Thursday, January 12, 2006


"Oh me, oh my
The moon is nigh,
Its crimson shadow
On thy thigh..."

Because we do not have the courage to literally pound ten-penny nails into our flesh, my dear wife and I were coming as close to that penance as we care to, which was to watch a few minutes of the People's Choice Awards on TV the other night, something we did because we watch whatever channel is actually able to transmit a visual image to our kitchen portable, and we caught, I believe, both the high and low points of the broadcast all in the space of the time it takes you to assemble a salad.

The low point was that when we turned on the TV, Jessica Simpson, or somebody on that order--I really can't tell the difference between any two entries in the People rolodex--was singing "These Boots Are Made For Walking," which is a pure case of life imitating a Saturday Night Live skit. She made Nancy Sinatra sound like Ella Fitzgerald. My fillings hurt.

The high point was a commercial which followed the song, but which I missed almost all of because I was still in a semi-hypnotic state, but which I did catch enough of at the end to gather that it was for a feminine hygiene product. I do know, because it jerked me to alertness, that it ended with the tag-line slogan, and believe me this is word for word, "Have a Happy Period." Well, now.

"Have a happy period"? What exactly is the message here? I mean, is this a commercial, or a greeting card? Have cramps and bleeding suddenly become somehow festive, a cause for celebration? And if so, what hasn't? "Congratulations on your root canal!" "Enjoy your upcoming parole!" So, why not "Have Yourself a Wonderful Little Period?" Is the Hallmark company hot on this yet, and if not, why not?

God knows, we celebrate almost any aspect of human existence at the drop of a hat, including the joyous dropping of the hat, so, what the hell...
Have a Happy Period

Or, for the British market:
Have a Bloody Good Time (of the month)

In completely unrelated news...a little girl in Turkey has been diagnosed with bird flu, which she evidently contracted, as she described it, from petting, stroking, hugging and kissing her pet chicken. The good news, fellahs is that apparently, choking is still perfectly safe.

And finally, my legions of fans will be heartened to know that my latest memoir, recounting my personal struggle with urinary incontinence, a battle that drained me in far more ways than the obvious and that I relate as a source of inspiration for others, will be published shortly. Be sure to log onto Borders or Amazon and order your copy of "A Million Little Pisses."


Blogger ....J.Michael Robertson said...

Aw, it ain't a real book and more's the pity and mine's the sympathy.

But as for your other comment on the commercial I so much envy you for seeing, does make one wonder if if Mrs. (Alito) was having a rag fit when she burst into tears. (Orrin Hatch: Now there's a rag fit waiting to happen every time he opens his mouth).

But my wife says no. She saw the tape. She nodded.

"Menopause," she said.

January 12, 2006 at 3:06 PM  

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