Puttin' On A Few

Yeah, if you look at the Weight Loss Ticker above you will see that I am going the wrong way. Dealing with depression, a horrible cold and out and out laziness I've managed to gain a few pounds. Well, my cardiologist assures me that this is a good way to find myself in a coffin.

According to a chart she (the doctor) gave me, I should be somewhere around 170 pounds. Um, even when I was skinny as a rail I wasn't 170 pounds. So, I'm still shooting for 185. I think it's doable and a worthy goal. But I don't know if I can hack it. I received a jar of Hershey Kisses last night and I managed to eat about 20 of the little fuckers when I got home from work this evening. I threw the rest away.

I like eating. Eating is what I do better than anything else. I'm not fat. I'm a bit overweight. But I'm hardly where I need to be. To get there will take patience and determination. And maybe, just maybe, I'll learn a little something about myself. Or I'll die of boredom. I wouldn't doubt the boredom thing.

The Career Arc of Dennis Miller

I've been getting a lot of mail recently regarding the Mr. Food joke from the last blog post. Most of you wanted to know who the hell Mr. Food was, and the rest wondered why I thought mentioning Mr. Food would be funny.

Well, to answer the first question: Mr. Food is a guy who comes on your local newscast, traditionally in the noontime hour, to teach people ways to grill things they would not typically grill or how to cook up something good and quick and tasty. Anyhow, the guy is headquartered in one place and distributes his segments throughout America.

I remember how disappointed I was when I found out that Mr. Food did not live and work in Alabama. It was an eye-opening experience for me. Why would he attempt to deceive us? If we so happened to want his recipe-of-the-day, he'd tell you to send a self-addressed stamped envelope to him, Mr. Food, "RIGHT HERE AT THE STATION." You're not at the station, you prick.

To the second question: Obscure jokes can be funny, but only because you can't understand them. Look at Dennis Miller. He built his career on telling jokes that only a few people outside of Liberia could understand. A few people would laugh, others would pretend to be laughing even though they didn't know who Zeke Zanzibar was. This is the first stage of Dennis Miller's career arc.

After a while, it became funny when he used jokes no one could understand, simply because no one understood them. At the height of his powers, sometime around the Off-White Album, Miller could have made up an obscure reference and people would have laughed, as long as they thought it was an obscure reference, usually enveloped in what he called a "rant." I'm sure this kind of humor is called something, and maybe only Dennis Miller and William F. Buckley, Jr. knows of the correct terminology; but the word would define a joke that isn't about the punch line but about the joke itself, the delivery and the person's attitude on stage. I'm going to make up a phrase to describe it: Postmodern Jive.

That's the second stage.

The third stage came when he went on Monday Night Football and when you watched you thought, "Hmph, that's not all that funny anymore." The act wore thin, I guess. You could predict what he was going to say and how he was going to say it. Steve Martin quit before he had this problem. He just couldn't take the act anywhere new. Postmodern Jive has its limitations.

Of course, I only used one obscure reference, and I did it more to amuse myself than anyone else. Maybe self-amusement is all I've got these days.

I Need Money

Yes, I'm broke, and I don't feel the least bit ashamed about begging for money. Look at public radio and television. Every month or so they are asking for it. Public radio even asks for my car so they can sell it and make the money (or chauffeur Garrison Keillor around town).

Go to Wikipedia's website. They've been asking for money for a while now. Who are these people? Who does the money go to? Why would I pay good money for shit? Tell me, people.

Maybe I could invite Dr. Wayne Dyer or Suze Orman to visit my blog and write something spiritual/financial that would uplift Cotton readers and make you feel good about yourself. Or, maybe have a doo wop concert. Yes, doo wop always brings in the money (apparently, or else I wouldn't have to suffer through The Cleftones when I should be watching "Antiques Roadshow").

And don't get me started on that Elvis concert bullshit. Folks, Elvis is dead; and a fake concert isn't going to bring him back to life. You can put all the back up singers and gospel choirs and two-bit red necks playing Fender Telecasters you want up on stage, but The King isn't really there. You can't pretend that he is. He's really dead. Honest. Now, claim your free mug and go listen to some real music.

So, in order to keep this blog going, I am asking each of my readers to send me cash, large bills, to me, Mr. Food, right here at the station; and I promise I'll keep making blog posts that'll make you say, "Ooh, it's so good."