Happy Friday, you beautiful babies, you! Come down to Rhino for Half-Price Happy Hour,
5-9pm today, then the party continues all night upstairs. Today we’re celebrating the birthday of one
Mr. Daniel James Cortese, who turns the beige age of 45 tomorrow. Happy birthday, you animal!
| Remember me? Yeah, probably not. |
Some of you will remember Dan Cortese from his
years as an MTV video disc jockey and host of MTV Sports, from back when MTV
used to play music. Some of you will
remember him, as Wikipedia informs me, of his recurring role in Melrose Place
(and y’all pricks can choke on some oblong produce). And some of you will remember him from his spectacular
cameo as Elaine’s mimbo (male bimbo) boy toy, Tony. Hey dude, ja'better step off:
And then,
Anger and jealousy can no more bear to lose sight of their objects than love, Jerry.
Really, I want to thank Dan Cortese for reminding
us about this inescapable fact of the human condition: morons are everywhere. We all agree on that, right? I mean, pro wrestling is the number one show
on cable television. Okay? They're everywhere. They come in all shapes and sizes, all colors
and creeds, ugly and beautiful alike.
Problem is, when mediocrity has fortunate bone structure, or when it’s
dapperly dressed, us humans get confused.
We can’t see the mediocrity for what it is. And friends, that’s a problem.
Why do you think news anchors are all hot chicks
now? Why do you think sports
commentators wear suits? That silliness
isn’t necessary. But our stupid monkey
brains get confused. (I’m talking to the
guys now; ladies for you, it’s the nesting – oh sweet Jesus, the handbags.) Your monkey brain doesn’t know she (or he, if Anderson Cooper is your thing) is on TV,
500 miles away, and so it sends your gullible frontal lobe these base lower-hominid
subliminal signals: Pay attention to her. If you act
interested, she might select you as a mate.
Lord.
| Or, there's that approach. |
And Charles Barkley in those polyester
three-pieces is just the best. Oh, and
John Madden, in a $2,000 suit, cramming his swollen paw into the ass end of a
Thanksgiving bird in order to precisely illustrate to the increasingly alarmed
TV audience the three layers of a turducken.
But we bring that shit on ourselves, people. Because our gut tells us that the guy in the
Alpha clothes must know what the hell he’s talking about. And we watch like the mouth-breathing
primates that we are. Hey, that’s what
we are, at least partly. Nothing against
Sir Charles or that giant heap of rotting chicken meat that is currently host to John
Madden’s brain. I’m just saying.
So that’s the problem. Good looking and well dressed morons that
trick us into paying them any attention.
(Seriously, happy birthday Cortese.)
Then, what’s the solution? How to
resolve this biogenetic predisposition towards the debasement of our species at
the hands of pretty dummies? Well, train
for it, of course. Blood, sweat and
tears. You gotta pump up your bullshit
detector. And how do you make a muscle
stronger? Challenge it. It’s like how baseball players get in a few
cuts with a weighted bat before they approach the plate – that way, their bat
speed is quicker when it’s go-time.
Well, in this case, our friend Mr. Booze is the
weight, and your bullshit detector is the bat.
If you can get yourself rip-roaring drunk, and still see clearly, still execute
perfect crane kicks on the wooden pylon when circa-1998 Pamela Anderson runs by
to save the guy pretending to drown but really he’s just crouching on a sandbar
a foot beneath the surface, then you’ll have the real world in the palm of your
hand, grasshopper.
Incidentally, I’d never suggest there’s anything
wrong with being beautiful. Just
recognize it for what it is, and what it isn’t.
Try covering your eyes next time you suspect you might be talking to a
bimbo/mimbo and see what happens. Our
monkey brains are good for something.
See you at the white marble!
Cheers!
