Daily Briefs: The thing with the woman on the toilet; Some talk of TV shows.
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By CHRIS PACKHAM
But where did he poop for two years? Look, it’s been covered everywhere, but if I don’t mention the unnamed Wichita woman who sat on her boyfriend’s toilet for two years, it would be like pretending it never happened. And for the sake of unborn generations, we need to make sure that it never happens again. So now I’m trying to figure out the layers of denial the guy had to be living with. Ask yourself: What is the minimum amount of time your girlfriend has to sit on the toilet before you call the paramedics? Because a single sitting starts to get weird around the one-hour mark, if you ask me. Not “Call 911” weird, but still. Let’s be generous and say that if you haven’t called the paramedics by hour 12, you deserve to pee in the sink for the duration.
Batty Old Racist Not a Republican: It’s true! A real rarity, like a two-headed albino squirrel. If I understood what the phrase meant, I’d say that Geraldine Ferraro is the “exception that proves the rule.” Sing it loud and proud, sister. Belligerent, outspoken racism is easier to spot than the silent-but-deadly racism of entertainment district dress codes.
Speaking of which: For the duration of the Big 12, the Lucky Strike Bar and Bowling Alley will relax its borderline-racist dress code. Through the weekend, there will be no need to dress like Alan Thicke. Starting Monday, all men will once again be required to dress like Dr. Jason Siever. Women may dress like Maggie Malone-Seaver or, alternatively, like pretty-boy evangelical Kirk Cameron.
Who knew? Your mom. Your mom knew. I absolutely can’t believe this show still exists. It would be like all-of-a-sudden finding out that Keir Dullea from 2001: A Space Odyssey is still alive. WHAT?
So, OK. There’s still a show called E.R. I assume the olds are watching it, like they still watch Good Morning, America and Saturday Night Live. It’s like a magic wardrobe leading to a whole separate geriatric culture. OPEN THE CRACKER BARREL DOOR, PLEASE, HAL.
Self-indulgent TV post #2: Every time I turn on the Food Network, there’s a disturbing fish-eye supercloseup of Alton Brown‘s head. EVERY TIME. It’s the Alton Brown’s Giant Head In Your Face Network. Freaky closeup zooms are part of the dynamic visual style they use to make cooking shows interesting, but the least appetizing thing I can think of is the Alton Brown’s enormous pork roast of a head. What the fuck, Food Network? I ask you. What, exactly, the fuck?
