FFWD Weekly
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Mr. Smutty by James Martin Wanting to be a millionaire is for backwater simps. Wanting to be India's billionth person, howev, is the cutting edge of pipe-dreamin'. The search is now on for the country's 1,000,000,000th citizen, born sometime last week. Much like being the 100th customer at a brand-new supermarket, the lucky baby will receive all sorts of coupons, as well as the golden opportunity to race around India for 60 seconds, filling a shopping cart w/ whatever she/he desires. Population-minded Chicken Littles are worried we've pushed our planet to its creaking limits. (Personally, I blame that Filipino "Love Bug.") But instead of just whining, some big-hearted entrepreneurs are trying to alleviate the strain by initiating moon burials. For a cool $12,500, a rocketship will deliver yr remains (along w/ the remains of 199 people you probably never knew) to the moon, where it will crash into the surface and scatter everything ash-over-tea-kettle. This is basically just the Right Stuff equiv. of whipping a plastic bag fulla dog-do over the neighbour's fence, but the moon ain't our planet so fuggit. (Back in the good ol' days, callous relatives could nix Granpappy's wishes to have his ashes scattered on Everest: a 3-point jump-shot into the big blue bin outside the funeral home, then it's off to lunch. In the future, selfish ingrates will simply launch his remains into the sun.) Anyway, all this pop. biz got me thinking about how precious our ltd. space is, so consider this week an exercise in late-spring cleaning. Y'know how sometimes yer tidying a closet (or a neighbourhood park) and you find something crotchless and you think, "What the fuh?" Writing is a lot like that. Things are always getting edited from this here column, usually at the advice of attorneys, and I can never bring myself to throw any of it out, even tho they rarely make much sense in the clear-headed light of spring. But there just ain't room to keep this junk kicking around, and the sheriff sez I can't take it out back & burn it no more. ("That's jes' for old tires, ya ninny!") So, everything must go. Take the following white elephant, for e.g.: This week on "Fishing W/ Yer Ol' Pal Jimbo," I thought we'd head out to the waste treatment plant and see if we can't scare us up some "finless browns." Yep, you just ain't livin' right if you ain't never tasted pan-blackened finless brown, fresh from the murky deep. Yow! Talk about "cabin fever." Must've been a long winter. Then there was the time I checked out a P_____e K_____s religious rally, knowing full well that I've never kept a promise in my whole life. As a holier-than-thou nitpicker, I'm always looking for the most insignificant chink in other people's armour (the old "knock you down, build me up" routine), so imagine my delight when a mealy-mouthed preacher-man mistakenly substituted the word "feet" for "shoes" whilst laying down a story about religi-domestic bliss. Boy, I was all over that dude like a moose on cheese! I wrote about the entire experience in a piece called "God Is My Hunting Buddy," but the following bit was trimmed in the interest of no-room: "I took off my wife's feet [sic]," he said, " and washed her feet." "That would sure make for easy cleaning," I thought to myself or maybe out-loud. "Kinda like dentures." I took off my shoes & stared down at my own feet, cursing their permanent attachment to my legs. Anyway, there's lots more where that came from, so stop by the ranch this weekend for my Biggest Yard Sale Ever. The fun starts at 9 sharp, Saturday. Oh, and no earlybirds.

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