So I just finished one of the greatest tears in the history of the game “WWE Smackdown: Here Comes the Pain”. After picking up mid-season, with this iteration featuring me as Chris Jericho, I managed to beat RVD and Lesnar in a 2-on-1 impromptu street fight, defend my Intercontinental Title in a Fatal 4-Way against Stone Cold, The Rock, and Goldberg, and get Stacy Kielber as the manager of my faction.
I mention all of this at the get go to illustrate how very badly I need a life. A life however seems to cost money. Oh well, I’ve saved up a few bucks, and I’m getting the heck out of town next month.
Looks like I’ll be in NYC next weekend, for the first time in nearly five months, and two weeks after that, I’ll be flying out to Chicago, where I haven’t been since that squirm-inducing trip to Tiffany’s a few years back. Carryover vacation needs to be taken before April 1st, and by jolly, I’ll take it like R. Kelly takes high-school sophmores’ virginities.
NYC will feature the usual—me crashing at the Commander’s, most likely the glory that is Houlihan’s happy hour, and then…um, beer, I guess. I like beer. Never lets me down. Unlike the Democratic Party. As for Chicago, well, I’ll be staying with a college friend, seeing an old work friend, and meeting some of the ever-increasing “Ryan McGee Fan Club” based there. OK, the club consists of like, three people, but be that as it may, I’m going to meet at least 66% of that club while there. Also, beer will be on the menu there as well. Beer: the other, other, other white meat.
For now, though, I content myself with knowing that this Saturday, I help my mother clean out her closets. There’s a metaphor there, staring me straight in the face, and I’m just going to ignore that for the time being. Onto the return of the Friday Ramblings, after a brief detour last week. Sorta like the detour I had to take coming back through the Big Dig last week, and really, I’m gonna have a flashback any second, so let’s just move on up, to the Eastside…
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Where exactly is the line, timewise, between a “booty call” and simply “contacting someone for sex”? Is the time in question a matter of pure minutes between initiation and, um, copulation? Or does this work like cell phone plans—you know, it only applies after a certain hour of the day? I really need to know.
Best Song By A Band I Can’t Believe Hasn’t Broken Up Yet: “Numb” by Linkin Park. Seriously, they released “Meteora” last year to all the acclaim of a Freddie Prinze Jr. indie flick, yet someone this gem of a song appears nearly 6 months later. I play it roughly 120 times a day, because when you spend your day working on books about prostate cancer, you feel a little numb yourself sometimes.
I’m diggin’ how the Red Sox are deriving hair tips from the world of cinema. Pedro Martinez showed up looking like Eriq La Salle’s stunt double in “Coming to America”, and apparently Johnny Damon starred in “The Passion of the Christ”. And, of course, Nomar’s gonna spend all season doing his own version of “I’m Gonna Git You, Sucka” dedicated to the Sox brass.
Here’s my depressing thought of the week: As I’m typing all of this out, it’s more than likely that William Hung is having sex. Excuse me while I weep a little.
No men’s bathroom should be as fragrant as the one we have at work. I’m just saying. All I wanna do is perform nature’s duty, and I come out smelling like a bed of petunias. That. Ain’t. Right.
Wait a sec. Lemmee see if I’ve got this straight. Elisha Cuthbert is starring in a movie called “The Girl Next Door” as a porn star. Why am I not allowed to see this right now? Here, just take all of my income this second, Elisha.
Speaking of Cinemax-esque porn for the masses: I keep almost getting hypnotized by the “Eurotrip” trailer into buying tickets, then they show Michelle Trachtenberg’s ribs and I get snapped back to reality (oh, there goes gravity!). That’s the biggest buzzkill since…well, every scene in which Clark almost kisses Lana on “Smallville”. Seriously. My roommate and I have taken to shouting increasingly vile obscenities each week during the “Clark looking plaintively at Lana, Lana looking Neutrogenically-enchanced at Clark, alt-country music plays, then wanna get freaky, yet can’t, leaving Lana severely c@ck-teased yet again” scene. The obscenities usually take the form of “Well, you may be Superman, but you sure don’t have a SuperSac, do you, pretty boy?”
My vote for the weirdest example of how “The Passion of the Christ” has seeped into everyday life: Watching someone at my office whip themselves over the shoulder with Twizzlers as if flogging themselves with reeds. And not even in a masochistic way. Just sorta did it after raiding the snack cabinet. Maybe I work with a member of Opus Dei. Like I said, it was weird.
Is there a more backhanded compliment than, "You're not unattractive"? I mean, normally, a double negative would turn into a positive, but no way was this girl telling me I was attractive. And yes, as per usual, this is all about me. Thanks, but next time you wanna boost my spirits, just buy me a lapdance.
I’ve been reading some of the personal ads on Craiglist, mostly for fun, but hey, you never know. Wait, yes I do. Bad juju. So I’m reading, and nearly every person makes the point, it seems, of declaring how they both “love to dress up and go out” and “love to kick back at home”. Well, that’s really covering all of your bases. Next, they might tell me they like “eating food” as well as “drinking liquids”. Or that sometimes, they really dig “being awake”, and yet other times, when the mood strikes, “being asleep”. Jeez Louise..
Songs added recently into my “Dream Set List If I’m Ever in a Band”: If I’m the singer/frontman, Ryan Adam’s “World War 24”. If I could actually sing, Peter Gabriel’s “Sky Blue”. If I were a female who could sing, “My Immortal” by Evanescence. If I could play the guitar, “Slave to the Traffic Light” by Phish. If I was 117 years old and could barely talk, nevermind sing, I’d perform “Buckets of Rain” by Bob Dylan. (Yes, I’m got lists and lists of these sets, depending on genre, instrument played, and venue. And yet I can’t play any instrument and have a vocal range of 4 notes. Go figure.)
So what exactly are the odds now that Howard Stern will let Janet Jackson on his show, now that she’s known for “The Nipple That Restarted Censorship”? About as slim as an African-American male showing up at a KKK rally, right? Oh wait. Maybe not.
Various media outlets have reported that Rosie O’Donnell got hitched this week. I knew it was only a matter of time before David Guest found someone new, I suppose.
Did anyone else start humming Color Me Badd songs to themselves after the BBC accused Alastair Campbell of “sexing up” reports about WMD a few weeks ago? Oh, just me? Nevermind.
You know, I’ve been thinking about this for a couple of years, but I haven’t been able to come to any conclusions, so I might as well ask all of you. I’m a proud man, but I’m working on asking for help when needed. OK, here goes: When Bell Biv Devoe sang, “Do me, baby…”, what exactly were they talking about?
OK, I’m not done with the “Red Sox Go To The Movies” thing. We got Manny living perpetually in “The House of Sand and Fog”, seemingly. Curt Schilling should have batters “Against the Ropes”. Theo Epstein’s moves may make him “The Lord of the Rings”. And rumor has it that Pokey Reese wants to “Win A Date With Tad Hamilton!” (Sorry, gotta make fun of a guy named “Pokey”, I don’t care what his fielding percentages are.)
Speaking of baseball, I got back into a fantasy league this year. I have appropriately named my team “Ryan’s 7th Placers”, after the position I inevitably fill in an 8-person league. As inevitable as the tides, the sun rising, and Gerardo in the cast of “The Surreal Life 3”.
Speaking of “Surreal”, anybody see Tammy Faye Baker reduce Ron Jeremy to tears with her words of kindness last week? That was like watching Arafat and Sharon observing Shabbat together. Just truly bizarre.
I’m not going out on a limb, I think, when I say that “F**k It (I Don't Want You Back)” by Eamon might be the new “Worst Song to Play for the Last Dance at Your Prom”. It takes its place amongst the pantheon of “Gett Off” by Prince, “(I Hate) Everything About You” by Ugly Kid Joe, and “Three Little Maids From School Are We” by Gilbert and Sullivan.