Well, reactions to “Worst of Netflix” were decidedly mixed, so we’re going to go with our second-choice new feature, Geography Pun of the Day.
In among all the “you suck” and “you didn’t suck until you did this, but now I’m reevaluating” and the occasional “MORE BLOODY BREASTS,” I noticed two repeating themes in the comment on my review of Grace:
You think I should watch “The Human Centipede,” and some of you don’t like features and prefer it when Meg and I talk about our lives. I looked “Human Centipede” up and I am SOLD whenever it comes to DVD. As far as the other goes: I like writing about things that happen to me better too. Those posts are generally easier to write, and I’m usually more satisfied with them. I have to point something out, though. I can’t vouch for Meg, but occasionally a day goes by when I don’t humiliate myself in public or Indian leg-wrestle a clairvoyant prostitute named Boom-Boom Jarowski. Once, in 2006, I went through a whole week of days like that, but then I may or may not have ruined that streak by falling onto a luggage-claim carousel and being dragged several feet, nearly realizing my fear of having my death reported under the headline, “Area Man Dies in Fluke (random object) Accident.” I know I make a big deal out of being “zany” and whatnot, but the sad fact is that a sizable minority of my days go by like last Tuesday did. I got up, formatted and published a blog post, ate a French bread pizza, drank a bottle of wine, and passed out watching cartoons. Humiliating? Sure, but not enough. I could lie and say, for example, that I started to choke and had to pull the French bread pizza out of my throat with two fingers, or that this terrible diet made me have
in front of everyone I knew, but I try to keep my writing truthful except for the stuff I tack on about sex and alcohol to make it more exciting. (Hi, Dad!)
Sometimes, the best-laid plans of bloggers fall flat. I had high hopes for a family fishing trip I went on a couple of weekends ago. Family? Rural setting? Catfish? I expected to get an epic out of it, a goofball farce before the mesquite-and-red-dust background of West Texas. Nope. Everyone behaved themselves, no one got drunk and fell in the lake, and the family was balanced enough between Democrats, Republicans, and secessionists that we left politics alone. The only remotely blog-worthy thing that happened was our emergency run to Bronte (not Bron-tay like the authors but Bront as in Brontosaurus – it’s about 20 miles from Tennyson) to get seasoned salt. I thought the phrase “We have to go to Bronte to get seasoned salt” was hilarious and giggled to myself the whole drive there. My sniggers were punctuated by Mom’s comments, inspired by an AARP magazine she found in the back seat, about her decision never, never, ever again to have a colonoscopy. It had all the ingredients - Mom, buttholes, austere Western landscapes – but it just wasn’t enough to make a post.
So, we’ll have to make some sort of deal. You put up with the occasional feature, and I promise to tell you immediately when something embarrassing happens. Everybody