Category: humor

Making way for something better?

No Thanks for the Memories

Dave Barry’s end-of-the-year recap was in yesterday’s Washington Post (and presumably other papers as well). His hypothesis is that 2004 could have been worse. You know, if an asteroid had hit the earth, or the Yankees had won the World Series. So if you’re thinking that between the presidential election, the country’s foreign policy, the country’s spending, the low carb craze, reality TV, and Cher, the year was pretty dismal, I recommend reading the column. It might not make you feel any better about the year, but at least it’ll make you smile.

Also, this is Dave Barry’s second to last column. I’m very sad.

Marry Me, Jon Stewart

http://www.ifilm.com/filmdetail?ifilmid=2652831&htv=12

Jon Stewart recently appeared on CNN’s Crossfire. If you’re currently feeling disgusted with the world, watch this interview. If you aren’t feeling disgusted, well…What the hell is wrong with you?

Anyway, thanks to Jonathan of Move On PAC for telling me about it, and thanks to Reason for reminding me.

That said…Jon Stewart needs to recognize that he has become a journalist. He plays himself off as a comedian, and certainly is show is not the one “holding feet to the fire”, but, at least among my generation, he is respected and influential. The questions asked on his show become relevant to public opinion. He can say he’s a comedian and not a journalist, but whether he likes it or not, he is both. I adore the man. I want to have his babies. I’m incredibly angry that someone else has already done so. But he needs to step up to bat instead of just hitting the balls over and over in practice and then saying, “Oh, no, I’m not a player,” when it comes to the actual game.

We need someone who is smart and engaging to ask the tough questions. Jon, realize that you are a journalist. And then realize that you absolutely need to be with me. Please.

There he stands behind the register

I was in love with the McDonald’s boy. This was not a Barenaked Ladies-esque infatuation with his innocent smile and I had no delusions that he was an angel in a polyester uniform, but I was in love.

I’ve gone to McDonald’s every morning before work for the last 3 weeks for a number 10 — a Sausage, Egg, & Cheese McGriddle Extra Value Meal with a small Coke. I think about the McDonald’s boy as I pull into the drive-thru line, my window down in eager anticipation of his voice crackling through the speaker. I crane my neck as I pull around the side of the building, straining for a glimpse of him through his smudged glass cage. He is not an attractive man, and really, is just barely a man. He isn’t ugly, though, and he operates with such a clean efficiency that I start to think I could sit and watch him work all day. I admire his ability to multi-task, taking orders and collecting money, handing out change while he confirms the next customer’s number three Extra Value Meal. I love the way he hands me my change with two hands, one cupped gently under mine to make sure I don’t drop anything while the other firmly presses the bills into my hand. I love that, this morning, when I placed my regular order but did not specify the size of the drink, he knew it was me and verified that I was getting a medium rather than my usual small. I thought maybe he loved me back.

While I normally leave thoughts of my love under the golden arches as I drive away, secure in the knowledge that he will be waiting for me the next day, on this cold morning I allowed them to warm me for the rest of the drive to work. I thought about what exactly it was that had captured my fancy, about what I could write about him to do him justice. I raced down the concrete stairs of the parking lot into my waiting cubicle and unpacked my white bag. Inside, I found not my usual McGriddle, but a Steak, Egg, & Cheese Bagel sandwich. Frantic to excuse my McDonald’s boy, I searched for the receipt, hoping I’d been given the wrong order, that somewhere, someone else had my food, that it was not his mistake but the mistake of the sullen girl at the second window. But no, there was the receipt with the “#7 Steak Bagel EVM” totaling the exact amount I’d paid.

The heartbreak was audible. I sat, stunned, staring at the faded purple ink, my mind racing to find some excuse for him. None came. Outside it is gray and bitter, cold winds littering fallen brown leaves across the ground and bringing tears to my eyes with their sting. Inside, it is much the same.