Reruns

We are re-running old episodes because I can't come up with anything interesting.

Pitch to Me!
Review: "Toxic" by Britney Spears
Score: 3.8
PJ and I roared down the highway, the top down and the radio blaring. Our destination? Hedonism. Our ticket to exhiliration? Nestled in the trunk. As soon as we reached Atlantic City, we'd pull out my dead father's wrinkled brown suitcase and get the party started. Our personal pharmacy included forty tabs of acid, a garbage bag full of weed, a detergent bottle full of yayo, a camel back of rubbing alcohol and an IV tube full of heroin. I was most worried about the acid; there is nothing worse than walking into a stop sign while high on that shit.

Before we proceed, I feel like I should introduce my associate, PJ, or Pyjama to his mother. He looks like what would happen if Tony Soprano and Jerry Garcia decided to mate. His father is a stockbroker, his mother an interior decorator when she is not picking up after his three siblings. They were "too busy" to be hippies during the 70's, and they were too old and occupied with family to participate in the drug-laced orgy that was the 80's. Nevertheless, they opted to name their child Pyjama Michael Jenkins.

He hates his parents.

The car is a rental. PJ is twenty-five, so he took care of that. Ironically, he refuses to drive, but can easily waste hours of your time explaining how sleeping in a Toyota can "give you a total respect for Asian philosophy, man." I have tried to elucidate precisely why he steadfastly resists the act of driving. Maybe he likes to think of me as his chauffeur, but more likely he just consumes too much acid. Who can focus on the road when you're busy trying to taste the yellow Ford Excursion cruising alongside you?

The DJ spits a series of tired and overused catchphrases, and before you know it, Britney Spears' ear-shattering soprano is polluting the air. PJ turns to me and murmurs something unintelligible. I turn down the radio and ask him to repeat himself:

"Dude, I'll bet she smokes."
"What?"
"You know. She smokes weed."
"You're an idiot."

He rolls his eyes and swears at me under his breath. I turn the radio back up, allowing the inane ramblings of America's Prepubescent Pop Idol to complement the keen, desperate howl of the wind. Suddenly, on my right, a bright yellow sign announces a sharp bend in the road.

Yellow - the color of danger and Marilyn Monroe's hair. I decide to ease the car through the turn. My foot slowly presses down on the brake. Nothing happens. Slightly worried, I push harder. Still nothing. Panicking, I try turning the car into a nearby edge. No response. The steering is shot as well. The bend is coming into view. In the distance, there is nothing. We are going off a cliff.

We burst through the barrier like a rocket off Cape Canaveral. For a moment, it feels like we are floating, as if we can drift slowly to safety. Then the front of the car dips forward, and we see the valley below. PJ shrieks; my pants feel moist. Gradually, the world rises to meet us, and still Britney's voice can be heard, an essential element in the grand comedy that our trip to Atlantic City had become.

Suddenly, it hits me. I do not have a friend named PJ, and I do not do heroin. Could this all be in my mind?

Turns out it was. Also, Britney sucks. Tune in next week when I describe my many sexual conquests and, coincidentally, review Justin Timberlake's "Rock Your Body". It will be awesome.

Bedtime Stories for Youngsters 1
Once upon a time there was an adorable fuzzy little bunny who lived with his pretty wife and little babies in the lush, verdant woods in a land far, far away from here. One day, Mr. Rabbit was on the way to see his best friend, Mr. Bear when he thought he saw a flash of orange out of the corner of his eye. He paused and sniffed the air, rearing up on his hind legs to get a better view of the blackberry bush, which was heavy with fragrant, juicy autumn berries. Tilting his head, he could faintly hear an odd rustling. Then he got his head blown clear away by a Beretta Sako 75, owned by a hunter who was taking advantage of Rabbit Season with his eight-year-old son, making sure that the boy wouldn't grow up into a sissy.

It was Miss. Robin who was witness to these unfortunate proceedings, and it fell upon her to carry the woeful tidings to Mrs. Rabbit who fell into a major depressive episode and took to her bed for eight months, leaving her oldest daughter, Hoppy to take care of the two younger children, Skippy and Bumper. By the time Mrs. Rabbit recovered from her bout with mental illness, she was 40 lbs overweight. Have you ever seen a 46 lb rabbit?

Hoppy did her best with the two younger children, giving up her precious childhood months to rearing the two ungrateful little bastards. Every morning, she would wake up at the buttcrack of dawn to forage for food for the entire family before making sure that Skippy and Bumper made it to school on time. She would pack their lunches for them, check their backpacks for the correct books and send them on their way with a kiss on the cheek and a generic-brand treat in their pockets. It was all they could afford, what with their poor dead father and sick mother, and the welfare checks so small. Money was tight.

Unbeknownst to her, Skippy and Bumper would cut class every day. Skippy would spend the day at her much-older boyfriend's burrow, helping him cook crystal meth and letting him film her having sex with his best friends. Bumper would head down to the video arcade, where he would meet with his best friends, a fieldmouse named Skullcrusher (ne Nibbles) and a ferret named Fangs (ne Slinky). Then they would head out downtown for some trouble. They always found it, too. Whenever Hoppy would ask about the scratches, the bruises and once, the lost tooth, Bumper would always tell her that he fell off the swings or the jungle gymn during recess. In reality, they were from the socks filled with bricks and the skilfully wielded chains.

One day, Bumper got into a fight with a dangerous crowd. He didn't come home that night. Or ever again. By coincidence, neither did Skippy, having overdosed on heroin. They found her body underneath a bush the next day. Her innocence, cuteness and fuzziness made the track marks running up her forelegs more shocking. Mrs. Rabbit died a few days later from an overdose of ipecac, which she had taken to in order to lose the weight she had piled on during her depression. Hoppy never recovered from that terrible week, retiring to a quiet mental facility where she lived out the rest of her days in a perfect state of catatonia, dying alone and unloved at an unfortunately young age.

The end. Sleep tight, children!