FFWD Weekly
Copyright © 1997. All Rights Reserved.
Tickle Me Jimbo
In which a loser is sorry about writing a totally loser column
by James MartinDearest reader: it's no secret that my feelings for you oscillate between lukewarm friendship and bilious contempt. Still, I feel soooo bad about last week's limp article concerning Whitney Houston singing for the Moonies. Who knew where my head was? (And the peanut gallery roars with glee: "In! Yo! Ass!") It seemed like such fertile terrain (the comedy equiv of Bobbi & Kenny McCaughey of Des Moines, Iowa), but all I could squeeze out was a buncha watery Tonight Show pap: "Heyyyy, soooo, how 'bout them Moonies, huh? Ever get stuck in traffic behind a Moonie? Whooooa, don't git me started. And what's the deal with Moonies always trekking off to the washroom in groups? Don't go there, sisterman! Talk to the prosthetic hand. Crazy ol' Moonies!" It was like waking up on my birthday thinking, "I can do anything I want! Today's my special day!" and then just sitting on the couch w/ the blinds down.
As an optimist, I like to think my worst work is still ahead of me; last week's sad sack artikle bummed me out. (But I wasn't down enough to, y'know, get all sauced up and then hang from a belt whilst tickling me bits'n'pieces with an ostrich feather.) (A practice which I've only, uhhmmmm, heard about. Honest Abe, m'man!) To pep up my blü soul, I plopped in front of the tube with my Interactive Barney. Then, right after we finished counting triangles, the little bastard turned to me and said, "Where'd the funny go?" So I tore him interactive limb from interactive limb, then booted his interactive head across the room before skewering it on a sharpened interactive broomhandle. Then I marched around the neighborhood waving Barney's head-on-stick and letting out a barbaric "yawp" ever 2-slash-3 steps.
Later, after shaking the cops, it hit me: Barney wuz right. Where did the funny go?
I missed the funny and it was nowhere to be found. A snow-white hare hopped by, and I thought maybe it knew where the funny was. The bunny put up a good chase, but even after cornering it in an alley and snapping its spine so it'd sit still long enough for me to hug it (such is the price of love), I was still no closer to my Grail.
Heartbroken, I decided to rid the world of my sorry, unfunny ass. With double-jointed dexterity, I wrapped myself in a large box, applied correct postage and one of those "Caution: Unfunny Contents" stickers, and waited by the mailbox to be picked up and hauled to Greenland. (In Greenland, they don't give a flying fug about funny, as long as you can be sliced open and yer internal fluids used for warmth. In a pinch.) I waited in that box for days, my only sustenance being the trickle of coffee (spilled by a passing picketeer) seeping thru the cardboard. Things were looking pretty bleak, and if it wasn't for those Jr. High kids lighting the box on fire, I may never have kicked my way to freedom.
As I lay crying in the dirty snow, a streetcorner Santa wobbled over and kindly stamped out the flaming cardboard. I lifted my weary head in thanks and caught my reflection in Santa's big brass bell. It was then I realized I'm basically just Ally McBeal in crotchless lederhosen & tattered Hanson T-shirt, with a four-foot beard and mustard on my cheek from lunch last week. (Can't you see I'm on a losing streak?) Exhausted, but relieved to finally know the Awful Truth, I let my head slump back to the ground. I pretended not to notice when Santa rolled me over to check if I've been (his eloquent words propelled by gusts of single-malt) "naughty or nice."
And that's what Christmas means to me. See ya next week!
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