the ocean

In the "Punishment for Our Sins" Department

For months now the powers that be at my church (and no, I don't mean God, more like God's pudgy, troglodytic vessels here on Earth) have been harassing me to carry the gifts up to the altar during the offertory (or "halftime," as I call it). But since I typically show up at church, if at all, wearing pajamas and the stench of smoke and whoever shared my bed the night before, I hardly think myself appropriate for the honor of Body of Christ hauling. Accordingly, I have employed a number of excuses to avoid this distinction, such as A) I'm not really feeling very well today, B) I lost my legs in the war, C) no habla English, and D) I'm Lutheran.

But my sister, sadly, lacked a handy store of lies with which to befoul God's house, and therefore ended up volunteering us for some chalice chucking this past weekend. As one might expect, the Lord's Work is not easy. We had to wait in the back of the church through four ear-splitting choruses of the Old Lady Chorus singing something indistinguishable with the word "Ave" in it a lot (but not that one song from Sister Act). Then, one of the guys carrying the collection plates thrust it vigorously at me, as though I might set aside the Blood of Christ for a moment so I could bring out my wallet. Then there was a whole lot of walking and genuflecting, and it all gets kind of blurry. I think I made out with someone, but I'm not totally sure. I'm expecting excommunication papers any day now.

It Happened One Night

Last night was somewhat problematic for me.

I ended up lying on the stairs up to my apartment at 3 in the morning, telling my sister that there was "no way I was going to make it" and that, accordingly, she "should just go on without me" because she "still had so much to live for."

This led to a vigorous discussion of who had had what to drink when and with whom, and how the "beer and coke" might not take off as America's newest alcohol craze.

Eventually, I was cajoled into scaling flight one of steps, at which point I repeated this little psychodrama at the base of flight two.

At some point comic slapping became involved.

After finally reaching my apartment, I hatched a clever scheme to barricade myself in my bedroom. I am not sure if I felt I was somehow being pursued or if I simply desired to reenact the Jodi Foster classic Panic Room, but I tried to push my dresser in front of the door. Luckily, I am weak and it is an IKEA monstrosity, so these plans amounted to very little.

This morning, I woke up inexplicably wearing my scarf.

I still maintain I was drugged.

Shit Happens

– The OC. Can you believe they’re saving the girl on girl action for February sweeps? I guess that "Seth gets rubella" plotline just wasn’t sexy enough for FOX.

– Polite Conversation. It turns out graphic descriptions of the symptoms of one’s various ailments aren’t it. Next they’re going to tell me I shouldn’t painstakingly describe my bizarre sexual proclivities, either.

– Madame Bovary. If you’re looking for a thrilling account of a French agricultural exposition or a funny-stupid nineteenth century "cure" for clubfeet, look no further. Oh please, like you’re not looking for those things.

– The Apprentice 3. Is it just me, or are those "street smarts" people just a plane crash and a conch shell away from The Lord of the Flies? And I’m assuming by "book smarts" they mean "ugly," right?

– Madame Bovary on The Apprentice 3. It will be the most shocking boardroom twist of all.

– Cindy, from the Old Town Walgreens. After a week of near-daily consultation, I can tell you that girl really knows her over-the-counter meds. And boy can she fill out a smock.

Cabin Fever

It turns out staying home from work isn't nearly as much fun as you'd think. To be fair, a large part of that is probably because a lot of my time over the past few days has been spent either vomiting, praying not to vomit, or feeling somewhat relieved after having vomited. But there's also the whole issue of daytime television. Unless I want to see news, 19-year-olds dating, or old episodes of Columbo, there's really not much for me. I ended up watching a whole episode of MTV's Made today, in which a high school "tomboy" obsessed with Star Wars and sword fighting aspired to land a bit part in her school's production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. It was horrifying, and yet I couldn't look away. Literally. The illness had sapped all of my strength.

Of course, I tried to go back to work yesterday, and that was a huge failure. I ended up almost having a breakdown near the copier and taking a cab home at 2:30, praying that the unconscionably friendly driver would stop chatting about the weather long enough for me to either pass out or kill him. No such luck. Then I crawled up my stairs and changed into my flannel pants -- a sure sign of regression. I think I slept for eleven hours last night.

Anyway, the unfortunate details of my home incarceration are probably no more interesting to the world at large than they are to me, so I suppose I'll sign off. At least I only have three hours left until prime time, when TV's brightest stars come out to shine.

Sicko

Until I moved to Chicago, I swear to God I almost never got sick. Okay, there was a projectile vomiting incident in second grade that completely ruined Jill Adams's Mother's Day card and the time in fourth grade I got sent home by a litigation-fearing school nurse because I had cut my finger, but I was a pretty healthy kid. In college I can only remember one major illness -- a bout with bronchitis that had me coughing up unusual things and spending sleepless nights wishing there were something good on cable -- and I was healthy all through law school, a time when one really ought by rights to be visited with Biblical plagues. My mother refers to it as my "strong German constitution," although I remind her that the German Constitution can be readily amended by a 2/3 vote of parliament, and is therefore hardly "strong."

But concerns of European Federalism aside, I am sick. Again. Last night I had chills so bad it was all I could do to lie in my bed under twelve layers of blankets and watch Lucy Camden deliver her baby on Seventh Heaven. Then by the time Everwood came on, and Amy's dreams of being a ballerina were cruelly crushed, I was so hot I had to strip down and pray for some force to magically levitate me above the covers. I ended up giving up on the Real World/Road Rules Battle of the Sexes entirely, and simply falling into a weird dream state where I was somehow on the UN Security Council but unable to address the General Assembly due to a lack of fluids in my body. Which was too bad, because I really had some good ideas.

Today is better, by which I mean I am at least on my feet and borderline rational. But seriously, I can't keep doing this. Life is not meant to be lived under a huge pile of blankets.

TV Guide Entries that Never Were (But In My Opinion Should Have Been)

The Cosby Show. 7 PM. NBC. Cliff receives a court-ordered vasectomy; Rudy is investigated in conjunction with a series of brutal slayings on the Upper East Side.

Designing Women. 8:30 PM. CBS. Mary Jo, or maybe it’s Charlene, creates an international incident when she mistakes the French Ambassador for her childhood friend "Booger." Suzanne gains twenty pounds.

ER. 9 PM. NBC. Someone in the room expresses surprise that this show is still on the air.

Cheers. 8 PM. NBC. Sam beds twelve teenaged prostitutes and half of an all-girls school without any fear of disease or emotional repercussion; Carla is cast as Gimli the Dwarf in an amateur production of The Lord of the Rings.

The Wonderful World of Disney. 7 PM. ABC. Ask your mommy or daddy to buy you the Hunchback of Notre Dame krazy karaoke party set now!

Married With Children. 7:30 PM. FOX. Western Civilization declines.

60 Minutes. 6 PM. CBS. Ed Bradley yells at someone in a suit. Also, Andy Rooney is needlessly upset about something trivial.

The Mary Tyler Moore Show. 8 PM. CBS. Mary files a lawsuit against Lou; Rhoda dies.

The X-Files. 9 PM. FOX. Come on and just do it already!

Loose Ends

So I did end up going to the video store last night. The only problem was that, by the time I got there, their entire remaining selection consisted of about 10 copies of Troy. And about three million porn tapes, but I wasn't in the mood. By which I mean I don't rent, I buy. So anyway, Troy it was. I don't know if you're familiar with the film, but it's a magical three-hour journey through Brad Pitt's monotone, as told by the man who taught monkeys how to love again in Outbreak. If you're into oiled thighs (and who isn't!), you'll love it. Actually, it was much, much better than people had led me to believe, but short of Orlando Bloom actually crapping on the Iliad, it probably had to be.

Also, my legs still hurt. Along the back of my shins, so I now descend stairs in a dainty manner I imagine is very much akin to one Angela Lansbury. Maybe I will also develop her astounding possibility to solve relatively obvious mysteries.

And I've been meaning to plug my friend's new T-shirt company for a little while now, if only in desparate hopes of getting him to stop nagging everyone he knows to buy things. Honestly, how many "Kiss Me, I'm Punjabi" shirts do I need? There's a small chance they'll have designs created by me on there, as well, but only if "My Other Car is Oprah" somehow makes it through the legal department. Check it out at www.muckittees.com. You won't regret it. At least not with a paralyzing, life-shattering sort of regret.

White Out

God hates Chicago, or at the very least me. This is my conclusion after a day spent crisscrossing town through the driving snow, stepping into ankle-deep puddles of slush water and slipping into huge snowdrifts. I have never been so cold, wet, or uncomfortable in my life. Well, okay, I have been more uncomfortable -- that time I watched Basic Instinct with my parents comes to mind, or any number of occasions on which my grandmother has shared her views concerning the mingling of the races. But I was so cold and wet that all I could do was change into some flannel pants and a sweatshirt and catch the tail end of Aladdin on ABC. If only Robin Williams had stayed blue and animated, the world would have been a much different place.

It hasn't been all bad, I suppose. My friends and I did exchange a few drunken snowball jabs late last night, and shitty weather provides a sort of pleasant commonality for me with cab drivers -- we just smile and laugh about all those "crazy winter drivers" as we flip over a snowbank at 75 miles per hour. Plus, watching other people struggle in the snow has a certain hilarity to it. Today we watched the same Volkswagen Passat approach the same parking spot and get stuck in the same rut, wheels wildly spinning, on three different occasions. Did the driver think conditions had improved that dramatically while he circled around the block? Tragically unscientific. Then the driver made his girlfriend (or so we assume) come out with a shovel and help dig him out. I am not making this up. Now I'm no expert, but I feel as though that's a sign of some kind of trouble in the relationship.

All right, I'm going to see if I can muster up enough strength to head out to the video store. What a magical winter wonderland!

Fair Warning to Oprah

The Jay Book Club began just over 24 hours ago, and already the response has been so overwhelming that I've been forced to expand my media empire. Eventually I plan on developing a diet cookbook (mainly involving Frito-Lay Products), a WB teen drama, and a line of designer ladies' undergarments, but for now I'm limiting myself to a comprehensive workout plan. That's right, get with my program and you, too, can be remarkably average of build. Now if we could only do something about those bangs, you'd be the toast of East Peoria.

How do you do it? Well, for starters, try to develop a massive chest cold. It should be bad enough that you feel like the creature from Alien is living in there, but not bad enough to incapacitate you or make it sound like you're making espresso when you talk. Then, you should decide to try running up and down all forty flights of stairs in your office building. It's important that this be something you've never done before but somehow erroneously believe will be quite easy. Next, around floor thirty or so, you must start to think that you will die. Cough a little, wheeze a little, perhaps invoke a higher power -- have fun with it! Finally, on your way back down, you should begin to feel as though all your body parts are conspiring against you, and make a mental note to have them replaced as soon as possible. Actually collapsing and begging a 63-year-old secretary on an illicit smoke break to call the paramedics is optional.

The revolution is coming, people. Soon it will be possible to be like me in every way. And then the streets will run red with the blood of the oppressor.

The Only Book Club to Involve Actual Clubbing

I’m reading Madame Bovary right now and I’m sort of enjoying it. For one thing, the copy I got from the library has all these hilarious color illustrations with captions like "Rodolphe Boulanger was cynical in temperament and keen of intellect" (under a charcoal drawing that looks remarkably like Matthew Broderick, but with a ‘fro and a handlebar ‘stache) and "Madame Bovary pleading with her lover" (Madame Bovary’s lover has a huge top hat but no face or, apparently, pants). These really help me to visualize the story, although in my visualizations I do tend to add pants. But what I really like is the way Flaubert sets up these colorful vignettes (a schoolroom, a country wedding) and uses them to reveal things about the characters without getting all up in their heads Dr. Phil style. I’m not that far in, but as I say, it’s sort of fun.

I really think I’m going to start my own book club. It’s not going to be one of those nice ones where Oprah or Katie Couric takes you to dinner and asks you how you felt while you were skimming Toni Morrison. No, in my book club I will employ violence or the threat of violence to make people appreciate novels that I have personally found wonderful. We’ll do the violence with themes to make it fun, like exposing a housewife from Des Moines, IA, to dangerous air-borne pathogens until she understands the genius of Albert Camus’ The Plague, or threatening to release a horde of angry Southerners unless Bob from accounting learns to love Faulkner. And I can totally rag on people’s opinions, saying things like "Should we spend our first fifteen minutes today sounding out the hard words?" and "Only an idiot would compare Henry James to the Batman movies." I really think I’m going to do a lot for the printed word.

Weird Science

Always at the forefront of the scientific community, my roommate and I engaged in a vigorous debate the other day over the biological underpinnings of the X-Men. My roommate contended that mutants inherit the "mutant gene" from their parents; my claim was that "mutation" is a process by which genes are altered due to environmental forces, and thus cannot be inherited. Despite reference to several friends with backgrounds in medicine or nail care and my high school biology textbook, we were unable to find a conclusive resolution to our conflict. Pages and pages of useless filler on insulting malarkey like "evolution" and "bacteria" and not even a single sidebar on Magneto or Pyro. No wonder American students lag behind other nations in science!

On the plus side, the roommate and I were readily able to agree that Halle Berry is terrible in both movies, and that it’s not just because of the wig. There was also consensus on the topics of Patrick Stewart’s creepiness (yes) and how cool it would be to own that X-Jet (very). We split on the question of whether Wolverine is gay.

I think we can all agree the National Science Foundation needs to send some of those big grant dollars my way.

Inappropriate Ways to Observe Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Day

-- Sleeping until noon; masturbating to scrambled porn.

-- Holding family meeting to repeal all the Jim Crow laws you passed.

-- Refusing to sit in the back of your Volkswagen Minibus.

-- Wondering aloud if Dr. King was related to Don King; observing that this would be "outrageous, contageous, and civilrightslacious."

-- Organizing group boycott of the Arby's that fired you for stealing Horsey Sauce.

-- Announcing that you, too, "have a dream," but in yours you get naked with the cast of The Golden Girls.

-- Holding "candlelight vigil" outside J.Lo's house; that's really still just stalking.

-- Telling no one in particular that you really liked Amistad.

-- Marrying Liza Minnelli.

Reversals of Fortune

This weekend marked my return to the International House of Pancakes in Lakeview, the establishment I blamed, perhaps unfairly, for my unfortunate bout of parasitism. Unfortunately, IHOP and I reconciled too late for me to reap the autumnal benefit of pumpkin pancakes, but I did devour a rather nice stack of regular pancakes and some sort of omlette I was too drunk to either coherently order or afterwards fully remember. I think there was bacon in it, but I'm not 100% sure. Anyway, I've decided that if I get another "little friend" I'm naming him Irving.

Other weekend fun? Crouching on my street in the cold to reverse my front and rear license plates. Apparently, when I got the new car they put them on wrong, resulting in about a week's worth of parking tickets from my friends at the City of Chicago. See, the registration sticker is supposed to be on the REAR license plate, and if it's on the front one instead, well, no one could ever possibly be expected to figure that out. I'm sending in the checks, but I am thinking about writing the nastiest memo line you can imagine. I'm a rebel.

Found and LOST

You know what's really fun? When you're going through an illustrated medical dictionary for your social security case and you find a medical condition that looks just like you. Yes, it turns out that I have a deformity! The bad news is that it's not like an ear in the middle of my back or an extra eye, but simply elbows that join at not quite the right angle. It looks quite dangerous in the pictures, though. It's even got a name that I've forgotten. Think of it -- deformed! I'm like one of the X-Men.

And for the record, this is not like that time in the eighth grade when I thought I had pleurisy.

In non-deformity news, I am obsessed with Lost on ABC. I really never thought I would see the day when I watched ABC, unless they had a very special episode of According to Jim where Jim gets shot, but this show is maybe the most amazing thing of all time. It's about a magic island and the enchanted leprechauns and unicorns that live there. Okay, well, not yet, but give it time. No, seriously, it's filled to the brim with pretty people often not wearing as much clothing as is standard and fun plot twists like creepy French women and people not really being dead. I even recommended it to my parents, yo, because it's not too terribly smutty.

Isn't the world full of wonderful things?

Some Enchanted Evening

Yesterday was a very big day for me. First of all, I spent half an hour listening to one of my supervisors read sentences I had written to me and ask me why each one was relevant. I guess I shouldn’t have stuck so many passages from The Nancy Drew Mysteries into my legal memorandum, but at the time it seemed like such a good idea. And it turned out the lighthouse wasn’t really haunted after all. Regardless, we had a good laugh, a good cry, and a hot tub. I think we’re engaged.

Then, my friend scored some free tickets to the Lyric Opera, so I went and got good and kulchered for the evening. Of course, we had to walk to Streeterville and back to pick up the tickets, so we walked among the tuxedoed multitudes looking as though our raft had just washed up on the shores of Lake Michigan, but it was fun. The show was in English, which is practically my favorite language, and even pretty funny, assuming you like jokes about contemporary art, which everyone does. But the best part of going to the Lyric is always the people watching, and my friend and I had a great time speculating about which septuagenarians were ineffectually banging which other septuagenarians and which bored-looking middle aged women were snorting coke in the sumptuously-appointed bathrooms during intermission. Plus we kept laughing at inappropriate points during the show, which always leads to merriment. It was the feel-good opera of the year.

And on top of it all we had Taco Bell for dinner. Two gordita combo, baby. Nothing like a little artificial cheese product to start your evening off right.

True Confession Time

I have never been the greatest driver. When I was in high school, I nearly got detention for accidentally driving over the school’s front lawn in my ‘95 Neon. The only thing that saved me was the parking lot attendant’s inability to spell my cumbersome last name. I once tried to devise a system for reading while I was driving, which predictably ended in yet another lawn trip, this time thankfully my own. And when I was only sixteen, I infamously got ticketed for going over 100 in a 65 zone, thinking that shaving a few minutes off my 10-minute commute home might make up for being over 4 hours late for my curfew. The police, and there were three squad cars involved in my eventual stop, thought I was A) high and B) trying to flee the jurisdiction. There was a body cavity search involved.

All this comes to mind because last night I was nearly involved in a traffic fatality yet again. First, I went to pick a friend up from the train station, and got stuck in the middle of a cluster of cabs. Because cab drivers are always the very embodiment of even-temperedness and reason, this resulted in extended episodes of high-decibel honking and lots of helpful suggestions for body parts that might be stuck in other body parts, some of which I had admittedly never even considered. My solution to this quandary was perhaps no better, however, for I rapidly tore away from the station and turned the wrong way down a one-way street. Some flashed lights, a lot of screaming, and one huge u-turn later, I was back on my way home, and considering the purchase of a bike. But then again, my childhood Schwinn once pulled off half my skin and threw me down a hill. I guess I’ll just have to keep waiting for those Hoverboards to be real.

In Which Things of No Particular Importance Happen

Yesterday I finally decided to suck it up and clean the snow off my car. I think there was a part of me that sort of hoped it would all just miraculously melt off, but nothing doing. Where were you, Jesus? I nearly impaled myself on my scraper, and I ended up covering myself in snow from head to toe. It was hot. Remember when you were a kid and you loved winter? Yeah, me neither.

I went to the Chicago Sketch Comedy Festival this weekend. If you live in Chicago, you should check it out. It was hilarious, and I never think things are funny. Not even Louie Anderson.

When I wrote that, I had to imdb Louie Anderson to make sure he's not dead, because if he were, it would be wrong to make fun of him. He's not. So tough luck, Louie. And tough luck to me, too, because now I have Louie Anderson in my browser history. Along with all that sick ferret porn.

I also allowed myself to eat a two cheeseburgers meal at McDonald's, and it was possibly the greatest moment of my life. No, I haven't seen Super Size Me. I don't care. They could put that french fry grease directly into my veins, if they wanted.

There's a program about prostitutes on the television right now. A woman who looks an awful lot like Boy George but with a distressingly Madonnaesque fake accent (the early New Yorkish muddle, not the recent Britishlike mess) is explaining various things she does to her customers, things that I did not know were things people could ever possibly do for pleasure. Now I know I must never, ever have sex again.

Phrases Most Likely to End a Conversation

"Would you like a free copy of The Watchtower?"

"I really don't know why all six of my wives have died under mysterious circumstances. Life is weird!"

"You look just like TV's Urkel!"

"If you think about it, Hitler really had some pretty good ideas."

"Sure I'm an accountant. But my real passion is ham radio."

"I don't know why people always feel like they have to wear clothes. Free your minds, people!"

"I really, really, really love anime."

"Can I get you another hot dog, Ms. Jones-Reynolds?"

"Has anyone seen my antipsychotics? I thought I left them near the really sharp knives."

"Some people say you should stop breastfeeding after you reach puberty, but they're just afraid to truly love."

"What's your favorite episode of Becker?"

"Don't worry, I think being fat is really, really brave."

"Let's talk about teen abstinence."

In Danger of Becoming a Theme Week

I realize that this is my third telephone-related narrative in as many days, but it's totally unintentional, I swear. If I were capable of planning something like that, it would have been Degrassi Junior High: The Next Generation Week a long time ago.

But watch for my thrilling series of transcribed voicemails next month.

Anyway, the other night my mother left me a voicemail stating simply that "she had a message for me." Given the level of casualness (somehow that doesn't feel like a word, but I'm in a hurry) she employed, I figured this "message" was something along the lines of "the law school called, they want money" or "the army called, Uncle Sam wants you," and I didn't hurry to return the call. When I did call back, however, the "message" turned out to be that my grandmother was in the hospital, having had a pacemaker installed several days earlier.

Don't worry, she's okay. See how I tell you that right away? But I had to wait through about ten minutes of narrative to get that information. We started with the inability to move, the shortness of breath, the trip to the hospital... by the time we finally got to "she's okay," I was practically on the floor with worry. Well, I was driving at the time, so that's an exaggeration, but I did accidentally bump the horn. Other drivers love that.

The point is, health scares are no time for strict adherence to Freytag's Pyramid. Forget the dramatic unfolding of events and just cut to the chase.

So I called my grandma at the hospital and she actually did seem to be in good shape. She complained quite energetically about the food and the fact that Judging Amy is on TV so late at night, which I take as a good sign. She comes home today, supposedly.

I just think we need to work on information-disseminating processes within our organization, that's all.

Another Thrilling Phone-Related Narrative

Today I will be attending a dentist's appointment for a toothache I no longer have. I'm excited about this for many reasons, not the least of which is the driving horizontal snowstorm I will get to brave to keep this particular engagement. But I would be lying if I said the uselessness of the venture was not its primary appeal.

You see, a week ago I had a really bad toothache, the kind that keeps you awake late at night and makes the Selling Techniques That Work infomercial (the only thing on television at that hour) seem pleasant by comparison. So after a few days of stoic Catholic suffering, I called my dentist's office last Wednesday.

"Hi, I'm a patient of the doctor's, and I just had a checkup a few months ago, but now I'm having a really bad toothache, and I'd like to get it checked out today or tomorrow, if possible."

See how I laid out the whole situation there in the opener? I'm good.

"Okay," the receptionist responded, sounding as though I had just called in a bomb threat. "So are you a patient here?"

"Yes," I responded, bursting with patience and rectitude.

"And you want a cleaning?"

"No," I clarified. "I'm just having some pain and..."

"Hold on a second."

At this point, a two or three minute pause ensued, during which time she managed to completely forget who I was and why I was calling. After some wrangling, however, I ended up with an appointment exactly one week later. And then I pushed it too far.

"I'm just wondering," I said, "what your cancellation policy is. Because, since this appointment is a week away, I don't want to waste the doctor's time if the pain goes away in the interim."

"Um, we need one week's notice on all cancellations."

"Okay, so having just made this appointment, I should also cancel it now?"

"Oh. Do you want to?"

"No, I'm just saying..."

"Can you hold on a second?"

At this point I thanked her for her time and assured her I would be there. And I will. And since I haven't had any tooth pain since last Thursday, it should be a lot of fun.

Phonetastic Voyage

It never ceases to amaze me how people are willing to have extremely personal phone conversations at absurdly high volumes on the train in the middle of rush hour. For instance, this morning, amid a wall-to-wall mass of people on the Brown Line, I heard a gentleman take no less than four phone calls regarding an incident of domestic abuse he was alleged to have perpetrated.

"No man, I didn’t touch her, man, you know how she talks. Man, I didn’t do it," he protested.

In a later call, however, this sequence was changed.

"No man, you know, she knows me, and she knows what to say to piss me off, man. And she just started talking, man, and she pushed me too far, you know?"

I just tried to focus on my book, but Ibsen seemed even less interesting than usual.

"And with LaTonya in the hospital and all, she ought to know better than to talk shit."

Clearly, this is why Catherine Zeta-Jones is always so fervently lobbying for more anytime minutes in those ungodly T-Mobile commercials.

I have also heard people reprimand their children, discuss their bizarre sexual proclivities, and conference with their divorce attorneys all from the comfort and safety of Chicago’s public transit system. It’s not a phone booth, people; you can be heard. So maybe save that whole murder/suicide plot for your land line, okay?

The Worst of 2004

The Swan -- Because the only thing more fun than giving women radical reconstructive surgery is telling them they're still ugly afterwards.

Britney's Wedding -- Yes, it was the trashiest affair imaginable, matching track suits and all. But what really upsets me is that I wasn't invited.

Paris Hilton -- Amateur porn aside, it's just really difficult to conceive of a reason for her existence. Unless it's to be hated. All right, carry on.

Cousin Pam on The Cosby Show -- I realize it hasn't been on the air for a decade, but man, did that show start to suck once she was on it.

The Chicago Winter -- You know how the ancient Egyptians used to embalm people by pulling their brains out through their noses? Winter in Chicago is kind of like that.

The Lighting Fixtures in my Building -- I spent a week crashing around in the dark before I could figure out how to open one of them, and another one I accidentally shattered. There's a bad lightbulb changing joke in here somewhere, but chances are I've already made it.

Surviving Christmas -- Like most of America, I haven't actually seen it, but I really wanted the opportunity to make fun of Ben Affleck. Have you noticed that he's fat? That is all.

The Best of 2004

Say goodbye and shed a tear, people. It's time to move on from the year that was:

Ashlee Simpson -- I can't believe people were upset that she lip synced. Wasn't her not singing what we wanted all along?

The Pacers/Pistons Brawl -- To me, it's just not entertainment unless it ends up involving emergency medicine.

Star Jones' Wedding -- Isn't it every little girl's dream to have gastric bypass surgery and marry a gay man in a ceremony sponsored by Procter & Gamble?

The Betty Crocker Bake and Fill Pan -- I've never seen it in person, but from the infomercials it looks amazing. You can fill a cake with ice cream or a different kind of cake! From there, it's just a few short steps to world domination.

Mary Cheney -- Man, this gal's been everywhere this year! Personally, I can't wait for her clothing line to come out next fall.

Mint M&Ms -- Okay, so maybe they're not really specific to 2004, but damn are they good. I like them with ketchup.

The Passion of The Christ -- It's fun to watch a savior get beaten up for two hours.

Getting Rid of Your '95 Neon -- It turns out that air conditioning and hubcaps are quite frankly not all that overrated.

ABC -- For going from the network I could never imagine watching to the network I can't believe I sometimes watch.

William Hung -- All right, so he can't sing, sure. But you should hear his take on neo-conservatives and U.S. diplomatic and fiscal policy in the Far East.

Dawson's Creek -- It may be gone, but it's not forgotten. You get down with your bad self, Joey Potter. Get down with your bad self all night long.