In a fitting coup de grace for a shitty day gone absolutely shitastical, I’m sitting in an Internet cafe’ right now, typing away as quickly as possible to escape the exorbitant rates and inane prattle bantered about by the none-too-hip Webaristas. There’s also a man in his late fifties who’s attempting to flirt with one of the store reps, and it’s a spectacle best described as visual ipecac.
Did you ever have one of those days, gentle reader, when work or school sucked all the marrow out of your soul? Today is one of those days. I’m looking for Muse right now, but it seems she’s gone into hiding. Poor, poor thing.
If we were to gather around and discuss the situations that bother us most, what would you offer? I would have to say that few moments compare to a bad haircut. You walk into a barbershop, head full of hair and pockets flush with money, and you leave a penniless person coiffed with a head full of ugly.
I walked into my stylist du jour last weekend, confident that the haircut would proceed smoothly and predictably. After all, if my last haircut went well here, shouldn’t I expect the same thing this time? Boy, was I off by more than a hair. Upon first shave, I concluded that something had gone wrong and looked up to find, much to my dismay, that my stylist didn’t have a license. Maybe someone swept it away.
My inside voice piped up and said, “You fool, you better stop her now!”
My rational voice replied, “But it’s too late, you know. It’s not like you can just walk out with a strip of hair shaved off.”
“You’re right,” said the inside voice quietly. “I was actually going to suggest you splash barbicide in her face and then walk out, all the while ignoring her screams of ‘My eyes, my eyes! The barbicide burns!'”
“Oh.”
And therein lies the crux of the matter, gentle reader. You could sit obliviously and find out the bad news at the end of the haircut. Alternatively, you could sense the bad news early on and still be powerless to stop it. You really don’t have much of a choice, do you? It just goes to show you that a simple trip to the barbershop can turn, with a single scissor stroke gone awry, into a very hairy proposition.
Since discussion is so focused right now, I’d also like to explain the inordinate number of puns today. Indeed, the sheer punnage is off the charts, and I think it’s because I’ve been experimenting lately. It’s like I’ve gone to a Woodstock for words, where there’s a very real danger of becoming a pun junkie. I’ve also been experimenting with typing in all caps. Look! Here’s exhibit two: FLENSE ME ALIVE FOR USING PUNS! FLENSE, FLENSE!
Open wide, gentle reader, as we start the week off right. For some reason this watershed in film history flew under my radar like a dodgeball coated in stealth, and I’m going to remedy that right now.
It’s true that Starsky and Hutch failed to satisfy, it’s true that this movie is essentially another iteration of Zoolander, but you know what else is true? I’ll tell you what else is true. You-know-who is going to line up you-know-when to fork out the heaven-knows-what to watch the smack.