Thursday, September 7, 2006

Dripping with Irony

Who does it suck to be right now? JonBenet Ramsey’s Mom. Why? Because she’s dead, of course. If I’m surprising anyone by breaking this news, you’re not alone. The news went by quietly. But the woman died of ovarian cancer on June 24. Just consider the irony. Go ahead, I’ll even give you a few lines.

The lady who killed her 6-year old daughter was killed by the organ that makes her babies. Let that stew around in the noodle for a moment. That’s some Grade A delicious irony, folks. Ironic deaths can be fun. Okay, not fun in that watching-an-old-lady-try-to-get-through-an-automatic-door-with-a-walker kind of way, but more like in that classic, less rewarding, enjoying life’s spitefulness sort of way. But fun nonetheless.

Imagine how many new ovaries that $100,000 could have bought you.

I bring up ironic deaths as we find ourselves in the aftermath of one of the most ironic deaths of our time, that of the most legendary animal molester we will ever know, Steve Irwin. That’s right, the man who became a household name by molesting crocodiles and not dying… died. Think about this for a second, though. The man’s job basically stipulated three things: 1) molest crocodiles constantly, 2) be Australian, and 3) don’t get viciously mauled to death. Just don’t die. That’s basically what his million-dollar contract said. So in a way, Irwin managed to fuck up one of the most airtight contracts ever.

But getting back on track here, the death of the self-proclaimed Crocodile Hunter, who molested literally thousands of crocodiles in his career, finally came in early September when he was STUNG TO DEATH BY A STING RAY. What? A sting ray? You’re sure it wasn’t a crocodile’s barb to the heart? I have to be honest, this one had me reeling. Anyone around me at the time I got the news had to have thought I was really rattled over the Hunter, when in actuality my mind was just trying to put together the pieces of this puzzle. I think the sting rays owe the crocodiles one on this.

I mean Steve Irwin being murdered by an animal as random and out of left field as a sting ray would be like Ryan Phillippe dying on the set of a movie, or O.J. Simpson dying at all (seriously, the Juice dying in any fashion would be fitting). I mean, are we even sure what a sting ray is? Aren’t they those flat pillowy fish that the aquarium staff smilingly encourage you to touch as they float by on the water surface? If we had accidentally tried to pet them with our hearts would we, too, have been murdered like Irwin? Was I the only one noticing these eerie occurrences and wondering things aloud in public? Was I going to be able to live in a world of ironic deaths that make you want to laugh more than they make you want to cry? Was someone keeping an eye on Dale Earnhardt Jr. to make sure he wouldn’t die in a plane crash?

Just when I had reached my breaking point and the question mark key stopped working on my computer, I found an answer. I picked up the newspaper the next morning, whose headline read in bold print “FOUR CHILDREN’S BODIES FOUND IN SMOLDERING BUS RUINS.” Suddenly, the world made sense again. Ironic deaths are just as random as the nonsensical ones. For every crocodile molester that dies from fish pillow stings, there’s an idiot with a hang glider that dies in a hang gliding accident.

Needless to say, I rested comfortably that night, smoldering kid bodies dancing in my dreams.

Sunday, February 26, 2006

When Celebrities Break Up, We All Break Up

Officially, for the record, the lyrics to Steal My Sunshine are among the weirdest in music history. Butter tarts? Okay.

Anyways, with all these breakups headlining news stories this last week, I feel the need to reiterate something... how I couldn't give a fuck less what the hell is going on in celebrity relationships. What can make our lives feel any more empty than news about an argument between two pop stars scrolling across a CNN newsticker? People actually get worked up about this stuff. Guess what, America? Two people who, if they knew you would hate you, broke up.

Sheryl Crow and Lance Armstrong split up. Better run it front page, guys, because I'm pretty sure half of that couple sang a song called "D'Yer Mak'er." It's pathetic enough we leech onto these stories for sustinence, but then we have to pry. Why, oh why did these two break up? Let's see... she's a rock star and he has one testicle. Isn't that like Christina Aguilera announcing she's dating Lance Bass?

But wait a second, Tom Cruise may have broken up with Katie Holmes. Holy shit. I need a new pair of pants, this pair got too excited and got pants juice on itself. Does this affect anyone? What? So you mean now I can touch myself to pictures of Katie in my sleazy basement by myself without having to look over my shoulder about it? Then please run it top story on every news show and plaster it on every magazine cover I come in contact with. Glorious day.

Mike Myers splitting with his wife wasn't nearly as hot a topic. Maybe because neither one is very fun to print on your magazine cover when you're actually trying to sell them. Them splitting doesn't really shock me too much. Seeing the two of them together always made me feel awkward. I sensed the rift. But, then again, I always felt the same way about Phil Hartman and his wife.

The photographer knew this would make a classic breakup shot some day.

But what the fuck is so unimportant about everything else going on in the world that this is what piques our interest? So the chick from Melrose Place is on the market again. What difference is that going to make for you, pal? You still weigh 290 pounds with perennial Cheetos stains on your shirt, and now you own an issue of Star Magazine. Doesn't look like life's getting any better. This is why the rest of the world hates us.

Monday, February 20, 2006

The Beginning

My grandmother once told me I'd never amount to anything. Hey Grandma, suck this. It's today speak for go to hell.

Okay, maybe she has a point. I haven't accomplished a thing in life outside of sucking up to her for her inheritance. But there's one thing I have that my grandmother doesn't, outside of long-term memory and solid stool. And that's the ability to author a blog. The point of this blog is to painfully dissertate the things that piss me off; not limited to grandma. See, we can all be optimists and look at Wednesday's Child. But it takes someone fantastically jaded to review Wednesday's Abortion.