Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank (20 page)

Because Britney is such a prolific gum-chewer, it’s a good idea to consider quitting your day job and just stalking her, waiting for the next wad of Juicy Fruit or Big Red to come flying across the hedgerow and into your waiting, gloved hands.

I, for one, won’t be spending my hard-earned cash on Britney’s alleged nose-blow. Not when I could be saving it up for something truly valuable like, say, spinach, flung from the tooth of The Rock (or “The,” as I like to call him), my secret crush. Now
that’s
money well spent.

Of course, you don’t have to be famous to have something worth sharing with eBay. Diane Duyser of Florida made twenty-eight thousand dollars from the sale of a partially eaten ten-year-old grilled cheese sandwich that she said bore the image of the Virgin Mary.

The half-sandwich had spent the past decade nestled among a dozen cotton balls in a clear plastic case on Ms. Duyser’s nightstand. Ms. Duyser, a devout woman with
deeply held religious beliefs, said in a prepared statement that she wants all people to know that she believes that “This is the Virgin Mary, Mother of God.” Still, apparently practicality won out. I mean, having the Mother of God on your nightstand along with your Jergens lotion and
TV Guide
is cool, but it doesn’t really get that upstairs bathroom renovated, now does it?

Of course, it’s not for me to judge Ms. Duyser’s sincerity. I’ve seen the holy sandwich in pictures and, while there is definitely the blackened crumb outline of a woman’s face in the bread, it really looks a whole lot more like Delta Burke to me.

But face it. Who’s going to pay twenty-eight thousand dollars for a sandwich with Delta Burke’s face on it? Believe me. Next time I splash cat food onto that Styrofoam plate and it looks even an itsy-tiny bit like the Virgin Mary, I’m alerting the media.

Thing is, these “miracles” tend to happen when you least expect them. Just last week, I sprinkled some Bugles on a paper towel for my daughter and her friend, and the way they fell out, they looked exactly like Johnny Depp.

Religious icons sell better, probably. Give me time. Today Johnny Depp, tomorrow Jerry Falwell, and then right on up to the Blessed Virgin. I once spotted Franklin Graham’s face in a puddle of ranch dressing, but I was too hungry to do anything about it like the savvy Ms. Duyser.

One reason many people consider this a real miracle is
that the sandwich has never sprouted a single mold spore in ten years. This has got to be divine intervention. If I accidentally leave a lone Frito out overnight, it’ll be covered with more hair than Robin Williams’s forearms by morning.

The biggest mystery to me was how Ms. Duyser could eat just one bite of a grilled cheese sandwich and then have the willpower to put it aside. But then I found out it was made without any butter or oil. Hell-o. That’s
not
a grilled cheese sandwich; that’s blasphemy.

The winning eBay bidder turned out to be the owners of an on-line casino, who declared they’d spend “as much as it took” to own the holy toast.

Something tells me they’ve already gotten burned.

And, finally, let’s consider the case of burly computer technician Larry Star of Seattle, who sold his ex-wife’s wedding gown on eBay after writing a long and hilarious portrait of their married life together and posing for the photo wearing the gown.

Since the gown sold for $3,850 (about three times what he says it cost him five years ago), Larry might be on to something. He certainly surpassed his stated goal of making enough money for “beer and a couple of Mariners tickets.”

Inspired by Larry’s success, I went up into the old attic myself and found an autograph book with David Soul’s autograph (the original Hutch, you know, and he drew a little peace sign inside the
o
in his last name—outtasite!), my
black sequined prom dress, circa 1974, and what appears to be a possum skeleton. Let’s start the bidding!

Larry, whose French-braidable back hair would probably send
Queer Eye
grooming guru Kyan Douglas reaching for his smelling salts, poked fun at his ex and her family and thanked the sweet Lord above that at least they hadn’t had children. (Oopsie, well, yes, they did have a son as it turns out but it’s a lot funnier the other way.)

After all the media attention—Larry was on talk shows more often than that psychic who wears the blue eye shadow—he’s decided that he should write humor for a living.

To which I say, good luck, my furry friend. Larry could easily become the male counterpart to fictional but fabulous Carrie Bradshaw, relationships columnist on the old
Sex and the City.
A one-trick pony (chick-bashing), perhaps, but if it’s funny, I’m in.

A word of warning to Larry, though. Be prepared for people to take you seriously. That line about how you will be wearing “a hairy, flesh-toned ensemble” for your next wedding because you’ll be “buck naked with a toe tag lying on a slab in the morgue because I would have killed myself “ will provoke a bunch of earnest letters from folks who bash you for making light of suicide.

It’s all part of the job, Larry, and I won’t lose any sleep fretting that you might get your feelings hurt. If you can
laugh off the woman who told you she wished that she had her ex’s testicles to sell on eBay, you’re obviously not the sensitive sort.

At any rate, I appreciate you getting me thinking, Larry. Somewhere there’s a couple out there with our names who would just love to have some more personalized wedding-bell cocktail napkins. Heck, I’ll even throw in the possum skeleton. What am I bid?

I don’t recall when the big corporations started slowly, insidiously renaming the stadiums and arenas across this great nation, which, incidentally, is brought to you by Pepsi. But I do remember when it hit home. Just up the road from where I live, the pastoral concert venue Walnut Creek Pavilion was changed to the Alltel Pavilion thanks to a fat cash infusion from the cell phone giant. I still call it Walnut Creek. This is still a free (Dodge Ram) country after all.

The economic reality is that there are scores of renamed and rehabbed stadiums and concert halls all over the country. And aren’t those shiny new skyboxes worth the humiliation of admitting that you actually bought tickets to the
Frito-Lay Bean Dip Rose Bowl or the Dr. Scholl’s Corn Pads Fiesta Bowl?

It’s hardly news that big money can change everything, but every now and then, say, while watching the WNBA’s Light Days Panty Liner play of the game, I think that things have gone too far.

Oh, I was just kidding. Nobody watches the WNBA.

On the other hand, maybe if absolutely everything is for sale, why not me? Baby needs new shoes, as they say, and what I need is some corporate sponsorship. Why not the fruit-juicy Hawaiian Punch—line of the day? Are you listening PepsiCo?

For a little extra dough, I could insert into my books, talks, and humor columns veiled, subliminal messages that would be great free advertising for my corporate sponsors. My doctor says Mylanta. Okay, maybe more subtle than that.

Don’t blame me. This is, like cross-country two-way communications by Nextel, the way of the future. Hons, you know it won’t be long before Brian Williams thanks us for watching NBC’s continuing coverage of the Sonic Jalapeño Poppers War in Iraq.

We’re so conditioned to corporate sponsorship, who among us would be all that surprised to see the Swiffer Wetjet “moppin’ up the terrorists” moment of the day? The Toilet Duck “tank roll of the hour?” The Monistat “Yes, Geraldo was a fungus among us” field report?

The possibilities are as endless as the relief I always get
from Icy Hot. Purina could sponsor those moments when
American Idol
judge Randy Jackson affectionately calls someone “dawg.”

As in Mighty Dog! Now with more tender kibbles and bits.

Although stadiums have sold out across the country, surprisingly, sanity prevailed when Major League Baseball decided (after allegations of monumental tackiness) not to place red-and-yellow
Spider-Man 2
promo ads on the bases at a Yankees game. At first MLB officials didn’t seem to get it. They did, after all, pinkie-swear not to put anything on the hallowed home plate.

But they did plan to transform the on-deck circles into huge spiderwebs for the game.

It’s small wonder that companies like Sony warmed to the idea. Sony is the parent of Columbia Pictures (and a rather permissive parent at that, the kind that never minded if you, heh-heh, had an underage beer when you visited your buddy on Hamburger Helper night). With so many people zapping commercials these days by using digital video recorders like TiVo, you have to be creative in promoting your product.

Maybe that explains the ham-handed product placement in
Cheaper by the Dozen,
a two-hour Crate & Barrel ad starsring Steve Martin and Bonnie Hunt. Empty boxes with the nifty and unmistakable C & B logo were scattered in every room of the Baker house. Sure enough, when the brood moved uptown, the moving van was followed closely by the
huge Crate & Barrel delivery truck. I think it backfired; now I associate owning C & B stuff with having twelve children. I’d rather eat my own eyeballs.

Subtle product placement is a thing of the past. If
Gone with the Wind
were made today, Clark Gable would pull Vivien Leigh close to say, “Frankly, Scarlett, I don’t give a damn, but if I did, I’d choose Cingular Wireless with no roaming fees or activation costs.”

For the first time in its hundred-year history, the Kentucky Derby is allowing jockeys to wear advertisements on their silks.

It’s one thing to see Dale Jr. and his ilk coating themselves shamelessly in Viagra and Tide detergent decals but the Derby?

I don’t blame the jockeys, who don’t make all that much money, if you believe Spider-Man. Sorry, wrong Tobey Maguire movie. After all, they could be paid thirty thousand dollars to wear a little Wrangler jeans logo. Still, it tackies up everything and makes the world just a little bit more crass, a little less decent. Then again, what’s my point? Did I mention that I’m for sale?

Major League Baseball officials changed their minds thanks to the pressure of fans, those oft-forgotten families who shell out ninety dollars for so-so seats and overboiled hot dogs.

Only a few days earlier, MLB had boasted that
“Spider-Man
is a natural fit for baseball,” a wacky statement that
made about as much sense as “Why, yes, Mr. Billy Joel, I’d be delighted to let you drive me home!”

It’s been tough times for a lot of big business, so I guess they’re getting desperate. Telemarketers can’t hassle us anymore now that we’ve got the Do Not Call registry. I was one of the first of an estimated ten million angry Americans who signed up to have their phone number removed from telemarketers’ call lists. Within months, some sixty million were signed up. The rest, I presume, are clinically insane.

The process is blissfully simple. With a few computer keystrokes, I could practically see the legions of telemarketers, with their offers of “free” water-quality testing, home security systems, groceries, and so forth fleeing like those zombies in the low-interest credit card commercial.

And that’s not all. Now that I’m registered, I can sue any telemarketer who calls me for eleven thousand dollars per harassing call. This is going to be some fun, particularly if that perky pest from the time-share group in Williamsburg, Virginia, calls again. The last time she woke me on a Saturday morning to tell me that Williamsburg was waiting for me to see firsthand the “magical marriage of perfectly preserved history and modern-day fun,” I told her that if I ever meet her in person, she better make sure there aren’t any loaded muskets lying around.

Sadly, the don’t-call list doesn’t filter out all household pests, just 80 percent of them. Charities are exempt, even the phony ones.

This means the Quasi Fraternal Benevolent Lovers of Law Enforcement, who harass me more than anyone else, can legally call me. These people are the most persistent, interrupting my dinner preparations nightly with “Hello, we’d like to keep drug dealers off the street, and we need your help.”

This has led to the unbecoming sight of me standing at the stove as my young daughter quietly colors at the kitchen table while I scream into the phone “Leave me alone! I love drugs!” Nothing else has worked, so I have high hopes for this approach.

While there is some concern that the new don’t-call laws will put many thousands of telemarketers out of a job, causing a serious jump in the nation’s unemployed, I think I speak for many millions of Americans when I say, “So?”

My friend Lisa, whom I always call Liser because she’s from South Carolina (aka South Cackalackie), has a theory about the so-sad plunging of Krispy Kreme’s fortunes.

Liser and I have spent an inordinate amount of time lately fretting about the fate of Krispy Kreme on account of
we can’t live without them.

If Keith Richards had gotten hooked on KKs instead of that pesky and harder-to-find heroin, he could’ve gone through life with actual cheeks.

Liser says that KK forgot its base, its core, its down-South faithful, and I think she’s on to something. At first, we Southerners were excited and proud when we read about those über-bored, sophisticated Manhattanites dizzily lining up for “two glazed,” flicking the inevitable shower of sugar
from their black uniforms en route to their glamorous jobs. Maybe this would be the one thing that could unite Southerners and Northerners. After all, grits haven’t worked out like we’d hoped. I still blush at the memory of ordering grits in Atlantic City, New Jersey, and having the waitress look at me, laugh heartily, and finally say, “Grit? What is grit?”

“It’s not singular,” I’d said with as much Southern pride as I could assemble on short notice. “It’s grits.”

She laughed even harder.

Although the Yankees who move down South find plenty of fault with much of what we do and how we act, they have never failed to understand, once they taste one, that Krispy Kreme doughnuts are the finest things on God’s green earth.