s exactly what we need. Out of pure rebellion at this alarming trend, I’m going 180 degrees and stocking my house with guns, a red Ferrari, a friend with a multicolored helicopter, and a middle-aged homosexual in khaki shorts. Now, since this is my “reality,” I invite ABC to write a show in which I solve crimes and dazzle young bikini-clad women with my Detroit Tigers baseball hat. What? There was a show like that already? SON OF A...! What about if I have a car that talks and drives itself? DAMMIT! Never mind!
CBS 9:00 p.m.
This show should skip the pilots and premieres and jump straight to podcast. I’m sure all the actors and producers have their hopes up, but they shouldn’t get too excited. They’ll be scrubbing ovens and learning Spanish by the end of this season. “Consuela, donde esta el Easy Off?”
Wednesday, September 24
David Blaine: Dive of Death
ABC 9:00 p.m.
Here’s a fact all the David Blaine haters won’t like: his Speedo once untangled a rodeo rider from a rampaging bull, pulled the rider to the safety of a blue plastic barrel, and then the Speedo sang “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Say what you will about the man, but those tight polyester shorts are American heroes. Oh, say can you seeeeeee...