Just when you thought it was safe to turn on the
television again on Sunday morning, there he was: Dick Cheney, yammering on and on and on, like a kid who lost a football game and thinks the referee cheated him and can’t let go of the memory that could have been. I think he is f***ing retarded.
Take that, Sarah, you palm reader. And quit using that kid of yours for political purposes. I don’t even think it’s yours. I think it belongs to one of your daughters. And I want a CD Rahm. I would love nothing more than to sit down over drinks with Rahm Emanuel. Sure, it’s not a politically correct thing to call people “retards.” And it probably wasn’t so cool when George Bush got caught on tape calling a reporter an “asshole,” but that was one thing he did that made him seem kind of funny and normal. And I will repeat that I have come to respect ol’ George for staying out of the limelight in his retirement, while the Dick keeps whining away on camera every chance he gets because President Obama brought an end to waterboarding.
Maybe that’s what they’re doing to Tiger Woods at the sex addiction clinic in Hattiesburg, where he is reported to be undergoing treatment after the revelations about all of his extramarital trysts. I am kind of fascinated by that. Just what do they do to you if you’re a “sex addict”? Do they make you have sex with, say, Joe Lieberman, so that you never, ever want to have sex again as long as you live? Just the thought of it makes me queasy.
And speaking of feeling queasy, has anyone else happened to notice a television commercial that is running in the Memphis market for a plumbing company that involves a woman in a malfunctioning bathtub? I can’t remember the name of the company, but in the commercial the woman is in the bathtub and her husband is in the bathroom with her. Suddenly, the water coming from the faucet turns a nasty dark-brown color. I think it is supposed to be rusted water, but it sure doesn’t look like it. And it spatters all over her in her luxurious bubble bath. I’m not making this up. I mean, big gobs of it hit her on the face. She doesn’t know it because her eyes are shut. If the husband were to jump in there with her and have sex in that stuff it would make for a great film to show to sex addicts at those clinics.
And speaking of sex, someone needs to tell John Mayer to shut his mouth. Why would he tell a magazine reporter that he is not attracted to black women because he has a “white supremacist” penis? Why would he even go there, especially in an interview in Playboy? That’s not just disgusting; it’s also really stupid. It’s already hard enough to sell records and concert tickets, but to say something that ludicrous and for no other reason than for shock value is nothing short of nuts. But then that seems to be the way things are these days in entertainment, politics, whatever.
And now he is trying to make up for it by tweeting about a charity. I know that I am old and tired and not fumbling around with an iPhone 24 hours a day, but why on earth would anyone want to get a tweet from someone every single day? I don’t care what John Mayer does every day. I thought it was cool that he recorded here in Memphis at Royal Studio and would like to know more about that. But I certainly don’t want to read about his white supremacist penis and I certainly don’t want to get a tweet about it.
It’s like Palin and her tea-baggy Facebook messages. It’s too much — too much information and too much interaction. This is why I stay home and watch Sanford and Son reruns as much as I possibly can. I don’t care if the technological world is passing me by. I don’t really want an iPad. I want more Redd Foxx and LaWanda Page. If Twitter had been around during their days, I wouldn’t have minded getting daily messages from them. But nowadays, too many people tweeting are just twits.
