This was going to be a riveting, insightful, emotional and delicately-written post about what a forced-anal-iron-dildo-fuck Bush and his corporately sponsored administration did in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, but since the liberal media already did such a bang-up job on that score, the Angry Czeck decided to refocus his considerable rage to the hit TV show that once took the nation by storm, Sex in the City.
I don’t know a whole hell of a lot about Sex in the City. In fact, I can probably sum up what I know about Sex in the City in about half a dozen carefully numbered points: (1) Sex and the City features four attractive single women (all with distinctively different hair colors) who spend a great deal of time standing around fireplaces, drinking wine and bitching about how much it sucks to be single, attractive and living well in the most expensive city in America, (2) The star of Sex in the City never gets naked, (3) One character dates a guy named “Mr. Big,” (4) Shoes are a big deal on Sex in the City.
That pretty much sums up Sex in the City, I think. The plot doesn’t seem like much, and as far as I can tell, the only reason for a man to watch it is to wait for one of the four female leads (except for the big star) to show off her surgically enhanced hoots. Yet somehow, Sex in the City is a show people not only watch, but really enjoy. When TBS runs a promo about the show (on a station for which no hoots are allowed), Mrs. Angry always chortles at the punch lines with the same enthusiasm our nation’s President chuckles at his weekly Hi & Lois cartoon.
Tonight’s Forecast: a 75% chance for nudity.
I don’t get it. I don’t get Sex in the City. It’s not funny to me. It’s not wry or “so true” or even good for a smirk. I’d rather watch Three’s Company. I’d rather watch the “Teri” episodes of Three’s Company.
And then it occurred to me (in the way it must have occurred to Dick Cheney that Haliburton could make a nice chunk of change off Hurricane Katrina): There’s a lot of things the Angry Czeck doesn’t get.
Sure, when you read this educational blog, you get the feeling that the Angry Czeck has a pretty good kung-fu grip on things. But the girth of topics I don’t understand could almost fill a three-panel brochure. And if you think that knowledge doesn’t keep the Angry Czeck awake at night with clenched fists, then you got another think coming, Ace. Because when you don’t get something, you’re missing out on which the rest of the world profits.
For example, I don’t get how Garfield has lasted so long in the funny papers. Really, it’s the same fucking joke every week, only a little lamer. Even Jim Davis, the creator of Garfield, knows cat jokes aren’t funny, which is why he later branched out with U.S. Acres, which features (among other things) worms with teeth. I’ve never seen a coffee mug with the toothy worm on it.
Speaking of cats, I don’t get people who tell me that their cat “thinks it’s human.” No it doesn’t. Your cat doesn’t even know it’s a cat, nor would it know what to do with the knowledge even if it did. A cat’s IQ rivals that of the pair of pants you’re wearing. A cat’s priorities are to sleep, eat and too look pissed off. Just because your cat leaps onto your bed at night and takes up three-quarters of the bed doesn’t mean it has delusions of being human. It’s as genetically challenged as the rest of the lesser animals. Tell you what: The moment your shitting cat gets a job and starts laughing at Sex in the City, then the Angry Czeck will believe your cat thinks it’s human.
I don’t get why everyone has a hard-on for Target stores. People behave as though Target isn’t the money-grubbing, local-business wrecking, soul-sucking retail giant Wal-Mart has to spend billions in cheesy advertisements to convince us they’re not. I have friends who love Target so much, they can’t bear to even call it Target, because, well, “Target” sounds a little too retail, right? So they fool themselves by calling it “Tar-Jeh.” Frenchifying the name doesn’t make Target any less of a high-volume, low-cost super-chain. Buying a mass-produced blue toilet bowl brush designed by a bored architect doesn’t make you any more stylish, Picasso. It only makes you another person who bought something cheap while a locally owned business filed for Chapter 8. Why can’t you just admit that you are too stuck up to say “hi” to an elderly Wal-Mart greeter? I know I am. Those old people are creepy.
I don’t get people who get worked up over college football games. I don’t get the appeal of Chez-Its. I don’t get why the people who consider a cross word against the Iraq War as an act of treason are the same people who vehemently argue for the right to bear arms in the event of a sinister government takeover. I don’t get The Biggest Loser. Who the hell wants to watch fat people lose weight on TV? How about a show called The Biggest Shit, where constipated old men train for “the biggest bowel moment of their lives?” That would be a good show.
You know what I do get? Scrap-booking. You heard me. I get scrap-booking. It’s a good excuse to eat jars of peanut M&M’s and drink boxes of Chardonnay, right? I don’t get how we’re going to pay for rebuilding a major metropolitan area and finance an endless war in a third-world country without raising taxes, though. Perhaps the super rich will volunteer to give up their massive tax breaks. If congress decides to reverse, say, the repeal of the estate tax, we’d generate nearly $300 billion in ten years, which would about cover the bill for Katrina and Iraq (and yes, motherfucker, I read that in Newsweek). I know that the estate tax is sort of a “double-tax,” and when my Angry Parents pass along, I sure as hell won’t want to pay it, but it seems like a pretty good idea right now. Doesn’t it? No?
I don’t understand why people who drink Diet Dr. Pepper are so nuts for Diet Dr. Pepper. I’ve known people to angrily leave fast food drive thru lines upon learning Diet Dr. Pepper isn’t on the menu. Why not order a Diet Pepsi or Diet Coke?
I know several people who first started smoking as adults, and I can’t figure out why. Why not spread some asbestoes on your hamburger tonight? Maybe it will taste good? Maybe not now, but later, when you’ve stopped hacking up blood and develop a real taste for it. I don’t understand Iraq War Logic, either. War supporters say we must support the war because we have brave troops fighting the war, and they have to be fighting for something, or their ultimate sacrifice becomes worthless. See, War Supporter, that’s the point, isn’t it? It’s got to be worth something. Get it? No? Maybe if we pile on, I don’t know, a thousand more blown-up bodies, it will suddenly be worth it? No? Three thousand? Aw hell, let’s go for an even 10 K.
I don’t get the nation’s fascination with Jennifer Anniston. We’re all supposed to feel very sorry for her because her husband, Brad Pitt, left her. I’m not a woman (as I am sure you have deduced by the manly tone of my manly writing), but I’m sure just about any woman in North America would count themselves lucky to have a few good years of waking up to Brad Pitt. No? You lie. You lie to the Angry Czeck. Recently, I read a headline that stated, “Jennifer Anniston tells Oprah she’s ready to date again.” I guess I’d better start working out. Maybe eat a few breath mints. Because, you know, Jennifer is probably seeking out a regular guy, on the account we so fucking care that her mega-star pool boy dropped her for an even better looking broad. (And yes, the Angry Czeck is making the call: Angelina Jolie is hotter than Jennifer Anniston.) See, Jennifer Anniston is going to be okay, people. She’s not really hurting. Because if you’re hurting, do you really share it with the nation’s wealthiest woman before an audience of millions? Jennifer is going to meet a very nice superstar like herself, we’ll all hold our breaths in hopes that he will propose with a very big diamond ring, they’ll get married, and then get divorced a year later. She will cite “irreconcilable differences” and he will quietly check himself into an expensive rehab clinic for “pain-pill dependency,” because nobody in Hollywood is every fucking hooked on H or model glue or crank. Nope. Some evil doctor got them hooked on pain pills while recuperating from some sort of fascinating movie stunt. It will be sad, and we’ll mourn for Jennifer again wondering if she’ll ever be happy, and she’ll live on some massive ranch on Montana and later surprise us with a children’s book.
You know what? Fuck what I wrote earlier. The Angry Czeck does get it after all. I guess I can relax now, knowing God is in His heaven and I still know everything. This was a real learning experience. For you.