I would rather spend two hours sharing jalapeno poppers with Al Capone than watch a woman who apparently purchased her intellect at T. J. Maxx for $2.00 chase twenty-five men with biceps made of bronze and heads packed with Cap’n Crunch cereal.
Because when future generations look upon what we have left for them, which may by then be little more than eutrophication and millions of non-biodegradable Sham-Wows, I fear they will conclude that they would have welcomed bread and circuses if only they had realized the alternative was Twinkies and America’s Next Top Model.
[sits down and crosses arms, but then immediately stands back up]
And let me tell you a little something about romance: Handing out roses like you are a mascot throwing Twizzlers to the assembled hooligans at a sumo wrestling competition is not my idea of romance. Romance is a man who knows the difference between John Adams and John Leguizamo and who is capable of putting on trousers without scratching his head as if he is connecting a TV/VCR without the instruction manual.
So do not ask yourself why I do not particularly enjoy a television show where the assembled male candidates represent romantic prospects inferior to the workers on the night shift at the TGI Friday’s in Birmingham, Alabama. Ask yourself whether, after a lifetime playing with a cultural Tickle Me Elmo and dancing on the grave of Eudora Welty, you will ever...recover...your dignity.
2 comments:
My result for the Sugarbaker rant:
I would rather spend two hours sharing jalapeno poppers with Al Capone than watch a woman who apparently purchased her intellect at T. J. Maxx for $2.00 chase twenty-five men with biceps made of bronze and heads packed with Cap’n Crunch cereal.
Because when future generations look upon what we have left for them, which may by then be little more than eutrophication and millions of non-biodegradable Sham-Wows, I fear they will conclude that they would have welcomed bread and circuses if only they had realized the alternative was Twinkies and America’s Next Top Model.
[sits down and crosses arms, but then immediately stands back up]
And let me tell you a little something about romance: Handing out roses like you are a mascot throwing Twizzlers to the assembled hooligans at a sumo wrestling competition is not my idea of romance. Romance is a man who knows the difference between John Adams and John Leguizamo and who is capable of putting on trousers without scratching his head as if he is connecting a TV/VCR without the instruction manual.
So do not ask yourself why I do not particularly enjoy a television show where the assembled male candidates represent romantic prospects inferior to the workers on the night shift at the TGI Friday’s in Birmingham, Alabama. Ask yourself whether, after a lifetime playing with a cultural Tickle Me Elmo and dancing on the grave of Eudora Welty, you will ever...recover...your dignity.
Awesome.
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