Leaves of Gas
So yeah, my Sunday was a waste. A tossed and turned night will do that to a guy. I barely had the energy to crack open the newspaper and check the Megabucks results, which confirmed the fact that I was never good with numbers.
I thought of tuning in that PGA golf tournament on the TV. If anything could put me to sleep faster than a generous sprinkle of potassium cyanide on my breakfast Wheaties, it’s TV golf. But I just couldn’t force myself to pull the channel trigger. I’m the one who’s always said that golf is a thing you do—which is bad enough—not watch. Same goes for painting the garage, I don’t care how good a brushstroke a guy has when it comes to slappin’ on the ol’ Dutch Boy, you are clean cotton-focking-picking nuts if you stand there and watch.
And there seems to be something a tad un-American about any sport where the less you score means the better you’ve done and the more dough you stand to make. What the heck do you think would happen to our country if we applied the competitive principle of golf to our hallowed educational system, that the less our young Einsteins scored on a test meant the better they did? Hey, you tell me.
Then I thought maybe I should get off my sorry ass and actually go out and see a movie. Cripes, I don’t think I’ve seen a motion picture in the theater since Leaving Las Vegas around 1995. I always enjoy a movie with subject matter that’s near and dear to my heart. So I checked the listings and found nothing but those nitwit summer blockbusters: suck-ass sequels to sequels of junk that shouldn’t have been slapped together in the first focking place.
I’ve wondered for years how come there never was a sequel to the Shakespeare in Love from some years back. I never saw it ’cause it sounded too much like a ladies’ picture for my taste, but for christ sakes, it won the Best Picture Oscar, but they only make one picture with Shakespeare in it? Shake’ is at least as famous as Superman and if I’m not mistaken, could sport a pair of leotards just as well as the Man of Steel. Sounds like a cash cow to me.
Just off the top of my head I can think of a whole kit and caboodle of titles that I could pitch to Hollywood knobshines that would rejuvenate the Shakespeare franchise not to mention my bank account as creative producer:
Shakespeare in Outer Space. Shakespeare in Hot Pursuit. Shakespeare In Like Flint. Shakespeare in the Clubhouse, Three Under Par. Shakespeare in Old Kentucky. Shakespeare in the Catbird Seat. Shakespeare in the Navy. Shakespeare in the Bullpen, Warming Up. Shakespeare in Cahoots. Shakespeare In Cold Blood. Shakespeare in With the In Crowd. Shakespeare in the Hall of the Mountain King. Shakespeare in Alcatraz. Shakespeare in Sales: How May I Help Thee? Shakespeare In a Silent Way. Shakespeare in Search of the Castaways. Shakespeare In Harm’s Way. Shakespeare in the Park Sunday with George. Shakespeare in an Itsy Bitsy Teenie-Weenie Yellow Dot Bikini. Shakespeare in Custody. Shakespeare In the Mood. Shakespeare In-a-Gadda-da-Vida.
Anyways, I decided against a movie last Sunday. I figured I’d have to deal with the public in some fashion, and of late I’ve discovered the public to increasingly be a bunch of focking idiots. So yeah, I tuned in the golf and imagined the stale jokes bandied about as they waited to tee off, like the following little story:
So this foursome of guys are on the first tee. As the fourth guy is smack in the middle of his backswing, a funeral procession passes by on the road that runs alongside the first tee. The guy drops his club, takes off his golf cap and places it over his heart until the line of cars recedes from sight.
The other three guys can’t believe it and are besides themselves in awe and admiration. After the round was over, one of them says to Mr. Respect-for-the-Dead, “Jeez Hank, that was an honorable thing you did back there on the first tee.” Hank says, “You mean when the funeral passed by? Yeah, thanks, but what the fock, I figured it was the least I could do, after all, I was married to her for 32 years.”
Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.