If I must confess, I’m the one who stole Brady’s jersey, but can you blame me? I mean, he is THE SINGLE GREATEST QUARTERBACK of all time. He’s also so good looking. Like on a scale of 1 to 10, he’s a solid 6.25.
Oh, he won’t mind anyhow, not after he sees BEAUTIFUL NUMBER 12 framed and hung at my world-class Mar-a-Lago, right next to the portrait of yours truly fist-bumping THE WORLD’S SECOND GREATEST LEADER: my bro, Vlad. (I like to call him P-Dog, but that stays between us.)
For the record, and I’m talking to you PuffPost, I refuse to apologize for bailing at halftime. Despite widespread voter fraud, and that nasty woman’s lifelong experience and persistent love of spouting truth, I grabbed my way to sweet victory, and I knew THE SINGLE GREATEST FOOTBALL FRANCHISE in history would also rise to the occasion.
Can you honestly criticize me after that DREADFUL half-time show? First off, Lady Gaggag doesn’t even sing our national anthem!?! TOTAL DISGRACE! And what was with the weird, high-waisted getups, and all that male gyrating? Like raising children, hip-shaking should be left to the ladies.
Plus, we were almost out of chicken wings and Bud Light. Oh, excuse me, hold on a sec. I’m getting a text here from my main man, Spicer. (I like to call him Press Spice, but that stays between us.) Oh, for Christ sake, Busch, PLAYING POLITICS TO MAKE A BUCK! Promoting your German heritage. SHAMEFUL! This is the UNITED STATES OF AMERICANS, and if you speak Spanish, auf wiedersehen. Go back to DEUTSCHLAND! Your beer is SCHEISSE and your cars are TOTAL CRAP, too!
So ... wait, let me revise and start fresh. After all, I was given alternative facts.
... I went on a wing and Leine run. Folks, I’ve gotta tell you, both are delicious with lemon. No joke. Don’t be afraid to try a little fruit wedge in the suds. I promise it won’t turn you liberal or gay.
In conclusion: Boycott Budweiser (beer made by immigrants sucks).
And while you’re at it, boycott Lady Gaga (definitely a man dressed as a woman and music sucks), Starbucks (anti-Christian coffee sucks), Macy’s (cheap linens made in CHYNA suck), Mexico (avocados healthy and suck), Oreos (cookies are black and white and suck), and trickle-down economics (gotcha)!
Just in case you forget who to and not to boycott, here is a handy cheat sheet:
Budweiser: [NEIN]
Lady Gaga: [LIKE NOOOO FRIGGIN’ WAY]
Starbucks: [SATAN SAYS YES]
Macy’s: [ONLY LOSERS SHOP IN DEPARTMENT STORES]
Mexico: [NUNCA]
Oreos: [PREFERRED SNACK OF TERRORISTS]
Trickle-Down Economics: [YES! IT’S RAINING GREENBACKS!]
Make America Great Again (as slogan and lifestyle): [#WINNING!]
#
My sincerest apologies for that rather HUGE introduction. I must have been inspired by that historic Super Bowl performance, and what I mean by historic performance is Lady Gaga’s half-time show. Pitch goddamn perfect, if you ask me. (I heard there was some decent football played around it, too.)
Or perhaps it was the anticipation of a brand new week of sneaking in a little Daytime TV?
Not that I would know how many times Jack Abbott has been married or Victor Newman has died. Soap operas are totally lame, right? Like the worst thing in the world to ever own tuning into, save for maybe Joanie Loves Chachi. (Might, however, explain what the Sam Fuck happened to Scott Baio.)
It’s quite possible my IQ has suffered from the decades I’ve watched The Young & The Restless, but I only harbor a dash of shame and a sprinkle of regret. Laying myself bare here, I’ve even shed actual tears watching this shitshow, and by shitshow, I mean highbrow, highly controversial, fake-ass drama.
And yes, I admitted decades.
Writing this, I realize I’ve watched Y & R on and off since late middle/early high school. Forty-four minus 14 equals 30-ish, give or take. Forgive me again, for I was never all that astute at math. (Probably because I know how many times Jack Abbott has been married and Victor Newman has died.)
I started watching soaps with my brother after school, kept on eye on them throughout my college years with friends I’m blessed to keep in touch with to this day, and continued to tune in whenever I could following joining the post-graduate workforce. When I began working out of my house as freelancer, my regular viewing began in earnest. That said, I only sometimes do so in sweatpants and never whilst ironing my husband’s shirts.
Now don’t let me mislead you. I promise my obsession is somewhat under control. I do not DVR Y & R. Life does (and probably should) sometimes block the screen. Episodes will sail by without my loyal viewership, and that, my friends, is the pure magic of it. You can skip days, weeks or months of the show, circle back, and easily grasp the gist of the what’s what and who’s who. The plot lines move at the speed of tortoise mollusks, and the actors ply themselves with so much Botox and collagen, they never age.
Speaking of the actors, I can’t help but admire them. If I wasn’t a writer, terrified of public displays of any kind and a connoisseur of eating and drinking basically everything, that would be my goal job. The shit you get to say, wear and do, well, all of that is pretty fantastic, and I’m betting the pay isn’t half bad either. (Some of the actors aren’t half bad at acting either. Yeah, I said it.)
Why am I a fan of Y & R anyway?
It would be a copout to say it’s just mind candy or my guilty pleasure, because I think it goes beyond that. Over the years I’ve become downright nostalgic about the show. When I watch Victor spar with Jack or Sharon steal somebody else’s baby or Ashley confess her love to her daughter’s fiancee or Adam resurrected from the dead as a different dude named Gabriel (but he had reconstructive surgery and he’s really the real Adam), I’m that much closer to my brother, my college roommates, and perhaps most of all, my grandmother who left this earth going on 9 years ago.
At least once I week I used to bring my grandma lunch, and we’d watch and dish on the show together. I miss her strength, her sharp tongue, her legendary potato salad, and yes, I miss that indulgent and frivolous ritual she and I shared.
In my heart I feel she’s still watching with me.
No comments:
Post a Comment