It seems every time I turn on the news an anchor is espousing a horror story about how some suburban soccer mom with a car full of honor roll students couldn't get her Sienna minivan to stop on the way to band practice. Or how some crunchy granola Prius owner almost crashed into an organic fruit stand at the local farmers market.
Few can dispute that the Japanese auto giant has imploded to a degree that even New York politicians and Tiger Woods can't comprehend. One thinks Akio Toyoda may need to consider a new line of work. Perhaps he could change his name to "Roy the Toy" and take a crack at the model car market. Regardless, his recent misfortune has inspired me to determine what, if I had my druthers, I would recall like a Toyota. So in the spirit of motorized near death experiences (and no I'm not talking about that time I slipped in the shower while using my vibrator), I give you my first five.
1. Drunk Texts: They're the 21st century's version of the drunk dial and they get boys and girls of all ages into trouble every Saturday night. I know of what I speak, because I too have been a drunk texter, still am to some degree, and I've found out (the hard way) that little good can come from bearing all in the form of inebriation and emoticons. The problem with texting is it creates a record, providing fodder for water cooler gossip and mean girls alike. And for the senders, having the concrete evidence of your own stupidity staring at you from your flip phone while in the midst of a massive hangover doesn't have the same "hair of the dog" effect as a spicy Bloody Mary and a greasy egg sandwich.
2. The Mucus Monster: You may have made his acquaintance. He tends to visit at the most inconvenient of times, like in the spring when the weather is beautiful and the sun is shining and the last place you want to be is balled up in a fetal position on your couch next to a tube of Aquaphor and a have drunken glass of Theraflu. He's like a bad house guest who overstays his welcome, and he's with me right now, wreaking his havoc from within. He started as an itch in the back of my throat and like a 16-year-old boy on prom night, he's entered other orifices of my body without my full consent. I've asked him to kindly take his leave, I've even recruited my friends Sergeant Sudafed and Corporal Cold-EEZE to muscle him out. I thought I may have reached my own personal Gettysburg at around fourteen hundred hours when, for a brief second, I could breathe through my left nostril, but to no avail. I can only take comfort in knowing that every time I blow my nose, another of his soldiers succumbs to the whim of my weapons arsenal, a wet tissue and as much air reinforcement as I can muster.
3. Brendan Frasier Movies: Does anyone else think Furry Vengeance sounds more like a bad porno flick than a fun family matinee? And what pray tell, do you think possesses the former School Ties heartthrob to star in the dumbest movies Hollywood produces? The same year he played the Torah touchdown king and hid his Star of David from Matt Damon and Ben Affleck, he also starred in Encino Man. I guess at that point, he could have gone either way. One just wishes the dynamic duo who brought janitor-turned-genius Will Hunting to life could have thrown a little goodwill George of the Jungle's way and given him a role as something other than a Dudley, a Dickie, or a Darkly. By all accounts, Fraser is a well-educated, fairly accomplished stage actor, yet somehow, the cute, honorary Canadian has spent an inordinate amount of screen time alongside well-preserved corpses and Pauly Shore (it's even money on which he should be more ashamed of). And though he starred alongside such Hollywood royalty as Dame Helen Mirren and Sir Ian McKellen, Fraser chose instead to join the ranks of cartoon aristocracy in both Looney Tunes: Back in Action (at least Michael Jordan got to slam dunk in Space Jam) and as Sergent Stone in G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra. We can only hope the man who once starred in a movie called Monkeybone has enough sense to rescue his career before it really hits rock bottom and he starts co-starring in movies with Eddie Murphy.
4. Mini Skirts and Uggs: My mother owns Uggs. She wears them while she uses the snow blower on their corner lot in Wisconsin in February. And I firmly assert that unless you're partaking in snow removal or some sort of competitive dog sledding, these fugly sheepskin boots have no place in civilized society. But I am continuously perplexed by the huge number of girls I see wearing Uggs with micro minis so short it looks like their va jay jays are sporting mufflers. The initiator of this abhorrent trend should be taken out back behind the Orange Julius and shot (or at least sentenced to a life working at the Dairy Queen, wearing blue eyeliner and neon scrunchies).
5. The McVeigh Tapes: Rachel Maddow may be the best looking dude on cable news, but I'm awfully disappointed in her recent choice to narrate the latest MSNBC documentary monstrosity. Whether "The McVeigh Tapes" can top the cable network's "Lockup" series, where lucky viewers get an inside peek at the penal system's prettiest yardbirds, time can only tell. God knows listening to the worst domestic terrorist in our lifetimes blather on about how he didn't give a shit about the 168 innocent people he packed full of spiked ammonium nitrate will most certainly contribute to the healing of the nation fifteen years after the fact. I'm sure the same altruistic brainiacs who came up with "Undercover: Sex Slaves in America," can only hope that Timothy McVeigh could titillate their audience towards a ratings extravaganza like ten-year-old hookers can.
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