I busted my damn foot. I was in ninja school; we were practicing that throw-the-egg-full-of-explosive-powder-down-and-disappear thing when the new guy in the purple sweats disappeared in the wrong direction and stomped my foot.
“WAAAAA!” I squealed like a Girl Scout in a rape machine.
I whipped off my weird ninja boot (with the separated big toe) and checked out my foot.
I’m not lying. It had swollen to the size of Alec Baldwin’s head and turned Tinkie Winkie purple.
Scotty, the ninja master, found his glasses on the floor and replaced them on his face. He adjusted them to get a better look and said, “You better get that to the emergency room.”
“Wha...? Use ninja magic and make it better. You know, clap your hands together and rub ‘em back and forth. Then you put your hand like that on the top and then...”
“Haven’t you ever seen Karate Kid? Man, fix this.”
“Uh,” Scotty said, petting down his little mustache. “Ninja magic is, uh, too powerful for this. If I used ninja magic it would turn your foot into a South American dictator with those mirrored sunglasses and that military hat and those gold ropes on his shoulders and everything. So, uh, we need to use ‘regular people’ medicine on it.”
Of course, how foolish of me to think I deserved ninja magic. We found the rubber bands that had popped off of ninja master Scotty’s braces (they’d skittered under a bag of Gummi Bear-and-Swedish-Fish mix that Scotty calls “ninja fuel”), and he helped me hop out to my pickup truck. I asked him if he could drive, and he said he didn’t have a license.
“I can call my mom and she can come pick you up,” ninja master Scotty said. I thanked him but refused the offer, confident I could get myself to the hospital.
I operated the truck’s controls gingerly and pulled away from the curb, where the entire class of the North Park Ninja Training and Tax Preparation Academy stood and gave me the Star Trek live-long-and-prosper salute.
I hobbled from the emergency room with a splint on the wrong foot and an envelope with three children’s Tylenol in it, determined to return to ninja school after I’ve watched a lot of TV and healed up. A ninja’s life is dangerous; it’s all part of the job.
FIRST EVER CELEBRITY GOSSIP EDITION
(Normally this section is about what’s on TV, but I’m bored with that and want to talk about the random processes and occurrences that offer up people as “celebrities.” Excelsior! Onward!)
Why she’s famous: huge ass
Not usually one for the vacuous celebration of individuals without a discernible talent, I’m all about Kim Kardashian making rafts of cash because she’s got huge hindquarters. This is one trend I’ll happily support and hope some scout of big butts finds me on the street and shouts, “Eureka! The mother lode!” Really, my can is three axe handles wide and until now hasn’t shown much in the way of moneymaking opportunities. Except that one time in college, but I doubt the antlers still fit and, besides, all that waxing was a hassle.
Why she’s famous: drunk, high, bad teeth
I really love Amy Winehouse. It’s as if someone told her, “Honey, you’re talented. Have a ball! Cram more drugs and booze into your face than the entire population of the Colonial Kingdom of Colombian Ireland.”
Why he’s famous: fish-y, immortal, might be able to fly
Michael Phelps says he won’t stop until after the 2012 Olympics in London, but seriously, he could turn to a life of supervillain crime and America would still gladly line up to kiss his feet. Now that I think of it, that’d be super cool. Somebody should start making him a metal mask with a voice-deepener thing so he can shout, “KNEEL!” more commandingly. He should also commission a theme song that goes “Nun nuh nuh nuh! Phelps the supervillain! He’ll kick you in the face! Nun nuh nuh nuh!”
Why she’s famous: remarkably dumb, no, really, I mean remarkably dumb
One thing’s for certain, somebody needs to cure this dog of suckin’ eggs.
Why she’s famous: used to have boobs
Has anyone seen those kids she stole from Africa and Cambodia? No, and I’ll tell you why. She believes that eating Third World orphans makes her skinnier and more pregnant. Her transformation into a spindly legged, bulbous-torsoed black widow spider is nearly complete. All she needs now is a four-year-old Brazilian girl and a grapefruit spoon.
Why he’s famous: plays a girls’ sport
Well, if you’re going to dance around a daisy field with sweaty, mulleted Italians, you might as well be the best at it.
Why she’s famous: not really sure
Sources tell me she’s a reality TV star, but that’s not a good reason to be rich or famous. In fact, the title “reality TV star” should carry with it a stigma similar to being that guy in the gym whose shorts are a little too tight. And he sniffs the machines when nobody’s looking. And he smuggles a zucchini for show. And...well, I’ll just say it, it’s me. FINE! Those are all me. SHEESH, get off my case, already.
Spencer Something or Other
Why he’s famous: sleeps with that chick, Heidi Something or Other
Worse than reality TV star? Trophy boyfriend of reality TV star. Honestly? You’re just some famous chick’s boyfriend? Boy, your name just jumped to the top of my “needs a hard punch to the huevos” list. Or, you’re the smartest man alive. Not sure which yet.
Why he’s famous: old
Even though I’m a tree-hugging, dirt-loving liberal, half of me wants McCain to win just so one morning we can all wake up to news footage of him getting the paper and handing out taffy while he’s in striped boxers and knee-high black socks, then taking a leak on the White House hydrangeas. “Here, kids. Merry Christmas. Play ball. I know I came out here for something, but I’m not sure what. Aaaaaah. That’s the good stuff.”
Why he’s famous: has the audacity of hope to be president even though he’s half black
Really, the only reason I want Obama to win is to see the look on my dad’s face. All he’ll be able to say for three days is “...!” You all right, Dad? “...! ...! ...!” Dad, a black guy’s president. “...! ...!” Dad?