It saddens me that it has come to pass that David Chase's post-Sopranos explanation of the last show is a top story on Drudge.
Millions of Mexicans pouring over our border with money nets in hand pales in comparison to the millions of domestic illiterates clamoring to be spoon fed the meaning of every piece of culture they cram into their brains. Might as well let Pedro and his brood in for good.
My god. The very idea that a TV show producer has to flee to France to avoid his upset followers because he failed to pack a knapsack full of closure for 15 million thumbsuckers and their individual views on how his TV show should have ended, just really sticks in my gullet.
As I pointed out yesterday, The Sopranos didn't end ambiguously.
OK, enough. I don't want to start down the path of being the self-anointed expert on all things Soprano. I've got a whole other non-career to deal with that doesn't pay, either. I'm just saying, is all. We need to start thinking about deporting more than Mexicans. I'm sad knowing I will die before ever hearing someone say, "That movie was great. Can't wait to read the book."
Just because I read books doesn't mean I'm superior to people who don't, although I am, to be objective about it. I have my weaknesses, too. Fajitas make me panic.
They come to the table spitting mad and sizzlingly pissed, and the waitress scurries to the table, all hazmatted to the shoulders with her professional grade oven mitts, because the restaurant industry hasn't found the technology to make the handle out of wood, and an armed escort from the Chili's Police Department. And it's scary for me, especially since I often doze off between ordering and eating, face down next to a formerly frosty beer stein.
The fajita parade ends slumber and I'm groggy and it looks like someone is attacking me with a plate full of angry vipers. I panic for a second. Then it's a mad scramble to clear space on the table to give the fajitas the wide berth they need. Like mom's coming up the stairs while you're masturbating. I really think fajita eaters should get their own table. Once you've ordered fajitas, you're escorted to a private fajita room, the size of a walk in closet, with a table, some towels, a guard, and maybe a stripper pole, and you are brought your chow in there.
And by "fajita eaters," I mean people of all colors who literally enjoy eating the dish known as the fajita, and not a racist slur against a people of a certain country. Hey, gotta spoon-feed it. Look at what happened to the last guy who went out ambiguous. I don't have the cash to flee to France.
I've been hatching a great money-making scheme just in time for Father's Day. I'm sending Father's Day cards to wealthy elderly men with bad, at risk, troubled, foolish sons, hoping they'll be touched enough by my thoughtfulness to consider my request for their hand in holy patrimony and sticking my name in the will. All it takes is one. Real Dad, don't be jealous. We'll cut a side deal where I come back after my adopted father's death.
I recently sent a card that says "Be My Sugar Daddy This Father's Day," to Tim Conway, Sr. the father of my good pal for a number years, Tim, Jr. I've always enjoyed Tim Jr's carefree and easygoing manner that obviously stems from knowing that he has a rich dad who cares about him very much. Here's his dad running over his granddaughter with a remote control car.
See? Nothing gets in the way of their relationship. Not even a 3 year old. I want to be a part of that scene.
I even sent him a little gift for good measure; a sweet TV/VCR combo unit with a copy of "The Best of McHale's Navy" put in the VCR. What's not to love?
Anyone know Rick Hilton's address? Michael Lohan? Shabba Ranks? I'm sure he has some lethal offspring.