Terrible hockey sweaters: After seeing me salivate over some vintage hockey sweaters, my girlfriend considered getting a Leafs jersey for Christmas. But, after the last game we went to, she was relieved that she’d gotten me a watch instead. It turns out I’m a huge jersey snob; I spent half the game ridiculing fans wearing jerseys with their names spelled out on the back in the wrong font. The other half of the game was spent fantasizing about putting together the most terrible hockey jersey possible, one that grossly violates the Jersey Foul Bill of Rights and is so obnoxiously bad that fans sitting behind me would throw their beer all over me. It should be sewn together from two different jerseys sewn down the middle, and while it’s bad enough when it’s just a mix of the home and away colours, it’d be even worse to combine the colours of two rival teams, such as a Leafs/Senators or Leafs/Canadiens combo. Also, I’d have to put my own name on the back, in the wrong font, of course, and I’d take the liberty of wearing the captain’s C. As for the number, it’s tough to decide which is more obnoxious: On one hand, using Wayne Gretzky’s 99 with my own name is pretty arrogant, and he never even played for the Leafs. On the other, there’s the sophomoric appeal of 69, especially when the numbers are actually turned sideways, as on one jersey I saw at the game. And last, instead of the team logo on the front, I’d have a crest of NHL commissioner Gary Bettman’s face photoshopped onto the Goatse.cx guy.
Matchmaking for Ferris Bueller: Even though I tell her not to, my girlfriend reads Perez Hilton, and she tells me that equine actress Sarah Jessica Parker and diminutive actor Matthew Broderick are splitsville. What a shame. They seemed made for each other, like Red Pollard and Seabiscuit. But I have the perfect girl for Broderick: R&B singer Brandy Norwood — or Brandy, for short. They’ve got lots in common. Like vehicular manslaughter, for instance.
The current cinema: Instead of both Notorious and Paul Blart: Mall Cop, couldn’t we just have a comedy about the Notorious B.I.G. as an inept security guard who zooms around on a Segway? If Disorderlies could have the Fat Boys playing inept hospital orderlies, why can’t we have this?
24: The groundbreaking action-adventure series is back, still breaking new ground. Where the first season featured black president David Palmer, which actor Dennis Haysbert credits as paving the way for Barack Obama, now we’ve got a lady president. (So, Hillary Clinton probably wishes 24 had done its seventh season first). While the new president focuses on national security, her husband investigates the suspicious death of their son. You know who should turn out to be his killer? Keith Palmer, the original president’s son. Not only would it fit 24‘s pattern of surprise returns of old characters, but Keith Palmer’s backstory was that he’d killed a guy and covered it up, so he could do it again. We’ve given up on 24 making any kind of sense anyway, so let’s just do this.
Terrible PG-rated comedies: At Blockbuster the other day, I had a weird urge to rent the awful comedy Ninja Mom, but they didn’t have it in stock because it turns out it doesn’t actually exist. But I was convinced it did. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Late eighties, early nineties … probably starred Kathleen Turner?” Nope. Doesn’t exist. But it should. A terrible two-word high concept title like that writes its own script — and makes millions on DVD sales and rentals. So I’m getting right to work on the Ninja Mom project. Not only that, but as soon as I can figure out how to get around the age requirements set out in the Constitution, I’m also making President Kid. (Tagline: “He just won the Electoral College — and he hasn’t even finished junior high!“)
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