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The two most embarrassing elements of my existence are (1) I enjoy girl folk music, and (2) I occasionally wake up, still drunk from the night before, on the bedroom floors of complete strangers, reeking of stale booze with Nicorette gum stuck in my hair.

These should be considered my lowest moments, but I’m oddly satisfied and proud of them. On my last flight to Bangkok, Thailand, I sat down and plugged my headphones into the armrest and pressed at the cracked plastic buttons until I found a girly acoustic station. Then I lay back and relaxed, comfortable with the soft feminine tones filling my eardrums, and ordered the stewards to deliver me whiskey on ice. Once I landed and got through customs, I found a hotel room on Kao Son Road and located the nearest bottles of bourbon and commenced polluting my body with aircraft-gasoline-fume-y booze. The next morning I woke up, rubbed my hands together, tried to identify the people in the bed next to where I’d been sleeping, remembered I was 30 million miles from my home, and then walked out into the sun to find coffee and a girl to sing to me.

When I wake up from a booze blackout, I watch a little TV to divine just what country I’m occupying. If there are squiggly lines along the bottom of a newscast, I’m either in Asia or the Middle East. If the anchorperson wears a keffiyeh, I can narrow things down further, and if the news lady is in a gold silk gown, I can nail down my position to within a few feet. If most of the captions are in letters I can read, but some of them are backward or have dots over them, I’m in Eastern Europe. After I solve the mystery of my location, I hunt around local stations until I find a broadcast of a woman with an acoustic guitar to soothe my boiling head.

Not 30 minutes ago, I woke up on a stranger’s floor. My hair still sticks up on one side, my eyes drift independently of each other, and my mouth tastes like New Jersey. After I breached the liminal surface and found my wallet (under the nightstand), I adjusted my nose to the farthest spot from my mouth and embarked in my car, flipping through stations on the radio until I found a soft voice devoting love.


Thursday, July 24
Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood
TBS 10:00 a.m.

Divine Sisterhood of the Skidmarked Underpants, Part Eight, Electric Boogaloo. Can someone save me from chick literature, please? For the love of all that’s decent in this world, stop foisting this hand-squeezing, get-along-gang, glitter-and-smiley-face, stars-and-rainbows mule spit on me. Sweet, hot molasses. Enough.

Sherlock Holmes Mysteries
PBS 9:00 p.m.

John Holmes Mysteries are way better. The final sequence of each program finishes with John scooting around from behind the satisfied client and throwing the case file in her face one page at a time until his manila envelope is empty.

Friday, July 25
The Transformation Age: How to Survive a Technology Revolution With Robert X. Cringely
PBS 10:00 p.m.

I don’t know who Robert X. Cringely is, but he better be good with a chainsaw if he’s challenging me to survive after the technology revolution. I got my hockey mask, cowboy boots, and leather chaps on if you want to rumble, Mr. Cringely. You better get a dune buggy and a canteen because it’s a long way out of the desert, especially with a freshly kicked ass.

Saturday, July 26
Peter Pan
ABC 8:00 p.m.

So NBC is running a marathon of The Office and CBS has Saturday-night cage fights. What does ABC bring? Peter freakin’ Pan. A 60-year-old cartoon of a kid with a pointy head and his half-naked elf. Oh, go big, ABC. Way to compete. Just change your slogan to: “We’re sad, watch because you feel sorry for us.”

Hannah Montana and Miley Cyrus: Best of Both Worlds Concert Tour in Disney Digital 3D
Disney 9:30 p.m.

I’ve changed my name to Bonah Arizona, and I’m launching a world tour where I sing and dance and do cartwheels and smile and play a little guitar. For a fraction of the money this kid’s pulling in, I’ll also strip naked and French kiss a chimpanzee. Pucker up, Buttercup, it’s payday.

Sunday, July 27
ESPN 8:00 p.m.

The entire world holds its breath in anxious anticipation of the 2008 Olympic Games, where every culture and every nation can for a short time set aside their differences and settle their disputes on the playing field, represented by the best and brightest cheaters on steroids.

Monday, July 28
Best Damn Yo-Yo Championship
Fox Sports 8:00 p.m.

Soon, anyone associated with this station will travel to work with a rumpled tan jacket covering his head, like those teachers who get caught with tiny cameras in the locker room. The execs at Fox Sports should have to register with their neighbors for putting on this medium-sized pile of garbage.

Tuesday, July 29
Ocean of Fear: Worst Shark Attack Ever
Discovery 8:00 p.m.

In honor of Shark Week, I’ve taken to hiding under the table at restaurants and then shooting from beneath it and snapping at the butts of passing waitresses. OM NOM NOM! Thrash thrash. OM NOM NOM!

Wednesday, July 30
The Mummy Returns
USA 9:00 p.m.

Brendan Fraser needs to break out of typecasting to explore other genres of mummy movies, such as comedy mummy movies, and maybe romantic mummy movies. After a while he can go to action mummy movies, but since the genre is too close to adventure mummy movies, he’ll have to wait until he’s 60 or else everyone will just think of him as an adventure mummy movie guy.

Thursday, July 33.33333
Don’t Forget the Lyrics!
FOX 8:00 p.m.

I have a problem with a popular old tune that goes, “You say potato, I say potahto. You say tomato, I say tomahto.” Because if I’m talking to someone who says “potahto,” they’re obviously an idiot, so the song should go, “I say potato, and you’re a dumb bastard! You say tomahto, and I’ll call you Corky!” That’s better. I fixed that.

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Barbarella Fokos July 25, 2008 @ 7:15 a.m.

My mother says your grounded for referring to her as a "stranger." She threw a full-on New York Italian hissy fit. ;)


Ollie July 25, 2008 @ 8:53 a.m.

I had to change it from "my best friend's mother's floor," to "a stranger" to make it sound more reckless. Although, anyone who's ever fallen asleep around Jenny's dog isn't safe. I found something on my hindquarter that I'm not willing to talk about. Not yet. It's too ... fresh. You know?


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