Awake and Adrift

Gerry's Corner: Hey, folks. Sorry to inflict Don on you - sometimes he just needs a shoulder to cry on. And I checked out a few of his funny movies, too. I hadn't known I wasn't a full-fledged patriot. Now that I've seen Art Garfunkel score with the ladies, though, I am.

But other than that, I'm feeling a little...how do the French say it? I don't know what. Filled with malaise? That's probably it. I mean, I'm about to turn 98 next week, and I don't know what I want to do with the rest of my life. Sure, I could run for president, but I've already done that.

One of our servant women was watching the flat-screen television in my lounge when I awoke and, after I told she had to give me a sponge bath and then dress me if she wanted to stay, she said, "Retirement must really suit you."

I looked at her and said, "You know, I don't know if that's right." And I'm not sure if it's the best choice I could have made. But then I look at all the other paths I could have chosen and none of them seemed right either. For instance...

Volunteer Fireman: I'm familiar with ladders, but I've never seen a fireman use a hook before. Maybe a pool boy, but not a fireman. It would be too embarrassing to show up at Volunteer Firefighting 101 and have everyone laugh at me when I was forced to reveal that I didn't know what the hook was for, because it's probably something really obvious.



Sausage Maker: They say that sausage is like legislation - you don't want to see how it's made. As much as I love crafting meat into shapes with my hands and squeezing it into plastic casing, I like eating sausage a whole lot more, so I'll leave that process a mystery.



Ostrich Legal Advocate: Ostriches are always getting in trouble with the police. Third-degree pecking, resisting arrest, soliciting, etc. It would feel pretty good to offer them the opportunity for good representation in court, but then I'd have to go to law school and then I'd have to read lots of legal briefs and court cases, and I'm terrified of paper cuts, so that's a no.



So what am I to do? I don't want to just drift between the couch (where I plop each afternoon to watch my soaps) and the refrigerator (which I open each day at least ten times a day due to my OCD) for the remainder of my days. I think I'll end up forming an exploratory committee to run for president this weekend, in between ice skating and avoiding karaoke (is it hypocritical to love American Idol but hate karaoke? I'll leave that up to my critics to judge), as a last resort if I don't come up with anything better to do in the meantime. Bill Frist said today that he wasn't running, so that pretty much paves the way for my candidacy - still, I'm not sure.

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

Guest Blogger: Gin Rummy!

Donald's Corner: Greetings, possible terrorists. Gerry is sleeping right now - I'm having people monitor his breathing to see if there are terrorist codes embedded in its pattern, so while that's going on, I'm guest blogging.

Now, I haven't blogged before - my milieu is mostly the press conference - though I have appeared on the internets before. Still, in order to invest the proper amount of time to this, I decided I better quit my day job.

So what do I want to talk about here? What does anyone want to talk about online? Well, I figured I'd talk about Iraq and why I think we're there. There's a difference, after all, between being there and being there. Are we there to find weapons of mass destruction, or depose Saddam Hussein, or to stop terrorism? And are we there for some greater purpose, so that young men and women can discover themselves in ways that they otherwise could not: through the ruthlessness of battle and the social dysentery of living in the desert? I hope that clears things up, though I think neither is true.

Really, I think we're there to find out how to make the Iraqis laugh. Do they giggle when our non-armoured tanks are blown up by land mines? Do they chortle or belly laugh when they have some infidels to play 'freedom fighter' to their own straight man? This is crucial stuff to determine if we're going to win this war on terror. In fact, one might say that winning the war on terror means that the terrorists lose their war on humor.



With that in mind, I've given some thought to some movies we could show to the few thousand Iraqi civilians we've managed to spare so far, so that they understand where we're coming from and cease their senseless violence; that way, we can discontinue our own senseless violence. Without further ado...

Movies That Every True Patriot Finds Funny, and What the Terrorists Can Learn About Us From Them

Carnal Knowledge: Even Art Garfunkel can find many lovers. If the terrorists accept this as true, then none of them will feel the need to do those suicide bombings anymore so they can get forty virgins in heaven. Art Garfunkel can find forty virgins here on Earth! Art Garfunkel! Really!

American Graffiti: This movie revolves around the voice of Wolfman Jack. Have you seen this guy? In another life, he'd have been locked up on trumped-up charges in Guantanamo years ago thanks to the Patriot Act. But instead, the Americans embrace him and his taste in music. Terrorists - lay down your weapons, become DJs, and we will embrace you, too!

Annie Hall: Woody Allen reveals us - particularly the Jews among us - to be terrified of lobsters. If you really wanted a clever and effective plot against us, make sure it involves live lobsters, you terroristas. On second thought, do not watch this movie.

Ghostbusters: The terrorists are always whining from their caves about how Americans are westernizing their culture. Well, feast your eyes on this hilarious flick, in which a team of bohemian ghostbusters eliminate the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. Stay-Puft is not just a gigantic ghost - he is a paean to corporate culture. Either way you look at him, the ghostbusters' exorcism of him shows how little we really value those brands that we allegedly spread all over the world.

Three Amigos: If you think that perhaps we've not been welcomed as liberators elsewhere, look no further than this classic film, in which a Mexican town invites three of our bravest soldiers to defend them against their own domestic terrorist. We show this movie to all our troops before deployment so that they have some idea of what to expect abroad from civilians.

So I Married an Axe Murderer: I've never seen this, but as the title suggests, we take all kinds here in America. As long as you renounce your allegiances and values, you're free to cross our borders.

D2: The Mighty Ducks: The message here is clear: the Americans will beat anyone who challenges us. In this movie, Iceland learned the hard way.

There you have it. As long as the terrorists and Iraqis - sorry for the redundancy - watch all these movies and try to understand where we're coming from, then I think everyone will get along.



You go to war with the army you have, not the army you might want or wish to have at a later time,
Rummy

You Say, "Potato," I Say, "Solar-Powered Rainbow Maker"

Gerry's World: Everyone's got a different way of looking at everyone else, but it's all a paint-by-numbers scheme.

To my doctor, I'm a 140/90 - that was my blood pressure during our visit last week.

To my teammates and legions of fans, I'm a 48, my jersey number when I played for the University of Michigan football team.

To my wife, I'm a 6.2 on the Richter scale every time I sit on the couch next to her. She gets all huffy when I make my move from standing to sitting by her side.

To the acne-scorched teenager working his first job at Best Buy who I hassled on Friday about gifts for my tween grandchildren, I'm a 6 - pretty hot, but he wouldn't know what to do with me if he could get me.

To Jimmy Carter, I'll always be a 240 - the number of electoral votes I won, to his 297 during our presidential face-off. Damn him.



Anyway, I've just returned from Thanksgiving with the family, and I'm figuring I'll just use hibernation as an excuse to skip Christmas altogether. What a bother! Everyone forced together to say things like "My how you've grown!" or "Your children are so darling!" or "Really, that goiter isn't noticeable unless you are in anyone's line of vision." Back when I actually engaged in this fake merriment, my son actually said all these things to me, and then revealed that he had been sarcastic. It took me a couple seconds, but I got it. And now I'm just bitter.

And what do you get an ex-president in his 90s? The answer is nothing - literally, there is nothing that I could possibly want except another shot at the White House. I get John McCain could give me that by dropping out of the race and aggressively supporting my candidacy. Same with Hillary Clinton.

So here, below, I've come up with a list of things that I definitely don't want, if you're thinking of getting something for me. Everything here costs under $40 - in 1974 dollars, anyway:

-Dom Perrignon Champagne - What is there to celebrate, after all?

-Handheld Food Lifter - For when you need to scoop something up off a hot pan or something. But I don't do any cooking, so I don't need that.

-Curveless Rectangle of Transmitted Sound & Light - I'm very comfortable with my current cathode ray tube product, and I don't want to waste any of my precious time dealing with some new-fangled technology.

-Collection of Words Printed Coherently in Rows and Bound Betwixt Covers - Never a fan of reading, I stopped bothering years ago. When people ask me what I've consumed lately, I tell them, 'Soylent Green - that shizz was for real!'

-Prism - My vision's already going, along with every other part of me besides my steel-trap mind, so why would I want to make myself see things that don't exist, like refracted light?

Actually, you know there is one thing y'all could get me that would make me happy. You could create flattering pictures of me, as I suggested a couple posts ago as a contest. No entries yet except from from Karaoke Mike, but since he's the one who gave me the idea in the first place, I don't think it'd be fair if he won. That's all I'm saying - enter today!

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

Runaround

Once upon a midnight dearie
I woke with something in my head
I couldn't escape the memory
Of a phone call and of what you said
Like a game show contestant with a parting gift
I could not believe my eyes
When I saw through the voice of a trusted friend
Who needs to humor me and tell me lies
Yeah humor me and tell me lies

But you
Why you wanna give me a run-around
Is it a sure-fire way to speed things up
When all it does is slow me down

Gerry's Corner: Today, I'm introducing a section (italicized above!) in which I quote song lyrics that pretty much have nothing to do with me. Sure, I could try to twist them around and try to convince you that they're applicable to what's going on with me, but I won't waste your time. Instead, I'll just pour one out for Blues Traveler, which seems to have died at the exact moment when John Popper had his stomach stapled. Why, John? Why? Just like Samson's hair was the secret to his strength, your manic harmonica solos came directly from your magical belly. I hope your vanity was worth ruining your career over.



I went to Not-Betty's clinic today and saw lots of people packing up to leave. "Where's everyone going, Not-Betty?" I asked.

"It's Thanksgiving," she explained testily. "Lots of patients here use the holidays as a goal - they want to be clean by then so that they can get home to their family and friends."

"The same family and friends who drove them to drink in the first place?!" I asked, more incredulously. In retrospect, I was probably heckling her.

"You know what, honey?" Not-Betty said, now with a sincere veneer of malice in her voice. "If you'd have come to my clinic thirty years ago and pestered me like this, I'd have had you upside-down with a pitchfork up your ass."

That seemed uncalled for, though true - thirty years ago, Not-Betty could bench press me. She was a strong woman. I tried to quell the growing tension by calling her an "effing cracker-ass mother-effer." Apparently, this only enraged her more, and she started yelling and calling me a quitter. "You can talk! You can talk, you can talk! You're brave now, Awesome Dude" - she said 'Awesome Dude' as though I were not, in fact, awesome - "Throw his ass out! He's a quitter! He's a quitter! He's a quitter!" she ranted, before finally walking away and locking herself in the broom closet. I left the clinic feeling pretty discouraged.

Not-Betty came home later and looked kind of ashen. "I'm deeply, deeply sorry, honey. I know you're not a quitter - and I'm not against quitters. That's what's so insane about this." And that's when I realized - I'm not a quitter. I told Not-Betty this. "That's right!" she said, proud of me.

I picked up the middle seat cushion of our sofa. "What are you doing, my sweet?" she asked cautiously.

I searched around with my hand until I felt the bottle of Grey Goose. "I'm showing you I'm not a quitter!" I said to match her pride. Before she could stop me - and she didn't really try, given her remorse about her earlier outburst - I knocked back a few shots, straight from the bottle. "I'm back, baby!" I cried.

Later that day, I sat down and decided I had two options:

1. I could stop drinking now, return to my usual routine, be a good little husband, accept Not-Betty's apology, and then wait around to die. Not that appealing.

2. I could buckle down and kick some alcohol ass. No mistake, it won't be easy getting back off the wagon - I have three weeks or so before my 97th birthday, to catch my liver back up to speed. If I'm going to make my next birthday party a raging kegger, I'll have to devote some serious time to getting my drinking feet back under me, but if I cut back on doing anything remotely useful, I can probably kick a six-pack and a handle each day. Sure, I'll need to keep on watching my shows and writing my blog - can't give those up in the name of fulfilling my new goal - but I'm determined to sacrifice other worthwhile callings for my dream.

Many of you have also underestimated one of my real talents: the ability to multitask. In fact, while I was writing this entry - which has taken me four minutes and thirty-five seconds so far - I also sharpened all our steak knives, read the 'D' volume of my World Book Encyclopedia, and earned my yellow belt in karate. Not bad for an old man, hmmm?



Look, no one said this was going to be easy, but if it's going to make Not-Betty silently fume, I can endure.

By the way, enjoy Thanksgiving, the holiday when we slaughter and devour what Ben Franklin told us should be our national bird. What a weird country America is.

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

Fun Contest!

Gerry's Corner: I love visual art, especially when I am in it. Paintings, collage, drawings, photoshop - you name it. I mostly enjoy seeing my likeness in various media so that I know I remain in the public consciousness.

Well, a friend of mine - we'll call him "Karaoke Mike" - sent me a great piece he'd spent weeks and weeks on. It's immaculately rendered, and I am extremely proud to display it here on my blog:



I was so blown away by this, especially because not many people know about my raptor-taming days down on the ranch before my knees went out, that I've decided to propose a contest. In between now and Christmas, while I occasionally slumber for long periods of time, you should spend your time making your own flattering Gerald Art. The winners (or even just the pretty good stuff) will be posted on my blog for the adulation of the masses. Just send your creations to gerryprez [at] gmail [dot] com.

Congratulations to Karaoke Mike for his exemplary artistry. Let's make it work, people! Woooooo!

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

What? What'd I Do?

Gerry's Corner: I got some stuff thrown at my windows yesterday. I feel sad and perplexed about it. Someone had smeared the windows in honey, and then tossed apple wedges at them. Next came a barrage of unleavened bread, and then an angry mob lobbed gefilte fish and matzo balls. The crowd chanted some imaginatively hurtful things, too, like:

"Gerald, you man-whore!"
"Ford? More like Yugo!"
"Ger-ald Yu-go!"
"Yeah, you go, Gerald! You go away!"
"You're so effing bald!"

Why would they say such terrible things about me? Not-Betty kept her earplugs in all day, trying to look unfazed, but definitely pretty shaken about the whole episode. I mean, all I did was mow a swastika into the front lawn. It's not like I burned a cross in anyone else's yard - I'd never do that. And besides, the swastika used to be an Indian peace symbol (the wah-wah-wah Indians) - it's unfair that just because the Nazis co-opted it as theirs; now no one can use it for any other purpose? I think it looks kind of pretty - there's a certain symmetry to it, and it's not like it even takes up the whole lawn.

Apparently, the neighbors disagreed.

I should say here that the part of Rancho Mirage where we live is also known as the Warsaw Ghetto because of its preponderance of Holocaust survivors. And there was a parade in their honor whose route went down our street yesterday. But I don't see why mowing my lawn should have caused such an outrage. I mean, the grass needed to be cut. And all I get in exchange is a thousand pounds of grief. It's just a chore, people - let's get over ourselves, mmkay?

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

When I Go

Gerry's Corner: I've been thinking over this death thing again, and I have more ideas about it:

• If possible, I'd like to die on a weekend. I don't want the regular news anchors to have to be bothered with reporting my death - they work so hard all week, and it'd be nice for those weekend folks to have a chance at some big news. Of course, it's really only 'big' news, because it would be one thing if, like, Jimmy Carter or Dwight Eisenhower died, but I'm just The Guy Who Replaced Nixon. I don't know if history textbooks even include me. So, throw a bone to the weekend guys.

• If I have to die on a weekday, make it in the wee hours of the morning, so that the morning shows can cover it and the news doesn't pre-empt anyone's regular programming choices, like soaps or - heaven forbid - primetime! No one tuning in to CSI: Miami or Prison Break wants to hear about some old guy's death. I mean, sure, if I'd gone on a murderous rampage and was holed up in a bank or something with hostages, on a suicidal standoff with the po-po, that would be one thing - it would make good TV. But just me passing from here into the beyond - "slipping the surly bonds of Earth to touch the face of God," as Reagan put it - that's borrrrrrring.

• Now, if I do have to die during the early afternoon, I have a novel idea. Don't make the news anchors waste their afternoons on me - they've got their evening news to consider, and since there are plenty of people who kick it every day, I doubt I'd make it onto their broadcasts. Instead of breaking into regularly scheduled programming with boring news people, let's let the soap opera writers work the news into their shows! For example:

Scene One



The Lady: Did you do it? Did you kill him?

That Guy: Ex-President Gerald Ford? It was my pleasure, my sweet.

Lady: Excellent. Now, we can finally get married!

Guy: But...aren't we related?

Lady: Not anymore - ever since I found out that Andrew had faked your parents' names on your birth certificate to match mine.

Guy: You mean the parents I never knew because I was adopted by my psychotherapist's wet nurse as an infant?

Lady: Yes, after your psychotherapist died in that tragic taxicab accident.

Guy: Well, remember - he didn't die in that accident. He was in a coma for four seasons, er, years before Julia finally put him out of his misery.

Lady: When she mistook him for his twin brother, Val?

Guy: Yes - hey, you know what? I didn't kill ex-president Gerald Ford. That was just a lie to get you to respect me.

Lady: Wha-?! Oh, you're just like my step-uncle, who lied all the time so I would respect him, until he was eaten by a tiger. How could you?

Guy: Well, it's just - he died before I could kill him. He was an old man.

Lady: Oh. All right - I guess Val must have got to him first. Maybe Val's the man for me.

Guy: But, my sweet-

Lady: Enough! Let's not spend anymore time on this! You know what would convince me that you truly love me? I have the most insatiable craving for blueberry tea - will you fetch me some at the store?

Guy: Um, sure.

Scene Two



Guy: Excuse me.



Store Clerk (visibly upset): Hello? Yes, can I help you?

Guy: Hey, man - are you okay?

Clerk: Yes, I was just - it's ex-President Gerald Ford. Did you hear he's passed?

Guy: Yes, but that's not important. I've come for some blueberry tea.

Clerk: You miserable fool! You can only get that in Maine!

Guy: But - I need it. It's for the girl I love.

Clerk: Well, if you promise not to tell anyone, I've got a secret stash of blueberry tea from the last time I went to Maine, to help my sister-in-law escape from the insane asylum that my best friend had forced her to enter.

Guy: All right, great - I'd love some of that tea.

Clerk (while rummaging around in a cabinet): So...you drink tea often?

Guy: Me? Oh, I always drink tea in the morning.

Clerk: What about when it's cold outside?

Guy: Then I like to drink tea in the morning, afternoon, and evening.

Clerk: Do you consume anything else besides tea?

Guy: No, I always drink tea.

Clerk: How many boxes of this stuff do you want?

Guy: I always drink tea in Arab restaurants.

Clerk (looks suspiciously at Guy): What was that?

Guy: I always drink tea in Arab restaurants.

Clerk: I see. Well, that'll be twenty-five dollars.

Guy: I love to drink tea in Arab restaurants.

Clerk: Are you trying to tell me something?

Guy: You never catch on, do you? Thanks for the tea.

Clerk (picks up telephone, dials number): Hello, Soaptown Police? Yes, I'd like to report a suspicious character...yes, I know about ex-President Gerald Ford's demise.

And, Scene: Everybody's gots to have their stories!

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

For the Benefit of Mr. K

Front Page: That's right, ladies and gentlemen - you're getting double the Gerald today. Not-Betty hid all the sleeping pills, so I've been wide awake all day. Damn her. I want to dream of my Hannity again.

In the meantime, I realized I had several more quick things to say. On the front page is the announcement of the upcoming OJ Simpson TV special on (surprise!) Fox, in which he promotes his book, If I Did It. I think people are getting themselves all worked up over nothing. He hasn't even said what 'it' is yet. What if 'it' is something like crocheting a sweater, or fixing a leak in his shower, or riding one of those rickety wooden roller coasters at the amusement park? That'll sure make the media look pretty silly. Until the TV show airs and the book comes out, all we can do is speculate...or we could not speculate and talk about other stuff, like whether Gary Sinise is a poor man's Michael Keaton or the other way around.

Movies: I said I was going to write about Death of a President because I saw it a week or two back. It was pretty good - I'm glad it wasn't about me! Of course, I was surprised to learn of George Bush's death, but I'm sure Dick Cheney will do just fine in his stead. You'd think that the assassination news would be all over the media - I guess OJ's book bumped it out of the headlines, which I can only assume is because America loves to read so much. I assume the release of Thomas Pynchon's new novel at the end of the month will dominate the front page soon, too. At least this film reaffirmed my decision to get all my news from the multiplex. Where else can you find such extensive coverage of the legal frustrations of being Santa Claus, for example?



Gerry's Corner: You know who I can't stand? People who are in their late eighties. God, they're so annoying. And obnoxious. They come into my house like they think they own the place, but what can I honestly say to them, right? "Go away - this is my house"? I don't want to appear insensitive, but seriously - what are they doing here? They don't deserve to be around me and my aura, nor should they be robbing me of my social security. I wish they would drop dead. Just wanted to put that out there.



Back to sleep.

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

"Only" a Dream

Gerry's Corner: Oh my God, you guys! I just woke up from several days of hibernating and whoa, what a dream I had! Many of you may know that I have a two-point self-longevity plan:

(a) Have birthdays closer together.
(b) Hibernate for much of the winter.

The only problem with step (b) is that I won't be able to blog as often or as cogently as I would like. To resolve this issue, I've appointed a commission to search for possible guest bloggers so that the long, cold darkness (of winter, not death - geez!) is not quite so long and cold and Gerry-less.

Anyway! Back to my dream! When you hibernate, your dreams are incredibly lucid and complex. It's another reason why I assume squirrels and bears will slowly infiltrate our government and then take over the world. Last year during my hibernation, I learned Urdu. I was so excited a few days ago to find out what my first hibernation dream of the season would be that I had trouble going to sleep. Eventually, though, my eyelids drifted southwards, like a stage curtain, but opposite, because the show was just beginning!



So here's the dream. I'm in a dank basement, cuffed to a table. The table is metal, and I'm lying on it on my back - it's cold, and I realize I'm only wearing a hospital johnny. There's a drip somewhere, and a bare light bulb swings above me, hypnotically. I rattle my head around as I typically do to get my brain to kick in, and I become aware that I'm wearing some sort of hard hat that I can't shake off - it's attached to me somehow. The temperature in this basement is comfortable.

Suddenly, there He is. He places a warm hand on my bare arm. His fingers are thick, like juicy, hairy sausages, and I get lost in His smug, closed-lipped smile. "How are you doing there, buddy?" He asks me. "You ready for this?" His voice is like butter melted on velvet and lost in a baritone fog. It resonates through me as though I am a tuning fork and he's just struck me on the table on which I lie.

I am going to become Hannitized. That's what all this is. Now I remembered - Not-Betty and I had planned to attend Sean Hannity's show in the auditorium upstairs, and then a man approached me and asked if I would mind going backstage to meet The Man Himself.



Would I!

And now, here I was and there He was. So close that our knees could probably touch, even though we'd have to get in awkward positions to do so. I got lost in His sparkling eyes as he stared at me. Did I detect a hint of Binaca in the air? I could swear it was coming from Sean's beautifully-flared nostrils. I couldn't believe he'd chosen me!



There was something so patriotically strong about him - he must have known what I was thinking, because he took my hand and placed it on his chest, and I felt his heart thump out the rhythm of Hail to the Chief. "During the Clinton administration, I had it changed to God Bless America," He said. "Thank God for Bush, because Hail to the Chief is a bit more vigorous."

"Sure," I said, dreamily. He told me all about the company that installed the beat: Great American Pacemakers. I decided that I must invest all my money in this product, and get it for myself and for my whole family.

"It's like a ringtone," Sean explained, "except it's your heart instead of your phone, and it's constantly pumping out red-blooded American music." Then, He looked at his watch. "It's about time to Hannitize you, sir."

Sean went to the corner of the room and flipped a switch - my body shook and coursed with electricity. The pain was blinding and brilliant - I have no idea how long it went on. When it was over, Sean applied to a washcloth to my forehead as His assistants worked to remove my helmet and dress me. "There," He smiled like a champion. "Now you're conservative enough for me."



Just before He turned to leave, He said, "Hey, do you have any event planning experience? I could really use a 90-something ex-president to organize my tours and peel bananas for me."

"I have LOTS of event planning experience!" I practically shouted. I was shouting. I was shouting with pride, but not gay pride. (Damn those homosexuals for stealing our words!) Sean taught me a secret handshake and instructed me that my home phone was in the process of being wiretapped. "Just to make sure you don't backslide into terrorism. I have my own phone tapped." His voice was a Slip'n'Slide lathered in oils.

I went back to Not-Betty and watched the show, which was great. Everything Sean said was absolutely true - there are weapons of mass destruction all over the place: Iraq has them, Iran has them; hell, Nancy Pelosi and John Murtha probably have a couple nukes stowed away. And MoveOn.org is full of Commie pinko spies who control the newspapers, like The Traitorous New York Times.

And then I woke up, emboldened with an idea: I think I'm going to form an exploratory committee for 2008. I'm going to get myself elected president!

I'll admit, though, it's hard to concentrate on my grand plans when dreamy Sean Hannity occupies so much of my mind. I can't wait to get back to hibernating so I can spend more time with my sleepytime friend.

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

Catastrophe

Front Page: I thought I wanted it to happen. Turns out I didn't. As the sun rose, cascaded from horizon to horizon, sank in the west, and evening became night, the news got worse and worse. When Not-Betty came home in the evening after the clinic, I held her close and tight for the first time in a long time.

How could it have happened? How could we have all sat at home and let it happen? I know lots of people - myself included - who took the following attitude: they deserve to lose, so I'm going to do nothing to support them. But now I'm full of regret, as I'm sure millions of Americans are who woke up this morning to a different world.

The problem starts with control of the house. Now, I know most people would say that the kids ought to come first, but I say the digs are just as crucial. If he can't live there, where will K-Fed go? Britney's already tasted success and she's got several residences. In fact, with the two young children, maybe moving into her mom's Louisiana estate wouldn't be such a bad thing. Plus, K-Fed needs to remain in the Los Angeles area so that he can continue to jumpstart his career. Britney can be white trash anywhere.

No - I shouldn't bad-mouth like this. I'm not on anyone's side - I wanted them to stay together. No matter our background or creed, we all wanted to be uniters and not dividers yesterday.

Of course, there are the offspring to consider. Young Sean Preston and even younger Jayden James - there's so much potential in them to do great things, given their talented parents. The hopes of the nation rest on their tiny shoulders - and now divorce has cruelly dealt them a tough hand. No wonder American schools are failing - it's because our kids are losers, since the ones with the most promise inevitably come from broken homes.

Finally, there is our romantic, collective idea of love. I think we all saw the spark between these two lovely people - well, anyone who watched Chaotic, anyway. If they can't stay together, what hope do the rest of us have? When Not-Betty left for work today, while I cried into my bowl of Wheaties, I wondered whether she was going to the rehab clinic or to divorce court so that she could serve me papers upon her return to our house tonight. No one is safe now. This is exactly the outcome that the terrorists wanted.



Why, Britney? Why, K-Fed? I will always remember the first Tuesday of the second week in November as the day our country lost its innocence. I blame gay marriage.

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry

Up in the Air

Gerry's Corner: Sorry to be posting less regularly than I'd like, but I've been really busy. First off, I had to sit through the interminable satellite feed of The Tempest, being put on by the Royal Shakespeare Company who apparently, like Bugs Bunny, should have taken that right back at Albuquerque because they got lost and wound up in Ann Arbor. Let me say this: there are people who think Shakespeare should be performed like it was years ago. I like Shakespeare like Emerson or Thoreau or one of them liked life: nasty, brutish, and short. Also, I prefer it to be in language I understand. Now, the Royal Shakespeare Company was all about gimmicks, because they set the play somewhere in the Arctic or the Klondike or your grocer's freezer, and then they brought in acting hack Patrick Stewart to play the lead. I mean, why would you trust the guy from Hennessy to pilot your theatrical ship?



Honestly.

To top it all off, the man took off his shirt several times during the first act. I'm not sure, but I think I could make out puking sounds coming from the audience. And why not? Patrick Stewart is 66 years old. I know that, when I was 66, my secretary wasn't exactly leaving me stacks of messages from modeling agencies interested in using my bare chest to sell their products. And I was available, too - when I was 66, I had just left the presidency.

Anyway - I was repulsed and confused by the play. I hope the Royal Shakespeare Company goes back to Mediocre Britain soon and leaves my alma mater to focus on its very important upcoming date against the Buckeyes.

So, on top of the eight hour play, my doctor decided I needed to take thirty-five pills every day, so there's the two hours that that takes every morning and the two hours before that where Not-Betty tries to convince me to lay off the drugs, wherein I try to explain that they were prescribed to me, she counters that if I were strong I wouldn't bow to peer pressure; then, she flushes all the pills down the toilet and goes off to the clinic, after which I call up the pharmacy and have my medications refilled. Then, there's a few hours of practicing my golf swing in my mind, and then the rest of my day, I watch the Ford School webcam to make sure that the building's still standing and that I didn't imagine its construction. Plus, I'm juggling a lot of things now. That's right - I've picked up juggling in my old age. Tennis balls, empty bottles of booze, steak knives, pins. You name it, I juggle it. Frankly, it's left me less time than I'd like, but maybe it's giving me more time, too, as in 'lengthening my life.' Yup, juggling. I recommend it.

Also, happy birthday to me! I've decided to turn 95 today, even though my birthday's in July. You know why? Because I read coverage in a local rag of a woman 'celebrating' her 100th year:



Look how terrified she is! I don't want to be like that by the time I'm 100, so I'm speeding up the process by having early birthdays. I'm hoping to turn 96 by mid-December, if we can clear my pretty-full calendar.

There is no Soviet domination in Eastern Europe,
Gerry