FFWD Weekly
Copyright © 1998 All Rights Reserved.
| MR. SMUTTY Guess I lost site of me. Guess somewhere along the TransCan I forsook my core me-ity, my l'essence de moi. Guess my tireless charity work (drunk-driving across Canada, raising $$$ to help kids who were teased at hockey camp for having weak ankles) has taken its toll. When I slip behind the wheel so stone-cold-loaded I can barely sing-along w/ the Will Smith tune on the radio ("Jush cujh meen yo mom ah divorshed..."), I'm doing it for the kids. When I take a hi-speed, two-wheels-good corner thru a playground zone, I'm doing it for the kids. That fire hydrant in Sudbury? For the kids. When I endure hundreds of prairie kilometres w/ only the books-on-tape version of The Starr Report for companionship, I'm doing it for the kids. When I giggle-rewind-giggle-rewind the part about how Bill Clinton denied himself orgasmic pleasure on account of "not knowing [Monica] well enough," instead treating her as he would any other nodding acquaintance by inserting a cigar inside her you-know-where... I'm doing it for the kids. When mundane details re: Clinton's bad back make me laff so hard I forget I'm drunk... that's for the kids. Who benefits when the lovey-dovey nicknames (Monica called Bill "Handsome," and he in turn called her "Sweetie," "VacuFlow" and - during one particularly heated moment - "Tipper") inspire me to honk my horn w/ delight (not a euphemism)? The kids. When, suffering info-overload after hearing Clinton not-once-but-twice brought Lewinsky to orgasm via "manual stimulation" (a major pro-impeachment point is that Clinton perjured himself by claiming the number to be "close to, like, 500. I was magnificent"), I engage in a little spontaneous off-roading? That's for the kids. When steering w/ my feet & wondering if Lewinsky's infamous navy-blue-with-semen Gap dress puts her in line for an endorsement deal à la Run DMC (they could call her Run DNA - or, thinking along the lines of the successful "Jack Kerouac wore khakis" ads, perhaps a "Monica Lewinsky wore Clinton" campaign is in order)? Yep, those moments are for the kids too. Same goes for the times when, thinking about Monica pulling the soiled dress outta her closet and first noticing the stains ("So that's why those dogs have been following me home"), Kahlua Mudslide shoots from my nose and all over the dash. Piling into my courtesy Hummer (emblazoned with "Go Jimbo! Go Jimbo!" across the hood-doors-and-roof) & tugging my personalized "Jimbo '98" ballcap low on my head & dribbling beer down my "Jimbo Says Kiss My CheckStop" T-shirt, it's so easy to see how I could forget about me. Not to mention the TV interviews, all the people cheering my name, the front-page photos, the parades. Who am I again? I've vowed not to rest until Vancouver Island, where I'll bounce my Hummer offa guardrail (the sickening grind of metal-on-metal like a love-letter to the kids), mow down that "Mile Zero" (or "Kilo Nada" or whatever it sez) signpost, and splash down into the Pacific Ocean. My left lung punctured by the steering wheel, the cab filling like the schoolbus in Simon Birch (not to ruin the suspense or anything, but the little guy's God-directed destiny turns out to be saving a busload of drowning kids, thereby averting a Sweet Hereafter disaster and Tragically Hip soundtrack. Plus: he dies), only then shall I rest. The saltwater will be a baptism, or at least a good way to conceal the fact I pissed my pants shaking the cops back in Burnaby. And then, if I can cash one of those oversized cheques at MoneyMart, it's off to the nearest Hard Rock. |