Posts tagged funny
Is Blythe Danner always so laxed about entrance times?
It took her a good twenty second to slowly slink toward the stage.
Who was the costume inspiration for this show?
“I wondered what happened to Queen Frostine post-Candy Land—perhaps she became a fashionable lesbian art dealer???”
Who enters the stage by raising both arms?
Acceptable answers: Eva Peron, The Flying Nun, Jesus Christ.
What play involves a post-modern staircase?
Blythe isn’t so confident in Prolia(R) as to not have a banister on that tiny, tiny staircase.
Is that chandelier on set or in the house?
Blythe Danner as “The Phantom of the Opera,” except instead of a mask, she wears an enormous scarf.
Is Blythe Danner projecting enough?
She’s certainly not breathing from her diaphragm—potentially out of fear of a fracture.
What monologue could possibly use those hand signals?
My bet: “Mixed Signals: A Female Air Traffic Controller’s Life”
Is that an enormous golden Chinese screen on stage?
Because, you know, what goes best with a tiny, tiny staircase.
Why does Blythe Danner hug the stage manager in between entrances?
Oh, you’ll see…
Who is that queen Ed, and why do he and Blythe Danner hate each other?
…because of she is creating alliances against Ed. “Break a leeeeeeg…” Ed taunts, wishing her harm for his turn in the spotlight since he dresses up as Blythe every night, performing the play on a dark stage to an empty house. Blythe turns, hate in her eyes - “Thanks. Ed.” she says flatly - but what she means to say is: “If I didn’t have to descend this tiny, tiny staircase wearing this preposterously large scarf with my arms raised to tell the story of the first female air traffic controller, I would break you.”
Messaging Meatloaf: Someone at NBC was paying attention.
The best television show you need to be watching closely is NBC’s Celebrity Apprentice.
Like a Phoenix raising from the ashes, or a girl named Ashley being raised in Phoenix, Donald Trump’s monument-to-himself has been epically awe-inspiring television. Where else could I have seen washed-up Grammy winners express their real feelings about the deaf community. (Ep. 2: Dionne Warwick v. Marley Matlin) But like a gift from the television angel’s this week, NBC did one of my favorite things: an I-hope-they-don’t-notice commercial correction.
This week’s episode in which Meatload declared that he would do “Anything for Love, but I won’t spare Gary Busey from my psychotic wrath” was originally billed as the “MeatLoad Meltdown.” This sounded like a great episode and a delicious lunch or dinner item. Imagine my surprise to see days later, the same rage-filled/cheesey-potato-filled thing referred to as the “Meatloaf Breakdown.”
This is, of course, because the Japanese people are deeply invested in this year’s Celebrity Apprentice. The correction makes total sense as one event threatens real human life requiring an evacuation zone of several miles and the other is about a power plant. NBC also lovingly edited out NeNe Leaks calling Star Jones an “Atomic Bitch” and Marley Matlin joyously signing a mushroom cloud when describing her profits in this week’s challenge. (“BOOM!” she mouthed.) I’m so glad that NBC is choosing its words carefully, though it can expect the word “meltdown” to appear in numerous reviews of the upcoming disaster known as The Paul Reiser Show.
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What’s with journalists and cargo pants?
NBC’s Richard Engel stomps around arid dessert climates squinting, searching, and asking the hard questions. Pretty-boy David Muir loves nothing more than an ABC live-feed of squatting in a disaster area; he often picks up objects and then puts them down with a disbelieving shrug. And CNN’s Anderson Coopper is always in some Banana Republic—not the gay strip club, the socio-economic regime, although…
But why, oh why, must they always wear cargo pants?
What are journalists carrying that necessitates not only a fisherman’s vest full of pockets, but additional cargo pants? This isn’t 1996 when these pockets could have been filled with old tissues, Chapstick, and Koosh balls. Heck, the pockets don’t even look full! After all, filled pockets make for an unflatteringly chubby reporter and Mr. Cooper is nothing if not svelte! So, what then, I ask?
I have no definite answer. Like so many others, I dream of getting into Anderson Cooper’s pants. I assume we’re all on the same page as to the reason why: discovering what is in the pockets.
But I sometimes wonder if the network provides the pants and vest. And when reporters are fired it’s like, “O’Malley! You’re off the Pakistan beat. Turn in your vest and cargo pants.” And then O’Malley, his eyes filled with a mix of shame and anger, removes his khaki cargo pants and olive-hued vest, as Diane Sawyer looks on shaking her head with dismay: O’Malley was four days away from retirement, and now he’s not wearing pants.
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A Day Without Coffee
Fearing my self-proclaimed “Java slavery” (not to be confused with slaves in the Indonesian territory of Java), I decided to avoid coffee today and thereby prove I do not have an addiction. Because, really, who needs coffee?
Answer: I do. I NEED IT. I NEED IT NOW.
Today, I woke up at 7:30. Probably because my brain had slowed to a halt from the daily caffeine drought from 7pm to 7am. But, I foolishly misread this as my body’s vote of confidence: “You don’t need a stimulant to get things done!”
I showered; I went grocery shopping; I watched The View—with a significant amount of mug-envy. Everything was going well.
Now, the headache has begun.
“Withdraw” is such a dirty word. I prefer to conceive of my synapses firing as a game of Operation. Occasionally, my brain attempts to remove the funny bone (for example) and without caffeine isn’t as precise. And, lo, an electric axe slams through my head, throwing me into chills and mood swings.
“Is that you, coffee?” I ask with each hack. “Your Columbian drug roots are showing!”
I’ll keep you updated…
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![Are you there, God? It’s me, Whoopi.
Religious people are fond of explaining kooky things through providence—the shapes of clouds, cures for terminal illnesses, the career of Amy Grant. And then I, in trun, dismiss these claims with rational explanation—the chemical structure of water vapor, stem cells, the irrepressibly catchy “Baby, Baby” (1990). But yesterday, I beheld sheer providence: a copy of Whoopi Goldberg’s autobiography Whoopi had been loving placed on the rim of a trash can at the 23rd street ACE train.
Perhaps I wrongly equate Whoopi with the supernatural because of Sister Act, Ghost, and The Adventures of Rocky and Bulwinkle, but I am pretty sure that his was a sign. Her eyes smiled up at me, as if to say, “CHILD! READ THIS BOOK!” The logical parts of my brain hadn’t put it past her to have developed a genius guerrilla marketing scheme several years after publication. Or perhaps a fan wished to spread the gospel. Or perhaps Gabriel himself had lain it there for me to discover and hearld to the world.
In any case, its placement—much like the film Made in America—was very close to trash but not quite trash itself. A modern day burning bush, the gold typeface sparked underneath the harsh MTA lighting. Goldberg’s omniscent girm beaming. I swear, the book winked at me. I held the “tablet” in my hand without its new commandments—“Thou Shall Not Make Burglar”—and knew that I could be the next Moses, descending downtown from Mt. Sinai [hospital].
But, I put it back.
Why? Well, partly because I feared it had bedbugs. But mostly because I knew it was not the right time for me. And I knew that, when I was ready for it, Whoopi would be back. And it would be good.](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lgmeovnYU41qa5w8qo1_250.jpg)
Are you there, God? It’s me, Whoopi.
Religious people are fond of explaining kooky things through providence—the shapes of clouds, cures for terminal illnesses, the career of Amy Grant. And then I, in trun, dismiss these claims with rational explanation—the chemical structure of water vapor, stem cells, the irrepressibly catchy “Baby, Baby” (1990). But yesterday, I beheld sheer providence: a copy of Whoopi Goldberg’s autobiography Whoopi had been loving placed on the rim of a trash can at the 23rd street ACE train.
Perhaps I wrongly equate Whoopi with the supernatural because of Sister Act, Ghost, and The Adventures of Rocky and Bulwinkle, but I am pretty sure that his was a sign. Her eyes smiled up at me, as if to say, “CHILD! READ THIS BOOK!” The logical parts of my brain hadn’t put it past her to have developed a genius guerrilla marketing scheme several years after publication. Or perhaps a fan wished to spread the gospel. Or perhaps Gabriel himself had lain it there for me to discover and hearld to the world.
In any case, its placement—much like the film Made in America—was very close to trash but not quite trash itself. A modern day burning bush, the gold typeface sparked underneath the harsh MTA lighting. Goldberg’s omniscent girm beaming. I swear, the book winked at me. I held the “tablet” in my hand without its new commandments—“Thou Shall Not Make Burglar”—and knew that I could be the next Moses, descending downtown from Mt. Sinai [hospital].
But, I put it back.
Why? Well, partly because I feared it had bedbugs. But mostly because I knew it was not the right time for me. And I knew that, when I was ready for it, Whoopi would be back. And it would be good.
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Building a Better Mouse Trap
New Yorkers reach a point where they catch themselves saying things like “Oh my god! Is that a bedbug?! Oh, wait. No, it’s just mouse shit.” And couldn’t be happier about it! Ask anyone and you’ll hear their personal hatred-rankings for: bedbugs, mice, roaches, crime, slum lords, loud Latino music, and stairs. [Personally: 1, 5, 4, 2, 7, 3, 8]
Recently, while reliving myself at 3am—like a gentleman—in a daze of semi-consciousness, I was suddenly embroiled in a Darwinian cage match between a quasi-nude self and a small mouse. He darted out from a crevasse, then searched for an exit side-to-side along the bottom of the door like a floating Pac-Mac ghost. My reaction was completely rational—a full-body heave, windless scream of hot blue fear, and climbing the porcelain surroundings as if avoiding an acid tide. Our face-off carried on for several minutes [read: seconds] until the brave flightless pigeonette rushed toward the darkness behind me.
After regaining consciousness, I reflected upon the fact that my ancestors would have been overjoyed to see a mouse. We used to hunt these things; tt would be as if a strawberry Pop-Tart were attacking me, as if I had panicked over a Totino’s pizzaroll. The shame!
Although in both cases, I would prefer to eat it hot—not unlike a mouse.
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