Passenger 57 is in my barn
My wife, Robin, came to me today to announce that Wesley Snipes is pregnant.
“Either that or he’s just really fat,” she said. “And it’s not like he eats a lot.”
This was something of a surprise to me. I’d been interacting with Wesley Snipes on and off for a few years now, and he’d never struck me as the type to go out and get knocked up, being a dude and all. He had been a bit more skittish recently, and I wondered in retrospect if that had anything to do with him being in the family way. He would let me pet him, but seemed standoffish. With this look in his eyes that almost seemed to say, “Go buy me pickles.”
“If he has kittens in our barn, I’m going to lose it,” said Robin.
Wesley Snipes has been hanging out in our barn for a few years. He’s totally black without a speck of white on him and, possibly like and possibly unlike his namesake, is very friendly. He likes it when you scratch behind his ears. I’ve heard that he belongs to one of the neighbors, but likes to roam in search of new places to dine. And no, his given name isn’t actually Wesley Snipes. It’s probably something lame like “Fluffers.”
(And by the way, before anyone flames me on this one, it’s not a racial judgment to notice that Wesley Snipes is very black. It’s just a fact. Really, I was either going to call him Wesley Snipes or Yaphet Kotto. But if this cat had been really white, I would have named him Kate Moss. If he had been retarded, I would have named him Will Farrell. You get the picture. I’m just swinging at the easy lobs that life tosses my way.)
Later, I went out to the barn to feed the horses. (Robin can do it now because her knee is mostly healed, but I tend to do it a lot of the time anyway. That’s just how cool I am.) And the horses — Zoe, Shy, and Leroy — were totally snickering over Wesley Snipes’s situation. Which was actually pretty uncool of them. Leroy especially. That guy doesn’t even have any testicles, so who is he to talk? For his part, Wesley Snipes didn’t seem to mind. He was hanging out, sitting quietly on top of one of the hay bales, seemingly at peace with the world. I was suddenly glad I hadn’t named him Adewale Akinnuoye Agbaj, and not just because I can’t come close to pronouncing it. Mr. Eko is far too badass and awesome to get pregnant. Although strange things do sometimes happen on the island.
Fiona was hanging out too. She’s cool; we hauled her in to get spayed. She seems to get along well with Wesley Snipes — unlike Evil Cat, who is out of his mind and who, in retrospect, I should have considered naming Gary Busey.
“Wesley Snipes, are you pregnant?” I asked.
He refused to answer. But I’m telling you, this is exactly how it began with the whole tax evasion thing.
Rattle the vote
My daughter said her first word the other day. It was “Obama.”
This came out of the blue, on Wednesday morning of all times. I had watched election coverage the night before and thought Obama would probably win, but I hadn’t yet found out for sure. And I was actually wondering, just meaning to fire up CNN and take a look when the baby just sort of announced it to me: “Obama. Obama.” Smart girl. She’s just like one of those news anchors, except that she still craps in her pants. So like I said, she’s just like one of those news anchors.
Now for real: I’m just reporting this as fact. I am not making a political statement. I’ve gotten comments from conservatives who think I’m leaning too far left on this blog of late, but I’m not leaning left so much as I’m leaning toward the easier target. Believe me, if Barack Obama made the faces that John McCain makes, I’d be posting his photo everywhere. But he doesn’t.
But don’t trust me. Try it yourself. Do a Google images search for “funny McCain picture” and you get the photos we all know and love. Do the same for “funny Obama picture,” and you get clever fakes as well as things like this:
I’m not saying that I love Obama (though I do like him) or that I don’t like McCain (because I do). All I’m saying is that my daughter has clearly chosen sides and that not once — NOT FUCKING ONCE — has she said “McCain.” And this despite the fact that my mother has surely been whispering it to her, coaching her in the same way my stepfather has tried to teach my son to say “Go Steelers” to infuriate my Browns-fan wife.
So don’t blame me. I’m trying not to be too partisan. You want to argue politics with someone, you come argue with my baby. Just know that she’s not offended by the prospect of socialized healthcare, and that she may well be gassy.
So yeah. Wednesday morning, I’m in my office and she’s saying “Oh-baaah-ma!” and it occurs to me that the Obama campaign has been so grassroots and viral that there is a distinct possibility that our new president-elect was born Barack Heffernan. Maybe the surname we know was the brainchild of some clever campaign manager who knew a bit about building brand mindshare with young Americans. Because really, everyone knows that politicians can’t win if they don’t get along well with babies. They smile at babies, they kiss babies, they smile while dressing up like Kiss for babies. And inevitably, the parent is going to coach the baby, to say, “Can you smile for the nice man?” And then they say his name. And then boom, checkmate, game over. Because who would a baby rather coo to? “Oh-baaah-ma” or “Mik-kane?” What kind of babies can grapple with “McCain”?
Irish babies, that’s who. And they’re drunk most of the time anyway.
The time change continues to suck
I’m up at 5am, again, because my 6 month-old daughter has embarked on an anthropological study to see how much of this I can take.
To most people, 5am is an ungodly hour — one they pass dreamily while camping nude with the Rockettes in pre-war Germany or fixing a birdfeeder with their girlfriend from junior high. 5am is not a time when you’re up, reading Tweets that don’t concern you. It’s not a time you should be deleting Viagra spam email. It’s a time that you should be asleep — blissfully, forgetfully asleep. Ah, how I miss sleep.
But instead, here I am, awake. And about the only good thing I have going on is that it’s quiet at 5am — except for this baby here, who agrees with me about this stupid time change.
Let’s start with a little history lesson. Approximately 120 years ago (or maybe even longer), either God or the Flying Spaghetti Monster created the universe and programmed the sun to rise in the morning and set at night, which was a pretty good system as it lined up well with when most people were asleep or awake. He then created time zones, and decreed that said Zones shall not necessarily follow state boundaries, even though that would have been less confusing. In His infinite wisdom, He placed California three hours behind the east coast, thus ensuring that the two worlds would forever be incompatible with and alien to one another, even prior to and following Schwarzenegger’s tenure as governor. Then, because He was late for a Toastmasters meeting, He trusted the mortals to assign times to the zones and wrote His instructions on an amulet, which He gave to Karen Allen. And it was good.
But an evil French man named Belloq tried to steal the amulet. He crafted his own Staff of Ra to take to the Map Room at sunrise, but did not take back one kadam of its length to honor God, and was shown the wrong times. And while Indiana Jones followed soon after, Jones was thrown into a tomb filled with snakes and the correct information was lost forever. So for half of the year, we travel back in time one hour and live our lives in increased darkness. Having solved the problem of shortening days by making it worse, thus were the dumb Children of Earth pwned, so sayeth the Flying Spaghetti Monster, Amen.
I hate the time change. I don’t say that lightly, like saying I hate nuts in brownies. I mean that I want to find the time change where it sleeps, slit its throat, and eat its brains. I want to burn its house, destroy its crops, and salt the earth so that nothing will ever grow there again. I want to kill its livestock and sell it to Longhorn Steakhouse. I want to convert its pets to Scientology and record over all of its TiVo programs with reruns of Eight is Enough.
It’s terrible that we have this time change, but honestly, what makes it worse it the welcome it receives. My fellow citizens have sold out! People, you are given one extra hour of sleep on one night — true. But the price you pay is five months of darkness at 5pm! Yet people don’t see that. They only see their forty acres and a mule.
Well, no longer.
I say we fight the time change. And in fact, let’s go in the other direction. Move your clocks two hours forward, negating last weekend’s change and then reversing it. Let’s go to work two hours earlier than yesterday and then leave two hours earlier. Let’s reclaim 7pm. And, let’s reclaim 5am.
My daughter has started the movement already. Who’s with us?
The 2008 election results are in!
I know a few foreigners, and sometimes when we chat, they’ll ask me about the election. They’ll ask me who I think is going to win, and if things are getting exciting. And then, they’ll sometimes ask if I could explain the American election process to them, because it seems complicated. I’ll pause, wanting to make sure I get the description just right.
“Sure, no problem,” I tell them. “The best way to describe it is this: It’s really, really retarded.”
Our election process is dumb. Two people run, and each picks a running mate. Then, each team heads out into the world to call the other team a couple of assholes. It’s important to do a good job of calling your opponents assholes, and to effectively deflect asshole references directed at you. Then there is the talent portion of the contest, in which each candidate demonstrates how well he can infuriate Tom Brokaw. Then eveningwear, and then the swimsuit competition.
However, ultimately, each election is decided based on media photography.
Consider the past few elections and you’ll see I’m right. As you think about each pair, try to think like Joe the Plumber. Joe isn’t really thinking about his political allegiance or his plumbing business. Joe is being fed images between reality TV shows, like all Americans. (You know, except you. You’re actually smart and awesome. And you can fly.)
Let’s look at our first pair:
Who are you going to pick? The guy who looks near death, or the guy who looks like he’s totally going to nail the soccer mom down the street? Now look at the next election:
Again, the choice is between a walking corpse and a guy who plays the saxophone on Arsenio while wearing badass sunglasses. Even Bob Dole said privately that Bob Dole wouldn’t vote for Bob Dole if Bob Dole didn’t have a vested interest in winning because Bob Dole was Bob Dole. Bob Dole!
Now let’s check out 2000:
Okay, our choice is a cool party guy who snorted coke off of the backs of hookers while waterskiing nude through a half pipe made from the bones of legendary rock bands, or a dude who breathes fire. Easy choice.
Now obviously, by 2004, Bush had proven himself to no longer be a legendary party guy and had lost the confidence of a lot of the country, but check out the choice we had to make:
I mean, he’s older, whiter, and his ears stick out more. He can barely speak English, and he’s being serviced by a turkey. But just look at Kerry. This country can’t have a president who can’t even catch a fucking football.
Okay, caught up to the present. So the question is, who will win on Tuesday? John McCain, or Barack Obama? Well, let’s look at the evidence:
Okay, wait… that’s a pretty bad picture of McCain. Caught at a bad moment; it could happen to anyone. Let’s try again.
Hmm. I’m thinking he was in a pirate play, or perhaps yelling at kids to get off of his lawn. Try again.
Hang on, try this:
Wait.
Oh, come on! Now he’s just doing it on purpose.
Sorry, John. You seem like a good guy with some good ideas, but I don’t think you’re going to win this one. Not based on that photo record. It’s late in the game, but you might think about getting some sunglasses or a sax. Or doing more drugs. Or maybe wearing a funny hat. But make sure it’s funny in a “cool guy” way, not a “what a douchebag” way.
Oh, and lay off the telephone calls. Barack never calls me, but your people are on me like three times a day. For real, John… put the phone down. And the sax. Get a saxophone, and get some hot chicks to stand around you. It’s your only chance.