How Randy Quaid Convinced Me To Get a Tattoo, and Other Tales
One of my very favorite things to do at the end of a long day is to fall asleep on the sectional sofa in front of the television. HoST hates this nasty little habit of mine, because he feels it’s his responsibility to wake my ass up and convince me to come upstairs to bed before 1) my contact lenses permanently suction themselves to my tender little corneas, 2) my remote-control-holding arm falls asleep for so long that it results in eventual amputation, and/or 3) I wake up at 6am in a panic, knowing I have to go to work in one hour after the shittiest night’s sleep of my life.
While it’s very sweet of him to worry, I’m afraid I don’t repay the sweetness when he attempts to wake me up from my blissful sectional slumber. I am not – and never have been – a morning person, and the earlier you try to wake me up, the bigger of a raging, horrific, satanic she-devil I am.
Oh, Meryl Streep.
And the worst part? I don’t even remember acting that way the next morning when I’m fully awake. It’s like some sort of sleep drunkenness, without the pissing oneself and the sexual shenanigans in the backseat of a Cavalier.
So HoST has finally given up on my crabby ass, and now lets me sleep on the couch to my heart’s content. Sure, this means many instances of waking up at 4am to an infomercial for Colon Cleanse,
Oh my God, you guys, DO NOT EVER Google image search “colon cleanse.” TRUST ME ON THIS ONE. Also: What in hell is that brush for? *Shudder*
but he doesn’t have to deal with my semi-conscious rantings and ravings, and I get to fall asleep watching some of my favorite, sleep-enhancing TV shows.
What shows are those, you ask? Come, let me whisper in your shell pink ear.
I have my regular, mainstream favorite TV shows, suitable for watching during normal daylight or early evening hours. I love The Office, 30 Rock, some HBO stuff…pretty normal. But when I’m sleepy? And in my jammies? And want to cuddle up on the couch with a blanket and the cat? I fucking love documentaries. And not the stimulating kind that explore the heartbreak of Russian orphanages or the seedy life of prostitutes in New York City(although that was a good one) – I like the boring shit. How Cheese is Made. Civil War-Era Medical Procedures. Some Dudes Go Try To Prove Some New Theory About Why The Titanic Sank, Unaware That The World Is Totally Over It. You get the idea.
The bulk of these programs air on The History Channel, and for that, I love them. Yes, The History Channel may be the dried-up old spinster of cable TV, shuffling around her dusty house in slippers and always smelling vaguely of soup, but I adore that old bitch.
However. She has a nasty habit of airing certain programs that are not suited for someone as pants-shittingly anxious as I am. The shows in question? Here’s a sampling:
“The Doomsday Clock”
“Countdown to Armageddon”
“Go Ahead and Eat That Pie, Bitch; Your Ass Is Going To Get Vaporized When A Meteor Hits Earth In 2015 Anyway”
OK, so maybe I made up that last one, but that’s pretty much the tenor of these programs. We’re all going to die! Soon, and horrifically! Nostradamus said so [in a very vague way that we are interpreting to our liking]! Let us show you the various and sundry ways it can happen!
Their version of events contain slightly less Bruce Willis, and slightly more death by a flesh-eating alien supervirus.
Yet, in a very bizarre, very twisted way, these shows make me feel better. Why? Because if we are all going to be destroyed in 25 years, then, hell, what am I so worried about? Who cares if I have exactly $43 dollars in my 401k? My ass will be too busy floating through the galaxy as space dust to retire to a condo in Boca. Credit card debt? Not so much an issue when the sun expands and engulfs the earth in a fiery wave. Alzheimer’s? I fear the massive, continent-swallowing tsunami has beaten you to the punch, my good sir.
Don’t you see? The end of the world isn’t scary, it’s freeing! It’s the perfect excuse to put this month’s electric bill payment towards a nice pair of shoes, and to go on that trip to Italy you’ve always dreamed of, and just generally act like a totally immature, irresponsible asshole. Why not? Who cares! You don’t want to be the douchebag who refuses a slice of cake for dessert only to wake up the next morning to see this:
“Dammit! And it was yellow with chocolate icing – my favorite!”
So, when you see a little ray of sunshine in the news like this uplifting little tidbit about a drug-resistant virus that is extremely easy to contract and may kill more people than AIDS will this year, don’t fret and wash your hands with Clorox! Take the rest of the day off and buy that HDTV you’ve had your eye on! If you get the virus, at least you will die having watched Golden Girls re-runs in crisp, clear detail.
I’m pretty sure that’s better than being alive, anyway.
The naysayers among you may want to fault me for placing such stock in shows aired by a network that also airs documentaries entitled “The History of the Brassiere,” but if Scientologists are allowed to believe their alien pod Xenu horseshit, I am certainly allowed to believe Nostradamus.
Of course, if he was wrong and I am forced to live out a long, natural life with no retirement fund, no condo in Boca, and not even enough money to shuffle around my own house smelling vaguely of soup…I am totally fucked.
“Oh, snap! I was just playin’! Contribute to your 401k, bitch!”
But don’t waste your time trying to convince me I’m wrong. After all, I am the girl who, in 1996, used the experience of seeing “Independence Day” to cement her decision to get a tattoo. Yes, you read that correctly. And no, I’m not kidding.
Holy shit, you guys, what if the Fresh Prince really can’t save us from an alien invasion? I seriously doubt Randy Quaid will be able to do it alone! FUCK IT: I’m getting that tattoo.
Entry filed under: And you KNOW THIS!.