The Pur-"suit" of Happiness
The Pur-“Suit” of Happiness
Have you ever come across an idea that is stunningly brilliant and yet so simple that you can't help slapping your forehead and exclaiming, “Damn! Why didn't I think of that ”? That’s how I felt this morning when I saw the AP news item about the Bronx woman who is filing a lawsuit against the college in which she earned her bachelor’s degree because she hasn't found a job.
The information technology major had undoubtedly fallen for the propaganda that has been thrown at America’s youth for decades: “If you want a good job, get a good education.” Even if a kid is poor, if she studies hard enough she can be accepted into a college. And if her parents can't afford to pay tuition? No problem! College students can borrow thousands of dollars in student loans, backed up by the only collateral available – “future earnings.” (No matter that the student loan sharks would pursue her to the grave, like Harpies at the backs of a hero in a Greek tragedy.)
The New York City plaintiff had the golden degree in her hand, with the added bonus of the school’s “Office of Career Advancement” promise of “leads and career advice.” But for her, this touted “career” proved harder to find as real meat in a so-called “burger” from a fast-food joint. Four years of her life down the drain and a mortgaged future, what’s a poor gal to do? The only thing any red-blooded, pull-yourself-up-by-your-own-bootstraps American would do–- sue the two-faced, white-wine-swilling, brie-scarfing liars!
I wish the disgruntled graduate nothing but luck in tilting at the college and the broken windmills of its promises. (And if we're going to hold the country’s educational system accountable for decades of flunking, what happened to all of those “educational malpractice” lawsuits? American kids are a bunch of fat, dumb, text-messaging zombies, and somebody’s got to pay!)
It’s way too late for yours truly now, but as I say, it never occurred to me to slap my alma mater with litigation, but it did cross my mind to see if they wanted to strike a deal: they pay me a certain amount of cash per month and in return I promise never to mention that I ever set foot within forty feet of the campus. I actually went over there with my proposal, but nobody knew who the hell I was.
But now the proverbial wheels are turning, and I'm thinking, why look for work at all? Theoretically, I could make a decent living just by suing the pants off everybody who has ever let me down in my entire life. For instance, I will file a lawsuit against:
–The United States Post Office for having lost my acceptance letter from “Who’s Who in American Colleges and Universities” in my senior year, yet somehow managed to deliver those hundreds of rejection slips from The New Yorker and other magazines. Maybe I'll go after all the editors in the entire publishing establishment for failing to recognize Sheer Genius the minute it slid over the transom and landed directly in their laps.
– whoever is still alive from the second term of Nixon’s administration for having created a recession and its dearth of good jobs in the years following my college graduation. (And while I'm going after seventies-era culprits, I'll sue whoever is responsible for the pain and suffering caused by disco.)
–the stuck-up features editor at my local paper who sat at her desk reading her mail while she was supposed to be interviewing me for a reporter’s job. “Multi-tasking,” my foot!
–Thoroughbred wagering experts who swore up and down that an exacta with “Snail’s Pace” and “Molasses” in the third at Aqueduct was a “sure thing.” The two nags were things all right – losers, for sure. And while were at it, I'll see The New York State Lottery for saying “You gotta get in it to win it.” Well, I was “in it,” all right, but I didn't win it.
-And finally, I might continue pursuing legal compensation even into the Afterlife, if the thermostat proves to be a bit uh, “warmer” than advertised. If that’s so, I doubt I'll have any trouble locating an attorney willing to take my case.
"Take Me to Your Booking Agent"
A couple of decades ago when the Star Trek movie franchise neared its peak, a certain one-liner popped up in the culture: “Beam me up, Scottie. There’s no intelligent life on this planet.” The joke got old when everybody and his grandmother took to wearing t-shirts with the quote printed on it. Lately, that line has been rattling in my
head like a loose ball bearing sucked up into the black hole of a vacuum cleaner.
For instance, I get a kick out of extremely cerebral professionals mocking the belief in God, while these brainy scientists themselves, speculating upon the existence of alien life-forms in far-off galaxies, allow for the “possibility” that the equivalent of little green men from outer space could actually invade Old Mother Earth. Yesterday the illustrious astrophysicist Stephen Hawking* released a statement that not only might aliens invade our planet but actually exploit earthlings similarly to the way in which rapacious European explorers destroyed native cultures in the New World.
Far be it from me to question the perspicacity of a genius such as Dr. Hawking, but his scenario has Hollywood swarming all over it. Hence, with no movie cliché or product placement ad left behind, we present the following ditty, which we like to call:
Take Me to Your Booking Agent
Nobody at SETI noticed the quirky pattern that had been repeatedly spiking the computer graphs, or if he had, he would have chalked up the unusual recordings to sun spots. In any event, there was no such person as an intergalactic language specialist to translate the monitored message, which roughly read “I’m going out of town on business, Hon. Don’t wait up.” Likewise, the numerous UFO sightings over New Mexico and Colorado were dismissed as “routine military operations.” There were denials upon denials, debunkings after debunkings until the actual Invasion could no longer be concealed. For a reason not immediately known, the uninvited visitors were for the time being concentrated in the airspace above a suburb of Los Angeles.
No mega-powered telescope was necessary. The clear and present danger could be seen all-too-clearly with the naked eye. Row after row of futuristic spaceships hovered above, lined up like hungry freeloaders waiting for a table on “All You Can Eat Night” at the Olive Garden. The transport vehicles were so ultra high-tech that they made the state-of-the art props in James Cameron’s Avatar look like stray pieces of an erector set. Down on terra firma young people aimed their cellphones skyward to click pictures. Businessmen placed frantic calls to their brokers and screamed, “Sell! Sell!” At municipal buildings scores of empty baby strollers descended down the exterior steps, and on street corners wild-eyed doomsayers in their robes and sandals had already edited their signs, the final word of “The end is near” crossed out and changed to “here” with a reliable Sharpie.
No sooner than you could say “Ewok” did the Mother Ship break out of formation and plunge downward, landing as softly as a piece of confetti, smack dab in the middle of an intersection of beautiful downtown Burbank. A custom-built Maserati slammed on its delicate brake mechanism, but not before rear-ending a 1992 Yugo. A fully-loaded van from the County Animal Control Department jumped the curb and upon impact with a hydrant, the rear panel doors swung open, releasing a pack of canine suspects who joyously howled and reveled in their last-minute reprieve. And in yet another example of life following art (of the spot ad kind), a truck carrying a shipment of milk chocolate bars crashed into a second truck hauling crates of creamy peanut butter. Meanwhile, from all sides of the mother ship mammoth loudspeakers had sprouted, blasting out the opening bars of “Thus Sprake Zarathustra” accompanied by a thumping back beat.
By the time the hatch of the Mother Ship opened, sliding sideways like a supermarket’s automatic door, the indigenous traffic had for most part gotten the hell out of the way. A short set of stairs flipped down and a figure dressed in a metallic spacesuit marched down the steps like a beauty pageant contestant on a runway. The alien’s appearance was neither reptilian nor insect-like; in fact, it (or he) looked completely humanoid, though nothing like Michael Rennie, nor, for that matter, Keanu Reeves. The other-worldly visitor swaggered to the middle of the street, stopped directly beneath the swaying and still blinking red light, and raised what only could be described as a bull-horn. He put the low-tech microphone to his lips, and in perfect English started to address the terrestrial crowd:
“Greetings, People of Earth! We come in peace for all mankind, and if you want to keep it that way, we strongly suggest that you fulfill our demands.” At the word “demands,” the crowd’s initial, stunned silence was broken by shrieks and screams of various decibel levels. High school kids who had not yet surrendered to full panic mode had begun texting like mad. One message read “OMG! Were [sic] abduckted !![SIC] L8tr!” and another “There [sic] gonna chop us up for happy meals!!! lol.”
In the interim, the local law enforcement agencies had been placed on high alert, the military ordered a flotilla of fighter jets on stand-by, and the color-code of Homeland Security had segued from a comforting lemon yellow to an alarming fire engine red. Not far away from the site of the historical-- if not pre-apocalyptic--event, stood a duet of two operatives from an agency so covert neither the C.I.A. nor the F.B.I. nor even the AARP knew of their existence. Both men wore black from head-to-toe from the lenses of their sunglasses to the tips of their Florsheims.
“Looks like we’re gonna have to call for backup,” one agent said to the other.
“Where’s Chuck?”
“Aw, he’s headlining at a gun rally in El Paso. Who else is available?”
Meanwhile, the spokesalien was outlining the “non-negotiable” demands. “First, we want a shot on ‘Dancing with the Stars.’ “
“Whew!” exhaled one of the secret agents. “That’s a relief. We’ll have to bump the octomom and the balloon boy's dad, but it’s doable.”
“Secondly, we want to produce, star in, and direct our own reality show,” the alien continued. “But it has to be on one of the major networks. Don’t try to palm us off on one of those off-label cable channels.”
“That’ll work,” the secret agent said. “There’s at least a couple o’ shows getting the ax after Sweeps Week.”
The alien had reached the bottom line of his wish list. “And finally, for the inevitable feature film of our, uh, ‘visit’ we want complete control of the entire production. That includes a 100 % share of the gross. I repeat: gross. The merest mention of the word ‘net’ and your pretty blue marble becomes charcoal.”
“Did he say what I think he said?”
“I’m afraid so. The dreaded ‘g’ word! We’re gonna have to haul out the heavy artillery. Where’s Denzel? Where’s Bruce?”
“They’re both up in Iceland putting a cap on Eyjafjallajokull.”
“Ijahka what ill?”
“No matter. I’ve got an idea.” The agent whispered into his partner’s ear.
“You know,” the partner said, “it’s just so crazy, it just might work!”
Later that evening the visitors from the planet, whose name could never be pronounced let alone spelled, were feted to a welcoming gala in which, the pretext was, their demands would be cheerfully accepted and formalized. After a festive dinner of chicken a la king and apple pie a la mode with a Tang chaser, the evening’s entertainment began.
A forty-foot screen descended from the ceiling and the HD DVD began. As the movie progressed, the earthlings in the audience coughed, whispered among themselves, played games on their personal electronic devices, or took the opportunity to catch a quick catnap. The visitors, however, were gradually showing signs of physical and emotional distress. Several aliens clutched their stomachs, some headed for the rest rooms, a few didn’t make it. “The pain! The pain. . .“ the head alien complained. “Can’t take it. . .must retreat. . .head back home.” Although his head looked as if it had begun to weigh more than a bulkhead, the alien looked up at the two secret agents. “I must. . .ask. What is this powerful, invincible weapon?”
“This? Why, it’s the 2005 remake of War of the Worlds starring Tom Cruise. What, don’t you like. . .”
But before the agent could finish his sentence, the entire contingent of aliens had left the building, raced to their respective transport vehicles and shot off into the far reaches of the universe, presumably in search of another world in which the phenomenon of the excruciatingly bad movie remains unknown.
*http://www.tgdaily.com/space-feature...tephen-hawking
http://blogs.wsj.com/speakeasy/2010/...-about-aliens/
When Life Imitates Art, Part II
When Life Imitates Art, Part II
Here's a portion of "Tanking With With the Sharks," Reply #10 above, originally posted by yours truly on 8/10/09:
Quote:
Originally Posted by
AuntShecky
As we all know, professional sports is a “young man’s game” and not only are the athletes in tip-top physical condition, they engage in a strenuous training regimen. High-end teams keep their Elite Closers in a large orange crate packed with Excelsior and only bring them out on extra special occasions, like Great-Grandma’s crystal gravy boat on Thanksgiving. But even the most pampered player is vulnerable to Injury! Not a day goes by without a top player hurting himself and going on the DL. A relief pitcher bends down to tie his shoe and comes up with a strained back. An infielder trots after the ice cream truck and pulls a hammy. What’s up with that? Well, I'll tell you what’s wrong with this picture – there’s something dangerous and deadly about uniforms! The remedy – Safety Togs! Admittedly, the prototype is pretty pricey – but you can't put a price tag on safety. Our specially-woven material allows for complete mobility and yet surrounds the team owner’s multi-million dollar investment with soft, cushiony clouds of . . .Bubble Wrap!
Of course, we'd have to figure out a way of attaching the Velcro name tags without popping
the bubbles. You can say what you want about the satisfying crack of a bat knocking out a home run, but for me, no sound of the game is as awesome as the “pop, pop, pop!” of a bubble-wrapped runner sliding into second.
And here is the real-life counterpart, from the other day:
http://bleacherreport.com/articles/3...e-wrap-is-here
Somebody had better cut me a check, or I'm calling my attorney!
A Passage from Mrs. S.'s Online Journal
An excerpt from the online journal
of Mrs. Debi Snotenlocker
(Edited to simulate a modicum of literacy.)
OMG talk about your bad hair day! LOL. I had to go all the way over to the East Hogwash Free Library to use this ancient computer that they let EVERYBODY use, even stinking kids who probably never wash their hands. EWWWW!
I miss my laptop soooo much. Last night it was literally TOTALED after I accidentally left it on the kitchen counter. Me and machines don’t get along. Like that stupid TiVo. Every time I want to record “Dancing with the Stars,” the TiVo gets it mixed up with “Do You Think You Can Dance?” and vicey-versey. Same with “CSI: NY” and “NCIS: Los Angeles.” All we ever get is “Law and Order: SVU.” And a ton of commercials for SUVs.
I TOLD Brad that he didn’t hook it up right. He’s not all bad. A pretty good father to the triplets. Like he’s got this big dream to teach them all how to play golf. But he hasn’t made much progress so far. Trick is more interested in seeing how far into the ground he can pound a tee with his foot. Trip and Trap keep chasing each other with the 9 iron. But Brad is convinced that he’s a kingmaker for three Tiger Woodses. I told him if that’s the case don’t bring them down to the pancake place. They got a hostess there who looks like she’s waiting for a callback from Playboy magazine. Brad goes: “Oh, the boys don’t pay any attention to her.” And I’m like “I’m talking about you.”
Brad even sees a project in my daughter (from a previous relationship.) He’s like “Why can’t Milwaukee try out for American Idol?” and I’m like “What’re you, nuts? She can’t sing her way outa a paper bag” and Brad goes “That’s just what I mean.” Well, Milwaukee overheard us and she thought it was the awesomest idea EVER! She warmed up to that puppy and hugged the living daylights outa it. So every night she practices the song she’s gonna sing for her American Idol audition. I swear if I hear that damn song “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” one more time I’m gonna climb that mountain myself and jump right off of it! I go, “I’m glad your [sic] showing some interest in something, Milwaukee, but don’t you think you oughta be doing your geometry homework?” Then she’s gets all smart mouthed and says that triangles ain’t gonna put her on top of the Billboard charts.
BTW I had to run all the way over to the East Hogwash Elementary School yesterday. They told me I had to come in for a parent teacher conference. So I met the teacher. It was amazing. She looked a little like the hostess at the pancake place! Her hair was so big it went halfway up to the ceiling and she musta spent half her salary getting her nails done. Anyway I show her the composition she sent home. “I admit that Trip, er Trap isn’t the sharpest knife in the fourth grade, but even he doesn’t make this many spelling and grammar eras [sic]. I think you got his paper mixed up with somebody else’s.” So this teacher rips the paper right outa my hand and looks at it. Then she goes “Whoops. My bad. I think I sent home a copy of our latest union contract by mistake. I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Slotenknocker.” I shoulda said, “That’s Snotenlocker, you dingbat.” But I didn’t.
Anyway, I told Brad all about this last night when I was cooking dinner. “Your [sic] right, Debi. Our education system sucks out loud. Maybe we ought to put the boys in private school.”
I go, “You mean some religious school where they spend half the day telling little kids they’re no damn good? I don’t think teachers should tell kids that their [sic] going to hell. That’s the parent’s job.”
All of a sudden Brad got a look on his face like he just thought of the awesomest idea on the planet. He snapped his fingers. “Aha! We don’t have to stay with public schools or private schools either. I got the perfect solution.”
I’m like, “What are you talking about?” And he’s like “Two words. Home schooling!”
And that was when I dropped a huge pan full of baked ziti all over my laptop computer.
