1) My favorite thing about yesterday’s National Spelling Bee (besides the kid falling, the psycho parents, and the dozens and dozens of nerds damned to life-long virginity) is how the kids always ask for alternate definitions, as if words like “hypsometer”, “aquarellist”, and “quinquevir” would have much simpler alternate definitions.

MC: “Your word is ‘derailleur.’”
Kid: “Can I have the definition please?”
MC: “‘A device for shifting gears on a bicycle by moving the chain between sprocket wheels of different sizes.’”
Kid: “Is there an alternate definition?”
MC: “Yes – ‘happiness.’”

Come on – there’s no alternate definition. Just spell the fucking word already before your crazy dad has a fucking coronary.

2) There’s a new reality show coming out on PBS called “Colonial House”, in which participants live under the same harsh conditions that the original colonists lived through in 1628.

My question is: isn’t this only slightly different than the concept parodied on “The Simpsons”? It was an episode in which the family goes on a reality show and lives life like they did in (I believe) the 18th century.

So this is what reality tv has come to. In the mad dash to get aboard the craze, PBS is basing a whole series about something that was lampooned on “The Simpsons” three years ago. Sheesh.

3) Have you seen any of the ads for “Soul Plane” (you can see them at www.soulplane.com)? Tom Arnold is in this movie, along with Kevin Hart, DL Hughley, Method Man, Mo’Nique and Snoop Dogg. If you like closely enough at the advertisements, you can see a single tear rolling down his cheek. Not that Tom Arnold was ever a great actor, but what a rough time he’s had: married to Roseanne, Hollywood laughing stock, co-host of a shitty sports show, and now starring as the token white guy in “Soul Plane.”

I’ve often said that I would do anything (treason, infanticide, deal with Satan, etc) to be famous, but if it’s Tom Arnold-famous, well, no thanks.

[Have a good weekend, and remember: don't wear a condom - they take away all the feeling (not that I would remember)]

On my I-Pod, I have Rockapella, the a capella group who did exquisite work on “Carmen San Diego”, singing the Gummi Bears Theme Song.

[bear with me on this]

I have written before about my distaste for a capella music (see 3/11), but every time I hear this song come on my I-Pod, I immediately get happy. I picture a school gymnasium or auditorium, filled with proud parents for a school talent show. I picture my dad, he of tattoos and muscles and moustache and motorcycles, sitting in the audience with my mom. Then I picture me coming out with my a capella group, proudly singing the lead on the Gummi Bears Theme Song. My dad begins to weep, realizing that somewhere along the line he has failed, and failed miserably, and now his son is on stage signing a song in five-part harmony about cartoon bears with a bunch of nancys.

…

Ok, I just read that over, and it’s probably not funny to you. Like, not at all.

But that’s not the point. The point is that I think a capella music sucks. Therefore, my son will love a capella music, and perform with his very own nancy friends [isn't "nancy" a great word?]

Long ago I realized that when or if I have children, they will be all sorts of messed up. This is because I have thus far lived a less than spectacular life, filled with jokes about: a) retards; b) cripples; c) the homeless; and d) the really, really retarded.

Therefore, I will have four children, and all of them will be screwed up in one way or another, and will cause me great distress all my life.

- One boy will be retarded. And not like a little bit, but astonishingly retard.

Me: “So, you’re telling me that my son is retarded?”
Doctor 1: “Dude, he is real fucked up.”
Doctor 2: “Like, the most retarded we’ve ever seen.”
Me: “Fuck.”
Doctor 1: “You got that right.”
Doctor 2: “Let me put it this way: last week we had a dog in here that had been beaten up by a gang of youths. That dog, even after it had been beaten up, still scored better than your son.”
Doctor 1: “And those kids fucked that dog up.”
Me: “What kind of dog was it?”
Doctor 2: “It was a bulldog.”
Me: “Damn it – those dogs aren’t even smart.”
Doctor 1: “Nope.”

- One boy will be a nancy and love a capella.

Me: “Son, why don’t we go to a ball game?”
Son: “No dad, I want to watch ‘Grease’ again.”
Me: “Damn it, you watch ‘Grease’ every damn day.”
Son: [starting to cry] “Why can’t you even try to understand me?”
Me: “Fuck.”
Son: “There’s only one person who understands me: Andrew Lloyd Webber! I wish he was my dad!”
Me: “Well, unfortunately for us both, I’m your dad.”
Son: “I’m going over to Felix’s house! His dads are cool!”

- One girl will be drop-dead gorgeous, and will be in the sex industry in one way or another.

[Scene: Me and two co-workers, drinking our troubles away at a bar, watching TV when a commercial for "Girls Gone Wild" comes on]
Me: “Oh, I love these commercials – just what the doctor ordered!”
Friend 1: “Yeah, all those young, nubile girls.”
Friend 2: “Hey, wait a minute – Jay, isn’t that your little girl?”
Me: “What?”
Friend 2: “Holy shit! It is! That’s Suzie!”
Me: “Fuck.”
Friend 1: “God DAMN – look at her move!”
Friend 2: “Is that Prince that she’s grinding on? Wow!”
Friend 1: “It’s Prince alright. Prince and the entire University of North Carolina basketball team!”

- One girl will be a hippie and love jam bands and drugs.

Me: “Clara, it’s 3 in the morning, the concert was over at 11. Where have you been?”
Daughter: [all fucked up, smelling of patchouli oil] “Dad, language was invented so people could lie.”
Me: “What the hell does that mean?”
Daughter: “It’s beyond all of us. All of us, but not the stars.”
Me: “Fuck.”
Daughter: [singing] “‘Whatever you do/take care of your shoes.’”
Me: “God, I hate your mother.”

And of course, I will live to be 131 years old, and 104 of it will be spent impotent.

God, I am going to get so fucked up this weekend.