Friday, May 07, 2004

My Fifteen Minutes of Lame
I’ve got a poem up at the great and powerful Utter Wonder today—make sure and check it out, it’s the “Ode to a Grecian Urn” of our generation, or so my agent says.

Wrapped Up Like an Annoying TV Show
We at WULAD were never big Friends followers, we must admit—especially since every appearance by stupid David Schwimmer, every stupid moping stupid expression, every mealy-mouthed stupid utterance, every stupid time he showed his stupid face made us want to gouge our eyeballs out with sporks and pour scalding hot pool acid into the bloody sockets—but last night’s finale was really one for the books.

I wasn’t that surprised to see Chandler get back together with Diane and sell the bar, or even to see B.J. driving his motorcycle around the giant Friends logo he’d built out of rocks in Korea while the rest of the ensemble was being carted off to prison, but it was kind of a shocker to watch the dying David Schwimmer take his mask off to reveal the pasty human face beneath his robotic exterior, and then to see the entire cast dancing around his funeral pyre in the cafeteria in San Quentin, singing “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” as his broken body was engulfed in flames. And don’t get me started on Jennifer Aniston waking up next to Bob Newhart and immediately playing “hide the salami” with him while a Red Bull-and-Stoli-chugging, camcorder-wielding Paris Hilton eggs on the sweaty, heaving paramours.

We really need the FCC to crack down on this shit.

Addendum: The Schwimmy Award, for Most Groin-Kickingly Annoying Quote in a Story About the Friends Finale, goes to:

"I'm a New Yorker, so I understand the whole lifestyle," said 33-year-old Joann Joseph. "I find it funny. I love how they all have different personalities, but they all come together."
Yeah, the New York lifestyle—huge, palatial apartments in Manhattan, witty repartee with the quirky locals, beautiful young white neighbors—Friends really had it nailed.

Take Me Out to the WULAD
Shortly after future Hall-of-Famer and occasional Alf costar Mike Piazza sent one of Jim Brower’s not-outside-enough breaking balls soaring out of the closet and over the left field fence to complete a three-game Mets sweep of the Giants, WULAD Wregular Clare-bear e-mailed to concede that his millionaires suck, compared to my millionaires.

And of course he’s right, the game that gives us such achy-breaky hearts is really just a soap opera performed by tremendously overpaid and non-loyal actors—last night’s little pre-game man-hug between Piazza and fellow very-muscley-person Barry Bonds pretty much killed any illusions of a fierce rivalry—but I have to say I nearly broke the button on my newly-installed productivity-death-knell Tivo® watching that home run, over and over again, late into the night. In August, the Mets show up at [Insert Telephone Company Name Here] Park, and we do it all again.