Lost in tv hell. episode 1 I'm trying to call Phoenix, misdial and get Fiji. So I ask the guy for instant credit. He says you can't get instant credit. I said I always did when I had AT&T. He says, "You're not dealing with AT&T. Well I am now. I am now. I am now. So this branch manager guy calls me up from one of these other long-distance carriers, right? And he says he heard about my problems with the Phoenix-Fiji thing and that he was very very sorry and would I please reconsider using his company? He says he'll cut the basic rate in half, give me free pay-cable for a month and even set up a date for me with his nubile young daughter. I say, "Wow, AT&T never gave me so much." He says, "You're not. . . So a little while later the guy from AT&T calls and says he heard about my "defection from the flock." He says his kid's gotta eat too and then he starts bawling into the phone--blubbering just like a woman. So as much as I want to nail this one guy's daughter, I say sure, hook me back up. No sooner does the AT&T guy hang up but the other guy calls me back and this time he's crying. And he brings his daughter to the phone and she's crying too. And then he faxes me this naked picture of her, but like, the good parts are all covered up. And she's something real sweet, too, something like I ain't seen in a while. I say I'm still not sure and so I hear him start fiddling with something and his daughter starts screaming, "No daddy, don't kneel on the tatami mats, don't part your robe, don't. . ." I hear the guy say, "You be my second, daughter; fetch the katana." "No daddy, please daddy. . ." So now this guy is going to commit ritual suicide, and like it's gonna be on my head or something, when the call waiting goes off. So I yank the phone out of the wall, and fashion it into a noose when there's a knock at the door . . . Lost in tv hell. episode 2 So this guy calls from MCI, right? Now by this time I'm getting pretty damned tired of these calls. I found out earlier today that my kid broke her arm on the playground yesterday, but they couldn't get through because I was on the phone all day with AT&T, SPRINT, and MCI. So I went down there and asked her principal why they couldn't tell the operator to cut through, since it was an emergency, and that bitch just gave me one of her best 'Don't you think we tried that, don't you think this has ever happened before, you're the negligent parent not me not me, my kid's at Harvard--so just fuck you' looks and told me that the phone people had blocked out the emergency lines, so the operator couldn't cut through. All right, I think, time to play hard ball. So I say to the guy from MCI, can he put it in writing? He calls my bluff and says, sure, that his lawyers are already drawing up the paperwork. All right, I say, does MCI come with 16-bit Turbo Grafix, the best animation, and a wide selection of the hottest games out there? The guy's breathing changed and I knew I had him. "No," he said, "I don't think it does. But Nintendo doesn't even do that." "Well," I said. "Genesis does." Genesis does. Genesis does. So now I have no long-distance service at all and that suits me just fine. I mean, c'mon, two alimony checks a month, and my second wife's lawyer makes me pay child support, which I consider pretty shrewd, seeing as the broken-arm little playground slut lives with me, eats my food, and threatens me with child- molestation charges if I step out of line. The other day she shows me these anatomically-correct dolls she has, just like the ones the police lady will use when she asks the kid where daddy touched her. And then she goes, "Right here, where Billy touched me, and right here, where everyone touched me, and right here. . ." "All right, all right, you can have the bike. Christ. Get me a beer already, willya?" Lost in tv hell. episode 3 So I'm trying to call overseas and I think I've dialed correctly but-- "Womonanakapeasie." So I ask the operator for an international number. And she says she can't give me an international number, that she 'ain't no nukular physicist.'" I say, "Well, AT&T. . ." She says, "Fuck you" and hangs up. And then I'm walking down the street with that asswipe frpm the Encyclopedia Brittanica commercial and he says, "There you are in there stark white offices, and in front of you are those stark white flakes." "Dandruff? But I don't have--" "No, moron. Cocaine. Nose candy. Bolivian marching powder." We both look at each other, point our fingers, smile and say "Bingo." So I'm at lunch with some guy who says, "Well, didn't you ever think you had been somewhere before?" "Well sure, I mean, that's not uncomm--" Then he puts his hand on my knee, looks me in my eye and asks, "In another life?" "All right, back off." The waiter smiles and says, "I-I see you two are okay. I'll come back in a minute." The guy gives my thigh a squeeze. "In a parallel dimension?" For some reason I am now fascinated. "Read about how little mole-men dug a tunnel from Afghanistan through to Jacksonville, Florida, just to prove it could be done." "Did that happen?" The man takes my head in his hands and kisses me on my forehead. "Read the book. Read about how Benito Mussolini once beat Omar Sharif at a bridge tournament while partnered with a meatball stromboli." "Did that--" I felt my shirt being pulled out of my pants. Read the--" "Read about how Sir Clifford Cameron-Sweeney and his youthful bride Marie spent their wedding night in King Tut's tomb and how she left him the next morning for making her do weird stuff with a rotting corpse." "Did that happen?" "No." "Read about the last voyage of Cleopatra's barge, and how it ended up in the hands of a Volvo dealer in White Plains." "Is that true?" "What are you--a moron?! Now, you want to go on a camping holiday with me?" The man clasped his hands together and jumped up and down with girlish glee. "He asked me! He asked me!" So I'm stuck in an elevator with that kid from the Encyclopedia Brittanica commercial. And I don't know what the hell he ate for lunch, but it must have been bad and it must have been refried. So the kid says, "Hey, did I tell you I did an entire report for school by copying verbatim the Brittanica article on human excrement?" "Did you get an A?" I ask, feigning interest in hopes of tasting a bit of his tight, white-- "Got a F." "How come?" "Wrong class. I forgot we don't do reports in calc." "Stoned, huh?" "Out of my fucking mind. But I did real good on my next one." "English class, huh?" "Wow, you must be like psychic." I put my hand on the ruffian's shoulder, kinda digging his tousled blond mane. "Well don't you think we all are? For example, a mother in California puts her hand on a hot stove. At the exact same instant, her long-lost twin sister takes a dump in her pants during the original Friday the Thirteenth movie." "That doesn't prove anything. Which part?" "The scene where she opens up the fridge and find the decapitated head." "You fucking bullshitter. That was part two." "So it was. Well listen kid, do you like girls?" "I think I've made that abundantly clear." "Huh?" "Sorry. That's my best line. Got to say it." "Hey kid, do you know what flatulent means?" "Sure. Remember that excrement report I did--" "All right. Hey kid, you know there are some things a woman will never know about a man." The kid pressed the button for his floor over and over. "Goddammed elevator." "Men have a violence in them that is completely foreign to a woman. Hey kid, do you have anything leather?" "Just a skirt." "Well put it on." Lost in tv hell. episode 4 So I'm in The Foot Locker trying to buy a pair of Reebok's when one of the shoes in front of me starts to ring. So I think, "Oh fuck. Why didn't I go to Herman's, why. . ." and I look around for the hidden camera, cleverly disguised as a telescope set up at the entrance to the store. "Hey," I think to myself, because thinking to anyone else is a big waste of time, "Hey, don't be nervous. Show no fear and they'll go away. They just want attention." But no, my stupid fucking brother has to pick the phone up and put it to his ear and flash some stupid smile. Then he says, "Hello. Puma." The rocket scientist at the other end says, "Sorry, I must have the wrong sneaker." And he marveled at his witticism. My brother stands up, looks at the 'telescope', and grabs his nuts, redeeming himself, but just barely. Then some dopey chick comes along, takes the phone from my brother and says, "Wow, now I know just what to get my boyfriend, like ohmigod, it's perfect. . ." So I shot her. So the kid from the Encyclopedia Brittanica commercial shows up and this older guy in a raincoat comes over, tousles his hair, and says, "Well Timmy, we've got a lot of talking to do. Let's step into this back room over here. We walked over and put our ears to the door when all of a sudden the kid blurts out, "Wow, I always wondered where my prostate was." The older guy took time out from his work, looked up at Timmy, sighed, and said, "Yes Timmy, you can laugh about it now, but when you're my age that juicy little prostate of yours will enlarge, necessitating some painful surgery, and then you'll cry when you pee, speaking of which, how good's your aim?" "All right, but I don't have to go right now." The old man let out this weird laugh. "You will," he said, pressing on the boy's bladder with his left palm while pulling out a warm Meister Brau from under his raincoat with his right. Well, we had all heard enough, so we backed away from the door. My brother and I just wanted to leave, which wasn't easy, since the police had cordoned off the area and were detaining witnesses to the shooting of the bimbette on the sneaker-phone. So I threw open the door to the back room which caused Timmy to lose his aim and hit the old dude right in the eye with a noxious yellow jetstream. The man howled, the police drew their weapons, and we escaped in the confusion. So we're at this bar when this moron with a bag full of videotapes comes over and joins us. So my brother gives me one of these 'Christ, not another kiddie-porn broker' looks. But it's worse, much worse. The guy asks, "Who's the greatest fighter of all time?" I just look into my glass, trying not to think about all that time I spent in Haiti. The guy starts in again. "C'mon, you look like sports fans. Who's the greatest fighter of all time?" I say, "Barkeep, another double vodka martini." "Same as before, he asks, smiling, "no olive, no vermouth? "Bingo." So my brother feels like fucking with this guy. He says, seeing quite clearly the Muhammed Ali videotape in the guy's bag, "Well, pound for pound, there's really no question." The guy with the tapes nods. "I mean the moves, the feet, the street fighting ability. I'm talking raw, savage punching power." The guy says, "Yeah, well. . ." "Well what, Roberto Duran. No doubt about it." I down the vodka and say, "But Marciano did retire undefeated." "Only because he never fought Duran." "Bullshit. Apples and oranges. You can't compare a pencil- necked middleweight to an undefeated heavyweight." "I can do what the fuck I want." "Besides, I mean, Duran, Hearns, Leonard. Everyone knows they're all pussies who would rather slap-fight each other for seven figures in East Bumfuck, New Jersey than do one round with Michael Spinks, the only real fighter in the division." "Michael Spinks? Are you nuts?" So the guy with the tapes says, "Excuse me, aren't you two forgetting someone?" My brother and I look at each other and I say, "Of course, I mean pound for pound, no one could touch Bruce Lee. My brother says, "Bullshit. Jean Claude Van Damme is not only bigger and better-looking, but he can outact Bruce Lee any day of the week." "Don't believe the hype, dude. I guarantee you that Bruce Lee, Worf and George the Animal Steele could take any three guys you name any day of the week." "First of all, Steven Segal could take Bruce Lee simply because he spent time in Japan. He knows the Oriental mind. And Worf. Don't give me no fucking Worf. Tasha Yar could kick Worf's Klingon butt with one of her long, tanned, supple legs tied behind her back in a most unpleasant manner." We saw the videotape guy drawing his forefinger across his throat to signal "Cut" to his cameraman and we knew we had him. But he kept on. "Haven't you guys ever heard of Muhammed Ali?" My brother's face went blank and he replied, "Who?" I shook my head. "Sorry, doesn't ring a bell. Hey, got any wacky bloopers? Like when L.T. ended Theisman's career, or that punch Rudy Tomjonavich took that nearly killed him." I ordered a fifth of grain and my brother said, "Don't we already have that tape, you know, 'Career-ending bloops, bleeps, foul-ups, smash-ups, and blunders.' You know, the one with all that footage from the Munich Olympics." I started in on the grain and said, "Isn't that the one with that close-up of Olga--" My brother nodded. "--Korbut's snatch when she missed a front walkover on the beam." The video guy asked, "Hey, where'd you get this tape anyway?" I asked the bartender if he had anything stronger than 200 proof. He handed me a Baretta, which I promptly unloaded into the video guy. Man, I hate Mondays. Lost in tv hell. episode 5 So I'm bored and looking for someone to mess with. My brother says, "Let's call that Citibank VISA 800 number." This seems pretty juvenile so we do it. I tell them I was on vacation in West Philly and my wallet was stolen. The girl says, "I'm sorry, but you don't have an account with us." I say, "I know I don't, but the girl on the commercial was so helpful and cheery that I just--" She says, "You watch too much T.V., asswipe," and hangs up. So I've got this little scam going where I float one bad check after another and then back them up with this stolen VISA card I found in West Philly. Only, the card is almost maxed out because I've already bounced about five grand worth of these checks. So I call Citibank VISA and I say: "Listen, my mom really needs this here kidney. . ." "Say no more, Mr. Goode, I'll raise your credit limit to ten thousand dollars." "But that won't cover the bone marrow for my boy," I say, slowly beginning to sob. She says, "My sister had leukemia. . ." starting to sob also. Now I knew I had her. I mumble something through my tears and say, ". . .watching your own flesh and blood waste away like that. . ." She says, "It won't let me raise it past ten thousand." Luckily, I just happen to have some familiarity with these types of systems. I say, "Do you know you boss's password?" She says, "Yes, but why--" "Please, just log in as your boss and bring up my account." She does, and I say, "Now, is there somewhere on the screen that it mentions the word 'Gold'?" She says, "Yes, right here in the corner, it says 'Status', and underneath it says 'Gold', 'Platinum', and 'Corporate'. And each one has a little box next to it." "Okay, move down there and hit return in the boxes that say 'Platinum' and 'Corporate.' She does and I say, "Now move up to the credit limit part and type in all 9's." "Okay. My boss will be back soon. I hope your boy gets better. And thank you for using VISA." I say, "Not just any VISA." "Citibank VISA." "Bingo." So my brother and I are in line at a MAC machine, and we're stuck behind one of these guys that is pressing every single button. I mean, I think this guy is Donald Trump, and he's doing a hostile takeover by ATM. We're getting pretty pissed, so my brother starts shaking and says, "Jeez, I just wanted to get my insulin money. You got maybe a candy bar or something?" The guy, who incidentally is munching on a Snicker's bar, continues his asinine takeover attempt, so my brother starts mumbling, "...blood sugar. . .bottoming out. . .think I'll lay down for a while." So this speeds the guy right yup, who apparently was doing some creative debt re-financing to rebuild his crumbling empire. He throws his Snicker's wrapper on the ground and my brother dives on it, furiously licking the inside clean. Before Donnie leaves I say, "I just hope you aren't planning on breaking that company up and selling off the assets." And he says, "Why the Hell not? Scott Paper is extremely diversified, and floating in cash at the moment." I just laugh, hinting at some hidden knowledge of the company, none of which I have. "All right, spit it out, what are you saying? There's a lot of money on the line here." Seeing that my the doofus has left his MAC card in the machine, I try to get him to leave. "Of course," I say, "you must be right. By the way, I used to fuck Marla Maples in high school. She ever get rid of that nasty case of--" "All right, I've heard just about enough." he says, and storms away. My brother's already at the MAC console, refinancing Donnie's empire through a series of short-term high-interest loans, underwritten by the Sony and Matsushita corporations. He looks back at me over his shoulder and says, "The public outrage over all that money going to Japan should take care of this whole Trump thing, once and for all." I lean over, hit a few buttons, and all of a sudden the entire deal hinges on the price of silver going to some six thousand dollars an ounce. And my brother says, "Hey, you got any of those bad checks on you?" Of course I did, so we deposited a few into Donnie's account, along with a Polaroid picture my brother had featuring a troup of Cub Scouts, a young Hindu boy, a six-pack of jolt and a garden weasel. I looked at the picture and shook my head. "Man, they've reaaly upped the requirements for a Merit badge. Think these kids'll make Eagle Scout?" "Oh yeah, spread Ea--" "That's enough. Where'd you get this picture anyway?" "Found it." "Oh. OK" Best not to know, I figured. So we left, but not before we invested some more of Donnie's money into some creaky corporate paper and snapper soup futures. Then, we withdrew some cash and headed into town. If only he'd given up that Snicker's bar. LOST IN TV HELL. EPISODE 6 So the guys say to me, "Annie, is it true that you can pop a kernel of popcorn just by holding it between your thighs and thinking about soccer players?" I say, "This is an unusual question for an AA meeting but you've got my attention. Actually, I can not only pop the kernel but can douse it with melted--" "We've heard more than enough, Annie. Thank you." So the guys say to me, "Annie is it true that if I stick my finger into your bellybutton you'll giggle and squirm like a schoolgirl?" I say, "This is an unusual question but since I'm not wearing any underwear, I'll ignore it." So I'm walking down the street when this huge, disembodied head appears before me and in this deep, bellowing voice says, "These are the Halls of Medicine." I say, "Wrong, asswipe, this is Locust Walk. Now get out of my way; I'm just not in the mood." But he says it again. "These are the Halls of Medicine. I look around. Apparently no one sees this stupid thing but me. Great, I think, Jimmy Stewart gets Harvey, a cuddly, lovable bunny and I get this 30-foot tall turban-wearing asshole with a sinus problem. Well, I'm just not having it. I mean, my grandfather bought Polaroid at eight and a half. I don't need this shit. So I sneak off the walk and catch a cab on Walnut Street. The guy says, "Where to?" and I say, "Just drive, I'll let you know when we're they're." So the driver takes this great big nasty, drool-slimed cigar out of his mouth, puts it in his pocket, hits the gas and turns around to face me. It's Buster Fucking Poindexter. And he wants his fare 'up front'. I'm like, I don't think so, so as we pass a Pizza Hut I open the door and jump out, trying to flip him the bird at the same time. I go in to the Pizza Hut and there's that girl on the phone with this infuriating knowitall grin on her face. And I hear her say, "Regular price, four bucks, four bucks, half a million bucks, four bucks." So I'm like, no fucking way. I walk around towards the rest rooms, get on a pay phone and, still in earshot of the girl, call up the Pizza Hut. "All right," I say, "how much for two Super Supremes, a Beta Version of "Cool as Ice", and another Super Supreme?" "Regular price, four bucks, six cents, four bucks." Damn, she IS good. "All right, how much for three Super Supremes, you to get down on your knees and work it like a champ, and two more Super Supremes for afterwards, cause I'll be hungry." Without missing a beat, she says, "Thirty bucks, and the pie's on me." I find this ambiguous, so I hang up, and go home and meet my brother, who's bored and looking to get out. He suggests we go to our favorite local bar. I remind him of the ugly Sports Illustrated incident of a few weeks ago. He says he's got a foolproof plan, so we go. So we're at the bar and Ed the bartender is dripping butane from a refill canister into a shot glass for me--because he's a friend. I put my cigarette out, do the shot, wipe the blood from my ears, and he pours another. My brother's drinking mugs of Bacardi 151, cause like, he's a lightweight. And sure enough, in walks the Sports Illustrated guy and his camera crew, this time with some stupid "I'll get you guys *this* time" look on his face. And he pulls up a seat and Ed asks him what he wants and he looks at my shot and says, "What he's having, only with a dash of Tabasco (only he doesn't say Tabasco, he says Tabasky, trying to be colloquial, which causes my brother to begin fingering the business end of the linoleum knife he carries with him at all times, just in case someone says Tabasky.) I clear my throat, hoping my brother will recall that ugly incident in Albany with the Jesuit priest who called him 'homey' once too often. Well, my brother got the hint and put the knife away. Then something strange happened. This babe at the bar started making goo-goo eyes at the videotape moron. I did my shot and looked at my brother, who had begun caressing his knife again. Well, the chick walked over to the jukebox, and the videotape guy got up and gave my brother a "Watch a pro in action, son" look, at which point I had to hold my brother's wrist to stop him from carving this guy into spaghetti-splattered stucco. Well, the guy walked over to the jukebox and started talking to the babe, this knockout brunette with a tight, squirmy body that you just know could to the French Butterfly trick without even warming up first. So my brother just looks into his drink and shakes his head. Ed says, "I've seen it happen hundred times. Some moron walks in with a camera crew and the chicks fall all over him." So my brother says, "Well, not this time," and gets up and goes to the jukebox, where the moron and the chick are looking for some tunes to play. He puts in his dollar and my brother tries to distract the girl. This he does by putting his hand in the small of the brunette's back. She, mistaking him for part of the moron's film crew, slides it down to her ass, at which point he starts walking the back of her skirt up. By this time I have already picked the guy's first selection on the jukebox for him--"Rough Boys" by Pete "Huh?" Townshend. Before it comes on, the guy makes his selections and kicks the machine, saying "Hey, you're supposed to get three for a buck. I want my third." Ed doesn't go for this sort of behavior and sets up an old- fashioned gattling gun on the bar, the kind with long ribbons of bullets you have to feed into it. He says, "Hey, back off, asswipe," and starts adjusting the sights. The video guy throws his hands up and says, "Take it easy.I--I just--I--" The babe takes the moron by his arm and coos into his ear, "Let's sit down and relax. Did I tell you I'm a dancer?" My brother is now behind the bar, cranking up the volume on the jukebox, which we can hear setting itself up to play the moron's first selection. And then it's, "Rough boys, out on the streets. . ." And the video guy, instead of playing it off, starts singing along, looking straight at the babe and saying, "I want to bite and kiss you." Well, a couple guys from the back of the bar who thought the moron was singing to them walk over and sit down at his table. My brother laughs, because they're both wearing leather everything and one of the guys has an airbrushed picture on the back of Pete Townshend boning Keith Moon, kind of a bad visual pun. So the babe gets up and the guy starts to get up, but one of the leather guys puts his hand on the moron's thigh and sits him back down. The leather guy says, "Don't be ashamed of what you are. As long as you're true to yourself." My brother says to the moron's camera crew, "Hey, you guys want a raise? Keep your camera on your boss's table over there." And now I guess maybe Tuesdays aren't so bad after all. RICHH