The New Phenomenon and The Same Old Lines From Devil's Advocate

I'm going to save my energy now, because I feel I will be drifting off into Lewis Black territory as I discuss the fallout of today's incident.

I get on one of my chariots of the people, and as I am flipping through the radio dial I hear "One of my friends said it's $10,000 and another said that was a typo, it's $100,000. But there's no way he'd get a fine that big, right?"

Obviously, the topic of discussion is the massive fine Don Sterno has leveled against Van Gundy, and being a man who watched PTI on his break today help the discussion. "No, it's one hundred...thousand."

I'm sure that raised some eyebrows, as those who know me in the real world tend to know my words come in flows much like tsunamis or, say, Niagra Falls. The pause came because as I looked up to see who I should aim the comment at, it turned out there was a hot brunette. And a hot blonde, who originally asked the question. Yes, I was astute enough to know the voices were female. No, I had no idea they were hot until I looked up from the radio dial (or the button, at least--it's been giving me trouble recently). So the blonde starts getting about as irate as you can get in a conversation in a public place. She's from Houston, go figure. So we're having this state-of-the-Mavs-Rockets address going on and as we round a corner holy god. HOLY GOD. She has a rumpatumpalous. Except to say that would be like saying that Michael Jordan fellow played forward some. Three scoops of booty flakes. And she's wearing jeans, which helps. But even so. Somebody call Uncle L. Kim (her name, right) has a big ol' butt. And I'm leaving...somebody.

I mean, she looks a little young, but this is definitely worth a shot. I have, in a massive coincidence which in Hollywood would swing the thing in my favor, purchased a ticket to the big Cinco de Mayo block party I'm hitting up Thursday. I figure, I'm not going with anybody and it's worth a shot.

And right before I ask, the guardian angel on my shoulder who I assume died in the fiery soul crash of 1997 speaks up and says, "Hey. Hey. Maybe we should make sure they're 21 instead of 20."

So I ask.

Would you like to know what the answer is, dear reader? Of course.

"Next week I'm turning 18."

Remember There's Something About Mary? Remember when Stiller got his junk caught in his zipper? Remember the face you made? Remember when they showed the junk caught upside down in his zipper? Remember the face you made that time?

It's like I make that second face except a billion times worse.

And then, as if things weren't bad enough, she gives me this shit-eating grin that would be so hot if I hadn't just commited a felony act with my mind and says "Why? How old are you?"

It is only through some untapped reservoir of personal grace I shake the cobwebs free and go "22."

You shut your face, you shut it now. Now now now now NOW.

Look, I realize I'm still a young man. I realize I'm only 26, or 30 in white years. I realize the following words shouldn't come out of my mouth or onto my site except in times of extreme sarcasm.

But damn it all to blood-gutted pus-spewing hell, back when I was young, things were different. Evil was evil. Good was good. You knew where you stood growing up. Music was music, made by ugly people who actually played their own instruments. And there damn sure weren't white girls with big asses who got together with their hot friends to talk about the basketball playoffs!!!! Let alone being 17, goddamnit! In order to create that series of events in my youth I would've had to have been on some serious Weird Science/Jurassic Park shit to get it to go right. And even then something would've fallen apart since I didn't have a computer; she would've only ran on Linux or something.

In the end, I can only shake my head and cry over the lost future full of little mochas we could've had together.

Things have gone too fucking far now. As President, I demand all hot underage pieces of ass have some sort of easily identifiable signifier to say they are underage, like a red barcode on the back of their hand or something. And when they turn 18 but before they're 21, it turns to yellow. It can work like a traffic light. Ever since Britney, this place has gone down the fucking toilet, and now I'm choking on this shit.

And right before I passed out, I thought to myself...

Sadist.

Absentee landlord.

Ambient music: A Tribe Called Quest - Electric Relaxation