DAY 95: HAN SOLO

I recently saw an old red carpet interview with George Lucas right after the release of The Phantom Menace. There was something about the glaze in his eyes when he laughed that disturbed me because I could tell he didn't really believe his own laughter. It was a nervous type of laughing, the same kind as that of a landlord I once had whose wife was "visiting her sister in Vermont", right before the police dug up his cellar floor.

I have one word for you George:

KHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN!

Happy May The Fourth, bitches.

DAY 94: KOBAYASHI MARU

Now where was I....it's been so long...
Oh yeah, telling you how awesome I am. 
Wait....no...it was something to do with how less awesome everyone else is.
No, it was definitely how awesome I am. The devil's in the details.

My wife is insisting I was talking about her, but that doesn't sound right...I like to talk about me.
She is so adamant in fact that she has suggested a wager: my collection of 1977 Happy Days Dr Pepper glasses against her 1977 Escape From Death Star boardgame from Kenner. 

Ha ha! She is on! A quick review of past entries will drag her folly into the light kicking and screaming like some wrinkled pink-eyed underground albino Mole Man!

******

Damn it. She was right.
Adios Joanie and Richie. Sayonara Potsie and Ralph. Stay cool Fonz.
Curse you wrinkly Mole Man!

I can't believe I fell victim to one of the classic blunders - the most famous of which is "never get involved in a land war in Asia" - but only slightly less well-known is this: "Never go against a Czechoslovakian when the Death Star is on the line".

A pox upon your perogies and newfound poorly rendered Henry Winkler glassware! 
Cocksure Bohemian!

I had been regaling you with "The Tale Of The Night We Almost Weren't", a robust and romantic retelling of our classic first date. It was upon this historic date that I discovered that my love affair with horror movies and the puritan sweetness of my lovely bride do not mix. Like oil and vinegar. Elevators and flatulence. Religion and reality.

What had started as an exciting foray into new romance had quickly turned to tears. Don't they all. 

Should I have known that scary movies would have such an adverse reaction on such a gentle sheltered soul? Maybe, but in my defence I'm pretty self absorbed.

She left my car that night a trembling, sobbing mess. Don't they all. 

Now normally this wouldn't have bothered me as I am somewhat callous and brimming with apathy, but there was something about this girl, she was special.

Now I don't mean special in the same way that parents tell their children that they are Special and Unique like the other 2 billion Special and Unique children on the planet that have yet to make a significant contribution to merit those particular accolades. 

No, she is beautiful but doesn't act like she knows she's beautiful, preferring jeans and t-shirts over heels and tiaras. She gets bored by work and baby talk, and doesn't define herself by her salary or procreative prowess. She is sweet and kind and wishes everyone happiness. 

Plus she is quirky and klutzy as shit, which cracks me up.
She is the real deal, the single most authentic person I have ever met.

AND she had the wherewithal to eventually recognize my supreme awesomeness.

Can I get a collective Hallelujah!
Can I get my 1977 Happy Days Dr Pepper glasses back?

No? Damn it.

Fine. She was ok I guess, and I had blown it. Two weeks had gone by and I hadn't heard from her. If I didn't make a move I may never get a second chance. But if I called and pretended like nothing happened I'd look like a selfish insensitive jerk. And if I called and apologized I would be admitting guilt AND showing weakness, so that wasn't an option. It was the Kobayashi Maru: a no-win scenario. 

Obviously this type of thing didn't happen to me very often. I didn't know what to do. I was getting a complex. Who am I kidding, no I wasn't, but I don't like to lose. Kobayashi Maru be damned!

I was considering reading up on “How To Concede” when something excellent happened: she got streptococcal pharyngitis! Sweet deal! 

You see brethren, one of my many amazing qualities is that I listen, I observe, and I remember. Not because I'm some sensitive sentimental type. No sir, it’s because I can then recall and USE the information I have stored at a time advantageous to my personal gain. What's that? "Manipulation" you say. Why, yes...yes it is. But why the disdainful wrinkling of your nose when you say it, like I've farted in your car, the windows are stuck closed and the heater is on? It’s not a bad word. It’s the ability to guide and influence someone to a desired outcome, and if that desired outcome is Me, well, then its a Win-Win for everybody.

I remembered a fleeting conversation we had had about what our parents did for us when we were sick as kids. Her mother would tuck her in with a stack of Word-A-Search and Crossword puzzles, Richie Rich comic books, and a Bomb Pop, the red, white and blue popsicles. My old man would tell me to quit my whining, be a man, and walk it off. Happy Days indeed.

All I had to do was recreate these conditions, showing her I both Care and Listen, whilst subconsciously harkening her back to a time of feel-good innocence far removed from the associations of horror movies and bad dates!

I quickly went into action gathering the necessary items for strategic deployment. The Word-A-Search and Crossword books were easily procured. From my own private collection I selected a fistful of funny pages featuring the exploits of the poor little rich boy and his foil Reginald Van Dough Jr. I'd like to point out the extent of my mastery of manipulation by the added tier of subliminal messaging by selecting issues that featured the porno-named characters of Mr Woody, Nurse Jenny, Minnie Mintz, and Captain Fuzzby, and avoided any appearances by Pee-Wee Friendly.

The Bomb Pops proved slightly more challenging.

In 3 separate Mom & Pop shops, my very specific popsicle requests were met with the blank lifeless stares of 16-year-old grocery clerks who don't give a fuck and store managers who gave up giving a fuck long ago. My panic was surpassed only by my desperation. My plan hinged upon this phallic shaped delicacy. I must secure at least one solitary Bomb Pop...I MUST! 

Setting my own personal principles aside I manoeuvred Castle Greyskull into the parking lot of one of those new Mega Stores where purchasing an overpriced loaf of bread, a container of milk, and a stick of butter was revered as an Experience, and deemed an Adventure by bored housewives trying to hide their age and cellulite behind black yoga pants. I deliberately parked in one of the spots reserved for Expectant Mothers. Hey, why not...its a suggestion, not an enforceable law. Getting pregnant is a lifestyle choice not a disability, a totally normal physiological experience. If you are in such a state that you can't waddle a few extra feet you probably shouldn't be at the mall in the first place. You'll thank me later when you can fit into your yoga pants.

I ran into the store, a man determined, a man possessed. A hot sweaty mess and very much out of my element. Sensing that this particular fish was not only out of water but somewhat dangerous, the elitist staff played a practiced game of Hide n’ Go Fuck Yourself, deftly eluding, blatantly ignoring. Catching a fleeting glimpse of green apron and red acne I darted up Ethnic Foods, finding only curry and kimchi. A mirage.

I slumped against a rack of chutney and began to sob. Game over man, game over!

I felt a feather-light touch on my sweaty ankle and freaked the fuck out, my depression broken by my absolute terror that an Ethnic Tarantula had stowed away in a can of Borshch like a little hairy eight-legged Mikhail Nikolaevich Baryshnikov.

Sprawled at my feet, was a very pregnant woman, the pasty white of her complexion broken by rosy blotches and a sheen of perspiration, her breath coming in heavy ragged gasps. Her shoes had split open exposing her swollen feet and ankles, and her bloated swaying teats appeared on the verge of doing the same. A tube of Preparation H was clutched in one hand, her other reaching for me, she croaked in a parched rasp "No....parking...".

I screamed. And ran. I couldn't win! All I wanted was a fucking Bomb Pop, couldn't they see! 
It's a madhouse. A MADHOUSE! 
Grabbing random shoppers like a crazed Kevin McCarthy at the end of Invasion of the Body Snatchers I was trying to get them to understand my need, but the only words I could get my mouth to say was either BOMB, or POPS.

And that's how a simple shopping excursion ended in tears and security restraints. Don't they all.

I eventually did find a box of the red, white, and blue popsicles (they had been renamed to the much friendlier Rocket Pops), and presented them to my ailing amour. 

It did the trick. 
Using manipulation I had altered her associations. I had reprogrammed her thinking so it was possible to get the girl.

Some may say I cheated. I just changed the conditions of the situation. I should get a commendation for original thinking.  

I don't like to lose. And I don't believe in the no-win scenario.



I just stole back my Fonzie.

DAY 93: COUNT CHOCULA

At a time of the year when thoughts may turn to such pleasant things like Crucifixions and Cream Eggs, Passover and Peeps, I thought I'd share some quotes from that good book about Rising from the Dead, and the battle between Good and Evil: 

"There was one great tomb more lordly than all the rest; huge it was, and nobly proportioned." 

"There are darknesses in life and there are lights, and you are one of the lights, the light of all lights." 

"I will not let you go into the unknown alone."

“I want you to believe...to believe in things that you cannot.”

“The blood is the life!”

That's right, Bram Stoker's Dracula. 

Give a prize to the fellow in the black everything.

I don't know what I'm supposed to call things anymore. The PC douchebags are demanding society become more inclusive of others beliefs by banning Easter Egg Hunts because the reference to Easter is contributing to the decay of the moral fiber of the country. 

Not being one to really care what anybody thinks, I say the PC police can go jam a basket of Holiday Eggs up their incredibly tight self-righteous asses. So, to that end, HAPPY EASTER to those who celebrate and to those who don't but don't complain about getting the time off of work, whether you believe in Magic Bunnies, risen messiahs, or glittery vampires.

All I know is Vlad the Impaler + Easter Bunny= Bunnicula. And I think that pretty solidly puts an end to that discussion, the final nail in the coffin so to speak.

Anyway, all this jibber jabber about resurrection got me thinking about things.

Like Logan 5 and the renewal of Carrousel.

Like the dying Jean Grey surfacing from the icy depths as The Phoenix.

Like Doctor Who regenerating, but not Sylvester McCoy, more like David Tennant.

Like Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler.

Shirt of the Day begins anew. 

DAY 92: THE FLASH

Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

The past year disappeared in a blur, vanishing quicker than chivalry on prom night and the shrimp at an all-u-can-eat buffet. 

Sometimes we can get mired by the minutiae, distracted by the unnecessary drama, and lose perspective, lose sight of what's really important in life.

Don't.

That is all.

Wishing you a year of Friends and Family, Love and Laughter, Health and Happiness.

Happy New Year everyone!

DAY 91: DEPENDABLE DRIFT'S

MERRY CHRISTMAS, HAPPY HOLIDAYS, SEASONS GREETINGS, BELATED HANUKKAH, COOL YULE, SWEET ASS KWANZAA, and FESTIVUS FOR THE REST OF US!

FROM ALL OF US HERE AT "SHIRT OF THE DAY" (me and my wife), WISHING YOU LONG DAYS AND PLEASANT NIGHTS! 

BE AWESOME TO EACH OTHER, THAT WOULD JUST BE TITS.

DAY 90: REX KWON DO

Time has a way of slipping through my nimble and powerful fingers like the icing sugar I run my sweaty digits through in the bulk bins at the grocery store that you then sprinkle on your Christmas cookies. 

This is a busy time of year that I like spend in a drunken stupor to better cope with my dysfunctional relatives, and I have been remiss in keeping up with my posts.

So please accept this pathetic token gesture that was hastily slapped together last minute but I can now confidently state that I have fulfilled my festive obligation of getting you...something, albeit completely devoid of thought or sentiment.

I give you a completely outdated pop culture reference in a baggy and misshapen cotton housing. 

Take a look at what my wife is wearing, people. You think anybody wants a roundhouse kick to the face while she's wearing these bad boys? Forget about it.

Shapeless and irrelevant. 

The shirt, not my wife.

Miscreants.

DAY 89: THE HULK

(Transcript of a telephone conversation between my delicate flower of a wife and myself from earlier in the week)

Ex-ter-min-ate!...Ex-ter-min-ate!

EX-TER-MIN-ATE!...EX-TER-MIN-ATE!

(that's my ringtone)

Me: (answering my phone) Thrill me.

Wife: Can you come get me?

Me: I can't, my wife should be home any second now to make me a turkey pot pie, it's too risky!

Wife: Ha ha, very droll. I think I locked my keys in my car.

Me: Are Lou Ferrigno?!

Wife: Wha...? Am I...? What did you just say?

Me: Are Lou Ferrigno?

Wife: Am I Lou Ferrigno?! Why am I Lou Ferrigno? You're Lou Ferrigno!! 

Me: Answer me...Are Lou Ferrigno?

Wife: What are you talking about?! I think it's going to rain...

Me: It's our new thing.

Wife: What is? You understand that I'm locked out of my car, right?

Me: Whenever we were going to say "Are you for real?" instead now we say "Are Lou Ferrigno?"

Wife: (Long pause)....sigh...my coat is in the car...

Me: Say it.

Wife: Grrrr...."Are Lou Ferrigno?!"

Me: No, that's my part, I already said that. Say your part.

Wife: Fine! "I'm Lou Ferrigno!" Satisfied?! Now are you coming to get me or what?!!!!

Me: Noooo. Whenever I say "Are Lou Ferrigno?" the correct response is "You bet your Bill Bixby!"

Wife: I'm freezing, it's getting dark! This isn't funny.

Me: No it's not....It's frickin' awesome is what it is. I just thought of it now. Pretty cool, huh?

Wife: Fuck...it's starting to rain!

Me: Really? Are Lou Ferrigno?

Wife: Seriously! Hurry up!

Me: BZZZZT! Incorrect! What do you say?

Wife: A-ha! I say I just found my keys in my purse Ass Clown, and you are a dead man!

Me: Oh. I take it there will be no turkey pot pie to be had?

Wife: "Oh" is right Cock Monkey!

Me: Are you mad?

Wife: You bet your Motherfuckin' Bill Bixby!