I Really Don’t Think This Is What Genghis Kahn Had In Mind, Part 2

  So there we are at the Dallas Cowboys outlet store, wherein my sister Roni is doing some very serious shopping. Of course, because of the stroke, Roni’s actual participation in the physical aspects of shopping is somewhat limited. Instead, she functions mainly as the brains of the operation, while the rest of us are mere minions in her servitude, gamboling about and snatching up things at her insistent direction.

  Now, there is definitely an art in attending to Roni’s whims and desires. In addition to her limited mobility, her vocal skills are not very cooperative, thus requiring that she communicate via interesting noises and dramatic flourishing of her good arm. (Sometimes it’s VERY dramatic flourishing. Do NOT park Roni near crystal figurines when she has something to share. Or when the Cowboys aren’t winning.)

  So we must carefully review what Roni is expressing, lest there be an unsavory misinterpretation on our part leading to dissatisfaction and civil unrest. As with many languages, Roni-ese is full of subtle variations. For instance, a low growl combined with a nod of the head and two flicked fingers can mean “I must immediately pee,” whereas a low growl combined with a nod of the head and THREE flicked fingers can mean “I’d like a cheeseburger, hold the pickle, a diet soda, onion rings with that nice Persian ketchup that we found that one time at the international market in Tucson, and the TV channel needs to be changed to a station currently playing a ‘MacGyver’ rerun.”

  (To be fair, Mom is much better at the role of interpreter than I am. Mom can just glance at Roni and then immediately scurry off to begin remodeling the house in the exact manner that has just been suggested. I can stare at Roni for a full five minutes and then come to the simple but brilliant conclusion of “I think she needs something”. We all have our ceilings.)

  Anyway, back to the Dallas Cowboys outlet. Mom is busily wheeling Roni about, with the two of them conversing in the special language, resulting in a growing pile of Cowboys couture and accessories in Roni’s lap. As they are thusly occupied, I wander off into another section of the store, one where they have racks of ladies apparel that supports both the Cowboys AND breast cancer awareness, meaning most of the items are imbued with a lovely pink shade. And, surprisingly, these things are really cute.

  My sister Dawn is a fan of pink and cute, so I give her a call. “We’re at the Cowboys outlet and-”

  That’s all Dawn needs to know. “I don’t want anything.”

  I sigh. “But they have some really cute pink shirts that I KNOW you’ll like.”

  “I don’t like the Cowboys.”

  “But-”

  “Why don’t you call us when you’re leaving the store and we’ll decide what to do next. Gotta jet.” Just before she fully disconnects the phone, I believe I hear niece Tristany squeal something triumphant and then hurl a watermelon through a plate-glass window. I’m not certain of this, of course, but I’m sure I’ll get all the details later, probably over a glass or two of strong vodka.

  I shove my phone back in my pocket and rejoin Roni and the personal shopper who also happened to give birth to her. (36 hours of labor, if I recall. We knew right then she was going to be a handful.) It appeared that everything in the store had been properly fingered and considered, and the two of them were ready for the part where financial assets were redistributed as we did our part to revive the economy.

  There was enough Cowboys attire on the checkout counter that one could easily build a sizeable tent city. A place I might have to go live once I paid for all this mess. Shirts and hoodies, fresh duplicates of the little stuffed bear that started this whole thing, even a Cowboys nutcracker for Christmas. I gulped, awaiting the possibly life-changing moment when a final total was announced.

  Three minutes later we were headed out the door, with me having paid a mere fifty bucks. That’s it. The same price you could easily pay for ONE jersey in the regular Cowboys stores. Everyone was justly pleased and celebrations were planned. (Moral of the story: If you, or someone you wish to bestow gifts upon, love you some Cowboys, do NOT pay full retail for memorabilia. Get your butt to Irving and find that outlet. Sure, it might be last year’s stuff, but really, how many ways can you display a silver star on a blue background?)

  But the joyous mood quickly dampened.

  We pile in the car, and Mom has this to express: “Little parched, here. Let’s stop and grab something to drink..”

  Okay, sounds innocent enough, can’t be too much pain involved with that. So we make our way out of the oddly-unpopulated business park where the Cowboys outlet is located, and within mere minutes I spy a convenience store. I pull into a parking spot and Mom hops out. She’s just going to dash in there and snatch up some beverages real quick, no need for all of us to go through the Big-Ass Wheelchair Production Number with the cast of thousands that it normally takes to get Roni in full-transport mode.

  It turns out that Mom and I have a different definition for the word “dash”.

  I should have known that we were in trouble before she even walked away from the vehicle. When she softly queried what I might desire to moisten my vocal cords, I simply replied “Gatorade. Any flavor.” This proved to be a badly-flawed decision on my part.

  See, here’s my reasoning. Every convenience store carries Gatorade in some form. It’s just a thing that happens, possibly the result of an underhanded, cruel monopoly of some kind, but that’s unimportant to this story. And I like every flavor of this substance basically the same. Because they taste the same, relatively speaking. It doesn’t matter if the flavor is Mountain Breeze or Dewberry Deluge or Super Yak Extreme. In the end, it’s all just chemically-treated water that hydrates me. And that’s all I want.

  So when I decree “any flavor,” I mean just that. March your butt up to the cooler and grab the first thing that says Gatorade. No need for analysis, no need for research, no need to elicit constructive commentary from strangers standing nearby and waiting for their bucket of fake nachos with the plastic cheese and the resultant intestinal discomfort. Just grab and go.

  Mom sauntered into the store. Roni and I sat in the car and waited.

  And waited.

  And we waited some more. Two years later, there’s still no sign of her.

  I sighed, leaned forward to get a better angle, and began to peruse what I could of the activities within the store. This was probably going to prove a fruitless effort, because Mom is so short. Seriously short. Like two foot three, or something like that. Tiny. Mom climbing into an SUV is like other people scaling Mt. Everest. She has to run and jump a lot just to get places, like the next step in a staircase.

  So I’m scanning the interior, watching people waltz about in that slightly manic, unfocused way that folks have in unfamiliar convenience stores. Nobody knows where anything is, nobody is sure what they really want, there’s the whole contemplation of whether or not you should use the facilities, just in case, and everything is topped off with the apparent convenience-store regulation that there be at least one incredibly smelly person wandering around that you need to avoid, causing you to abruptly veer off course and start you whole decision-making process all over again.

  And did I mention that Mom’s short? And that she can scamper like a gazelle when the mood strikes her? Trying to find Mom in a crowd of people is like looking for a cotton ball in a forest of Redwoods. I couldn’t tell where the hell she was. Except for the checkout counter. I could see that area clearly, and there were no cotton balls in line.

  I sighed and looked at Roni. She sighed and looked at me. Then she made a small, abrupt noise and shoved four fingers into the air. This translates as: “I am tired of waiting on this woman. Here’s the plan. I want you to put the car in gear, floor it, and crash through the front of the store. While you drive up and down the aisles, I’ll hang out the window over here, and I’ll grab her if I see her. If we don’t find her in thirty seconds, then screw it. We’ll leave her ass here and go get something to eat.”

  We both thought that was really funny, and chuckled accordingly. Then we both almost screamed when somebody threw open one of the passenger doors. It was Mom, crinkly plastic bag in hand, apologizing for taking so long but there were just so MANY different kinds of Gatorade that she wasn’t sure what to do. Then she spent another five minutes trying to get enough clearance to actually get into the car.

  Roni caught my eye again. Then she made a small, abrupt noise and shoved three fingers into the air. This meant: “Same plan that we just discussed. Crash into the store, yadda yadda. Only this time I throw her out the window along with important papers she might need, including a signed document that we have no idea who she is. And then we drive off. Got it?”

  I gunned the engine…

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I Really Don’t Think This Is What Genghis Kahn Had In Mind

  So, part of the Tulsa Tribe is in town, visiting, and we’ve split into two SUV-loads of people darting about the metro-plex taking care of various errands and missions. This split in destinations took place after I gracefully confessed to the assembled family members that the thought of “all of you people in one mini-van screaming and hollering will drive me to the edge.” After a moment of silence, Dawn, my sister who always faces things head-on and pushes through the issues, calmly stated “Well, at least he’s being honest.” Let’s take two different cars.

  And we did. Terry, Dawn, niece Tristany and nephew Crispy took off to who knows where. There was some vague talk about hitting Sally’s Beauty Supply (very long story, just presume that this quest was necessary) and a fancy hair straightener. Me, Mom and sister Roni had our own objective. (For loyal fans, you might recognize among this assemblage various cast members from “The Paris Chronicles” and “Six Drags Over Texas”. You would be right, and therefore win a murky prize for your dedication. You would also be aware that both of those previous expeditions had some disastrous scenarios. Things did not look especially promising.)

  We leave the house and get really far, almost to the end of the driveway, when Mom suddenly announces that we have to get tamales today. This is a deviation from the intensely-long, painful discussion that was taking place all morning long as we tried to get 7 people to agree on the same agenda. (As mentioned, we never reached full agreement, ergo the “taking two cars” business.) But no one has been assigned tamale duty, and that just won’t do.

  I whip out my phone and call Terry, who is approximately 20 yards behind me, back under the carport where people are still dealing with unfamiliar seatbelt arrangements and doing that general “family from out of town thing” where it takes them entirely too long to simply get in the damn car and shut up

  He is not impressed with me calling him. “What?”

  “Mom wants tamales.”

  I can hear his teeth grit over the phone. “So…. are you going to get them?”

  “Well, I thought that you could.”

  He sighs. “We’re not going near there.”

  I sighed as well, but not as loud as him, because he’s better at it and there’s no sense in competing. Why did this have to be difficult? He was going closer to the tamale place than us. We were going in the other direction. But we were in this together, through thick and thin and nieces who insist on doing surprise body slams when you least expect it. “Okay, I’ll pick them up.” Then a thought struck me. “It’s getting kind of late in the day. They might be sold out and we’ll have to try again in the morning.”

  Beside me, Mom made a small noise of utter devastation and despair. Okay, then. We were getting tamales today. “I guess I could see what they have.”

  Surprisingly, Terry changed his career path, probably because he just got body-slammed by the niece and needed to end this conversation so he could attend to his internal bleeding. “We’ll go get them. Bye.”

  Yay! “Bye.”

  Anyway, I throw my car back in gear, and the three of us head out. During a random moment of Internet searching, we have discovered that there is a Dallas Cowboys Pro Shop outlet in our area. This means nothing to me. But it is something akin to the Second Coming for my sister Roni. She worships the Dallas Cowboys. With much more fervor than one would think necessary, but still. For years now, she has carried a small Cowboys bear around with her in her wheelchair. Very long years, because this little bear has been reduced to nothing more than a wispy bag of sad and dejected beans that no longer have the will to live.

  It was time to replace the bear.

  Now, despite having a firm destination, unlike that other SUV where the doomed occupants were just going to “drive around until they found a Sally’s”, our own travelogue was not without a few glitches. First, the DFW metro-plex is a very big place. The journey to arrive at a location that is supposedly “right nearby” can be the same as driving across three entire states on the Eastern Seaboard. You can start out all smiling and happy. By the time you actually get there, internal organs have begun to fail due to lack of nutrition.

  So we head up the west side of Loop 12. This is one of the most boring stretches of roadway known to mankind. There’s nothing to look at. Well, there is, but you don’t want to. Have you ever seen an artsy coffee table book that contains pictures of low-rent housing, questionable furniture outlets, tractor-trailer repair stations, seedy motels where you can apparently live for only $40 a week, and vast stretches of nothing? No, you have not. Because nobody cares about that. Nobody.

  We traverse this bit of unpleasantness, and eventually get to the intersection of Loop 12, Hwy 183 and Hwy 114. These numbers mean nothing to you, and they shouldn’t, trust. The only piece of worthwhile information is that this is where Texas Stadium used to stand, until two years ago when Cowboys owner Jerry Jones got something up his butt and decided to move the team from Dallas to Arlington, Texas.

  A move which should have made them the Arlington Cowboys, not the Dallas Cowboys. Am I right? But no one really wanted to listen to my opinion on this matter. And on the flip side, this highway intersection is actually in Irving, Texas, not Dallas. So we’ve been lied to since roughly 1972 when the stadium was built. No wonder this country is in chaos right now. We haven’t been told the truth for 40 years.

  Anyway, we roll into this traffic mix-master, try to switch roadways, and almost immediately come to a halt. Because once the Cowboys hightailed it to Arlington, some really smart person somewhere decided to just demolish the old stadium, rather than reuse it. (Doesn’t make sense to me, but once again I wasn’t consulted.) And once people started banging away on the stadium, lots of other people thought it would be really fun to totally change everything in the area.

  Like where people actually drive.

  There’s some big ole mess with restructuring the traffic exchanges so that things flow more smoothly. I’m all for that. What I’m not for? Not bothering to put any signs out about what’s going on. You want to maneuver from Loop 12 to Hwy 114? Great. But figure it out on your own. We’re not going to tell you where to go. You just have to drive your ass around through blowing billows of construction dust and ramps that are blocked off. We are not going to help you in any way. Good luck with that!

  And since the traffic-flow planners don’t care, the workers don’t care, either. You can be innocently driving along, at 15 miles per hour because you have no idea where to go, when suddenly some butt wipe in a dirt hauler will burst out of the shrubbery on the side of the road and nearly flatten your much smaller vehicle in a roar of tonnage and unconcern. There were enough screams in our car that you’d think we were watching “Friday the 13th, Part 46: Carnage at the Construction Site.” Starring Meredith Baxter Now-Lesbian-Not-Birney.

  Several years later, we finally make our way to Hwy 114. I’m lighting votive candles because I’m so thankful. Everyone else in the car has fallen asleep out of sheer boredom.  Because this does not please me, I purposely hit every bump in the road I can spy. Soon enough, Mom and Roni are once again wakeful and fearing for their lives in this place of unsupervised road construction and missing signage. Look, if I have to deal with this mess, I want some witnesses on my side when I eventually snap and start waving a deadly implement fashioned out of empty beer cans and a GPS.

  We drive for a while, then, following the Internet driving directions, we exit the freeway, make a few turns, then find ourselves in what might be an extensive business park or a Japanese internment camp from the 40’s. It’s hard to tell, all of the buildings have that vague “what the hell is going on in there” look, and there’s not a single soul in sight. Apparently it’s not socially fashionable to be seen in this particular area, at least not on a random Saturday in January.

  But we persevere, plodding along and craning our necks to read street signs, some of which are partially hidden by clearly untended landscaping that desperately wants to reclaim the land. Finally, I spy the specific road where one can supposedly find discounted Cowboys paraphernalia for perusal. I slowly turn down this street, quietly texting my location coordinates to three close friends in case they need the information for the Amber Alert when we don’t show up for three days.

  We mosey down this street for a bit, a particular avenue that has certainly seen better days, probably around the time that Sue Ellen shot JR. It’s not like there are crack houses and people named Bumpty calculating what he can get for the spare parts from my car after he kills us in a ditch, but there are definitely unoccupied buildings and a clear unconcern about winning Best Lawn in the Neighborhood. 

  In fact, I’m starting to think that someone hasn’t updated that stupid website in a while, and the outlet store has been closed for years. What am I going to tell Roni, who is gazing about with rapturous anticipation, eyes searching for the first splash of blue and silver that will confirm Cowboys Nirvana is near at hand? If I disappoint her on this expedition, there could be an intense family rift for decades to come, with bitter glances exchanged at Thanksgiving and extensive updates to inheritance proclamations.

  Suddenly, we round a bend and there it is, a ginormous building with massive lettering announcing to the world that this is the official Cowboys Merchandising Extravaganza Center, or something like that. But there’s not a single car in the parking lot. Hmmm. Not very promising. Then we notice one tiny corner of the building has a little door and a small sign announcing “Outlet Store”, with a few cars way over there. Apparently, people who work with the full-price Cowboys propaganda don’t work weekends. If you are cheap and picked-over, you have to work every day and live in a crappier apartment.

  So we get parked, with Mom struggling to get Roni in her wheelchair while Roni is practically crawling across the pavement to get to the door. I scamper ahead to hold said door, and take a gander of the interior while Mom tries to roll a bucking and impatient Roni up the sidewalk. Oh my. I haven’t seen this many empty football jerseys lying around since that time in college when we all got drunk and… oh wait, Mom doesn’t need to hear about that. Sorry.

  Mom makes it across the threshhold, and Roni nearly stops breathing, she’s so excited. She wrenches the wheelchair out of Mom’s hands and uses her good leg to make a beeline for a display of the little cowbears. She begins plowing through the miniature animals in a frenzied passion, squeals of glee echoing about the room.

  “Hi there!” chirps one of the female attendants at the checkout counter, trying to be friendly and all, but keeping an eye on Roni to ensure that nothing untoward happens, because those insurance forms can be a bitch. “Welcome to the store!”

  Mom grins sheepishly and nods her head at Roni. “She really likes the Cowboys.”

  “I do, too!” exclaims Happy Woman, who then turns to beam at Roni, as if there’s nothing more exciting than meeting a fellow human who would unashamedly have sex in a public environment with furry animals emblazoned with their favorite team. It would not surprise me if she pulled out a vibrator and tossed it Roni’s direction.

  Mom and I look at each other. This poor woman doesn’t understand. Roni really, really likes the Cowboys. She will want to personally review every single item in the store. Some of them several times. We might be here a while.

  I get out my phone to communicate our current status to the other troop deployment. Turns out that someone in the other expedition forgot a very important something that they needed in order to purchase the one thing that they have been talking about purchasing ever since she got here. And they had to go back to the house to get it.

  Great. Team Brian has already driven halfway across the state of Texas, while Team Terry is still in the driveway. It was going to be a very interesting day.

  Why did I suddenly feel like Dorothy when the color part of the movie starts?

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10 Things I Want to Ask Other People But Don’t

1. Why do you hold your wireless phone in front of your mouth when you speak instead of on the side of your head?

  Do you not understand that you are actually moving the microphone further away from your lips? If you thought this would help your little friend hear better, you’re mistaken. What type of backwoods situation led to you thinking this would improve things? Hold the phone where you’re supposed to hold it and quit dicking around.

2. What happened to all the mirrors in your house?

  Something must have, because if you had caught a glimpse of yourself, you never would have left the house looking like THAT. Then again, based on the stained clothing, unwashed body parts, and hovering gnats, the mirror may not have provided any assistance. Here’s a tip: Take a bath. And stay home anyway.

3. Have you heard of that new-fangled thing called birth control?

  No? Well, here’s a brochure. It has pictures, so I’m sure you can figure it out. Basically, you don’t have to have a child every time you have sex. No, I’m not kidding. For real! Now, your priest or one of those nun people might try to talk you out of this, saying that you will burn in Hell if you don’t use every egg your body produces to its fullest capacity, but that’s not true. Lots of people get into Heaven with less than 10 children. So run to the store and buy some of those balloon things like in the brochure pictures. Share with all your friends.

4. Do you understand why you have to get your car inspected every year?

  It’s so people don’t die. You may think it’s okay that all the trees on both sides of the road instantly die from your toxic exhaust when you drive past, but it’s really not a good thing. Actual people have to breathe that crap, too. I’ve never done anything to you. (I don’t even want to be near you.) It’s a bit unfair that the planet should have to expire prematurely just because you’re too lazy and self-centered to arrange for a bit of automotive maintenance.

  Don’t have the money to fix your car? Hmm. Well, somehow you managed to pay for that phone you’re hollering into over the clatter of your busted muffler while thousands choke on your fumes. Let’s get some priorities, shall we?

5. Is there a sign on my forehead that says I’d like to talk to strangers?

  No? Then why are you violating my personal space with intrusive questions about how my day has been and what I think of the Dallas Cowboys? I’m already forced to talk to lots of people that I don’t like, such as supervisors, relatives, and home-repair personnel who feel compelled to provide a running commentary on my decorating choices and the quality of my neighborhood. Perhaps we can come to an understanding where we simply nod briefly to one another and that’s the end of our conversational discourse. Agreed?

6. Do you not comprehend the function of the drive-thru at a fast-food restaurant?

  Because you’re just sitting there in your car, blankly staring at the menu board as if it’s written in Swahili and you have no idea what items might be served at this establishment even though you picked it. I know that choices can be confusing, but there are only so many times that you can read everything on the board. And quit hollering “Hold ON!” every time the attendant tries to take your order. It’s not HIS fault that you can’t make up your mind. What are you waiting for? The next Presidential election? Just get a cheeseburger. It’s a fail-safe.

7. Do you have a microphone in your hand?

  I didn’t think so. Now stop singing along with the song on the in-store radio while we stand in the supermarket checkout line. No one asked you to do this. I just want to pay for my croutons and then get the hell out. I don’t want to be involuntarily serenaded with a rap song, especially one where you clearly don’t know all the right words. YOU might think you have the music in you, but I’m afraid it’s just a gas bubble.

8. Did you think I was a fortune teller?

  I’m not. So you’re going to have to tell me what you want. By you just standing there and babbling about inconsequential trivia that means nothing to me, you’re causing my blood pressure to go up, and your chances of any worthwhile assistance to go down. And when we’re finally done? Please fill out this exit survey so I can determine where I erred in my quest to avoid you all day. Thank you.

9. Are you familiar with the Heimlich Maneuver?

  Do you think it works in the other direction? Because we really need to get whatever has been shoved up your ass out of there. Let’s put some duct tape over your mouth and try it. Come here.

10. Why did your people make you leave your home planet?

  And what can I do to make them take you back?

Backup Dancers From Hell: will.i.am and Nicki Minaj - “Check It Out”

Editor’s Note: This is another one of those videos where there’s so much going on that you can’t really tie a story to it, so we’ll just hit the highlights. Oh, and this is the unedited video, so there’s a bit of language. Not that you should be surprised by that if you clicked on this link…

0:03 Some announcer guy is really stoked about what might be in a locked pink box. Or by what his assistant is carrying. Or something.

0:09 Long shot showing that we’re in a very minimalist studio, where the color black is a key theme.

0:12 An army of young Yoko Ono drag queens is in the audience. They like to sit very still.

0:17 The assistant hits a button on a boom box and we start hearing a sample of Buggles’ “Video Killed the Radio Start”.

0:18 The drag queens are not impressed.

0:28 Oh look, there are some guys that like to sit very still, too. This is a well-behaved audience. Yay!

0:30 Nicki makes her debut. Something really tragic has happened to her hat, but that’s okay, because her fingernails look great.

0:34 Nicki might be having an issue with a gas bubble.

0:41 Nicki’s vocals prove that she knows some racy words.

0:45 will.i.am shows up.

0:46 Now there are two will.i.am’s, standing on each side of Nicki, probably so they can help her keep that hat on.

0:54 will.i.am is making it clear that he doesn’t like something.

0:56 Nicki confesses to a drinking problem.

1:01 will.i.am introduces some friends of his who are dancing like they are trapped in “The Matrix”, and they are able to replicate themselves while they boogie. That’s a very nice skill to have.

1:05 The Yoko Ono’s show their appreciation for the dancers by crossing their legs all at the same time.

1:10 Now we have two Nicki’s. Is there a cloning lab in the back room?

1:13 Nicki doesn’t know what to do about the bad economy.

1:17 The Yoko Ono’s all turn and look at us. It’s very creepy, and I wish they wouldn’t do that.

1:28 Nicki decides that she needs to call a taxi.

1:33 will.i.am thinks the back of his head is very special.

1:38 will.i.am approves of something that we don’t know about.

1:45 Nicki is surprised that the hat is still on her head.

1:49 The Duelling Nicki’s pay tribute to the dancing in the “Thriller” video.

1:58 will.i.am proves that he does indeed have actual eyes under those shades.

2:04 The two Nicki’s start wearing an outfit that can’t possibly be comfortable. They try to figure out how to move around while wearing molten plastic.

2:12 will.i.am has a water bottle on his head. I’m not sure that he’s aware of this.

2:13 Nicki asks Jesus if Pizza Hut showed up yet.

2:17 The Yoko Ono’s look the other way. Good.

2:30 will.i.am uses a phrase that you will never hear on “Dora the Explorer”.

2:32 People start dancing on both the floor and the ceiling, so we can probably blame Lionel Richie for that.

2:39 Nicki has an issue with what the sun may or may not have done-done this morning. I hope she works it out.

2:46 We now have 4 will.i.am’s. If this keeps going, we might have to redraw the voting districts.

2:54 Now people we don’t even know are getting cloned. But at least they have rhythm.

3:00 Nicki still needs that taxi, people. Help her out.

3:07 Did will.i.am get to close to a nuclear reactor? He really should be more careful.

3:11 The Yoko Ono’s seem very interested in will.i.am’s new appearance. Perhaps they really like people who glow in the dark and can be used to recharge their cell phones.

3:12 will.i.am seems to be trapped between two giant speakers. He tries to escape by dancing.

3:21 Nicki is stuck on the ceiling again. Maybe she’ll have better luck getting a taxi up there.

3:34 “You must be this tall to ride this ride.”

3:37 Dandruff?

3:44 The Nicki’s have given up on the taxi, and both of them are trying to hitch-hike.

3:52 Nicki’s necklace has come alive and is trying to eat her head.

3:54 Oh wait, she’s fine.

4:06 The guys in the audience still haven’t moved. They must have stayed out too late last night at the Unisex Bar.

4:07 Okay, they just moved, in that creepy way the Yoko Ono’s did, staring right at us. Did I mention that I don’t care for that? Stop it.

4:13 Nicki does an interpretive dance explaining the history of panty liners.

4:15 In response, the Yoko Ono’s uncross their legs. They have all the protection they need, thank you very much.

4:18 Two of the will.i.am’s and two of the Nicki’s await the arrival of the mothership.

4:22 The Yoko Ono’s clap, apparently being very familiar with spacecraft, intergalactic travel, and matching uniforms.

4:24 will.i.am types on an invisible keyboard, probably reserving his seat at the next American Music Awards, because you know he’s going to be there.

4:27 Nicki prepares to throw a football, because somebody needs to do so if the Dallas Cowboys are ever going to win a game again.

Fade to black.

　

Click Here to Watch the Video on YouTube.

10 Reasons Why the Implosion of Texas Stadium is Just Like Real Life

Note: Texas Stadium, the former home of the Dallas Cowboys for nearly 40 years, was demolished yesterday. I really don’t care for football. Never have. But with this being Dallas, where there are local ordinances requiring that even the tiniest bit of self-importance be elevated to behemoth proportions, this was a Big Thing. All of the media outlets in the metroplex had people stationed at the demolition site, with reporters salivating at the chance to turn this into something more than it was. After nearly 24 hours of non-stop coverage, I’ve had time to reflect…

1. Some people will get up at ungodly hours in order to do questionable things.

  Most of the parking lots in the area (and there are tons of them, I know this well because I have to drive through the massive acreage on my way to work) were closed to the public for the Big Bang.  But they did keep one lot open, allowing people to park there, beginning at 2am for the 7am explosion.

  Two o’clock in the morning. On a Sunday. Seriously, who would do that? Yet we have video footage showing carloads of people lined up at 2:01am, with the vehicles crammed full of people doing “the wave” as they motor past. Do these people not understand that they have 5 hours until the button is pushed? Save your strength.

2. Some people will stay awake at ungodly hours in order to do questionable things.

  At 2:02am in the coverage, it became clear that some of the cars were stuffed with people who had never been to bed, and had probably driven directly from the bars after last call. These red-eyed enthusiasts were unable to perform “the wave” with any degree of coordination, but they could certainly lean out the car windows and grunt at the cameras as they feebly tried to keep their go-cups from spilling.

3. There are some really skilled news reporters out there who can put an interesting spin on anything.

  During the inevitable lag time between the opening of the sacred single parking lot and the actual destruction of the stadium, the mass of reporters had a chance to prove their worth. Some failed miserably. (Reporter: “So, are you a fan of the Cowboys?” Oh, come on, girl. Of course they’re a fan. Are you sure you made the right career choice?) But others struggled valiantly to score a scoop.

  Reporter: “So what does this moment mean to you?”

  Van driver: “Moment? Is this a moment?”

  Reporter: “The whole explosion thing? What are your memories of this beloved stadium?”

  Van driver: “Are we at the stadium? This isn’t Whataburger?”

  Reporter, grimacing: “Can you tell me about the good times your family has had watching the Cowboys play?”

  Van driver: “Cowboys? Wait, is this Fort Worth? I thought we were in Dallas.”

  Reporter, trying not to claw her face: “Okay. Well, do you have any kind of connection whatsoever with this parking lot and that stadium right over there that is about to blow up?”

  Van driver: “Do you take coupons? I’ve got one for a free order of fries.”

4. Climate change is affecting our entire world.

  Weeks before the planned hitting-of-the-button, the city of Irving sent out a warning to all of the residents within a one-mile radius of the stadium that they should probably shut off their air-conditioning during the time of the implosion. You know, so your unit won’t suck dust into your home and make everybody sound like Darth Vader.

  This brings up two points of discussion. First, the Dallas Cowboys were playing in a stadium that wasn’t located in Dallas. (For forty years.) By default, this would make them the Irving Cowboys, not the Dallas Cowboys. Am I the only one who thinks there’s been a miscarriage of justice?

  Second, I see a lawsuit coming. Yes, the City of Irving did the right thing. They tried to warn everybody about the dust cloud. But there’s going to be some bitter wretch who files a lawsuit anyway. It’s going to be in the vein of that stupid woman who sued McDonald’s because she didn’t understand that coffee is HOT. And she WON. Right there, in that moment when stupidity was rewarded, the world shifted on its axis. Now you can sue anybody for anything, logic be damned.

5. Bored people will cheer for no good reason.

  Okay, up to the point of pushing the button, the on-site reporters were doing their best to present human-interest stories of people totally devastated by the implosion of the sporting venue they have loved since childhood. Yet, as soon as the carefully-placed bombs started going off and the stadium began to devolve into dust, deranged fans were jumping in the air and celebrating the destruction. What happened to the trauma? Why are you clapping?

6. Okay, not everybody was clapping.

  We did have a nice segment where a reporter was interviewing former Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders as they prepared to watch the destruction. To be fair, one of them was truly moved, weeping copiously as the clock ticked down. She was the only one. The rest of her counterparts were scouring the vicinity for any agent that might sign them for a tell-all book tour.

7. TV cameras apparently emit a homing signal to lure idiots with no concept of reality.

  Do you really need any examples? Didn’t think so.

8. Repetition is soothing in a medicated society.

  We watched the stadium fall at least 100 times on three different channels. As if something different would happen if we just kept watching. Meanwhile, tax forms remain incomplete, there’s not a single clean dish in the house, and my crops have withered in Farmville.

9. People watching the same exact scene will have differing interpretations.

  Despite careful planning by the implosion crew, three of the stadium support towers did not completely fall. Each TV station had their own explanation. One reporter informed us that unexpected piles of debris caused blockage of some kind. Another assured us that this non-falling was intentional, with plans to sell the tower pieces on eBay or some such. And yet another anchor babbled incoherently that the remaining towers symbolized God’s wrath over the Mississippi lesbian who wanted to wear a tuxedo to her high school prom. I’ll let you guess which channel THAT was.

10. When anything at all happens that concerns the Dallas Cowboys, everything else on the local newscasts becomes secondary.

  Even the most progressive and inclusive news programs will have 29 minutes of Cowboys-mania, with all other events shoved into the final 60 seconds. This wrap-up is usually presented by a disgruntled, lesser-known anchor who has an attitude because he didn‘t get to work on the lead story: “Um, okay, there was a gas leak in Forth Worth, the Dallas City Council voted on something, the high tomorrow will be 84 degrees, and some guy died in Poland. Have a great night!”