Archive for August, 2016
The “There but for the grace of God go I” wince-factor associated with the misfortune of conjoined twins, often morphs into a head-shaking, disbelieving giggle when confronted with the sheer absurdity of 2 people sharing one belly button or the same eardrum. As is the case with many strange things in life, this condition is a very unfunny cosmic joke. The closest we stand-alone creatures come to experiencing this involuntary merge is when we run in a 3-legged race or file joint tax returns. Conversely the closest Siamese twins come to experiencing separateness, is when they’re happily dreaming about deftly slipping through a revolving door all by themselves.
Oh well, “There but for the grace of God go I,” said the author, shaking his head while stifling laughter. Read the rest of this entry »
Professional sports leagues provide the best euphemisms for those souls who’ve dearly departed the playing field. For example, the NFL describes death as being placed on the “Permanently Unable to Perform List.” If you do not go gently into that good night, Major League Baseball will put you on the “Involuntary Retirement List.” And to the NBA death is that strange thing where you suddenly find yourself playing for the 6 feet and under league. And while some run in terror from the Grim Reaper, others see an opportunity in being Reaped by His Grimness. For instance, after your body has been repossessed by the Grim Repo Man, you no longer have to watch in disbelief while it slowly delaminates and its once sculpted contours begin to look like something you’d see in a Funhouse mirror. Death also makes you very easy to shop for at Christmas. I mean what do you get for the person who has no pulse? – Defibrillators? Read the rest of this entry »
Kirk Douglas will be 100 on December 9th. When he was born, radio was in its infancy and so was King Tut. Doesn’t he know his time has come…and gone? Kirk buddy, there are no more Oscars for you. No one is going to throw you roses anymore; just orchids. At least your chum Burt Lancaster had the good sense to exit the stage at 80. But you, my friend, don’t seem to want to take that direction – and you call yourself a “Directors actor.” Phooey. What can we do to get you an epitaph? I’m not encouraging you to die exactly, it’s just that I suffer from an OCD and I need to put you in a category whereby you can only make underground movies – 6 feet and underground movies.
You were old when I was born 55 years ago and your dimpled-chin presence unnerves me to this day. Your son Michael I get. He’s from my generation. If Tom Brokaw wrote a book about yours it would be called “The Sootiest Generation.” Weren’t you a character in several Charles Dickens’ novels? Paul Newman, Marlon Brando and most of the Bee Gees have passed on. Can’t you take a hint and quietly exit stage left? Why are you still hanging around? There will be no Spartacus 2. Read the rest of this entry »