...tonight's edition of "Amandarama" finds Mr. Scoop filling in for me. Because he loves me and, he's funny and, as far as you know, I'm too drunk in the other room to stop him from posting this...
Hi. Mr. Scoop here. You may remember me from such classic Amandarama posts as, “Children Are Scum And Must Taste My Turgid, Foamy Beer,” and “Lawrence Welk Must Douche” (granted, she chose more reader-friendly titles than I originally suggested, but I still love her). Anyway…
Scoop has made quite a writing sport of my ranting at the television. Granted, for mostly good reasons, but what such posting glosses over is: there’s a reason we are together. And that reason is we feed off each other in the "bad television ranting" area of performance art (which is a new area of performance art. You don’t get an NEA grant for it, which is tragic, but then again, NEA grantees don’t get rabid monkey love with Scoop. I’m pretty sure I win. At least that’s what the friction burns on my nether-regions tell me).
As misanthropic as Scoop portrays me as (which, I’ll admit, is almost totally deserved. Although that last skank of a syphilitic hooker was ALIVE when I LEFT), you need to understand that I can’t do these things in a vacuum. She laughs when I do these things, and it’s because she does the same Goddamned thing. She’d rather you didn’t know about that, because she reads literature, and she teaches your children, but make no mistake: she finds dead hookers just as funny as I do. Case in point…
Tonight, Scoop and I were watching a Comcast on-demand program, courtesy of Discovery Health, called, “Medical Incredible.” It featured a variety of people who, confronted with some of the most bizarre and esoteric medical maladies known to mankind, were not only able to confront those maladies, but, rather, overcome them. Which is a lot of syllables for “Freaks" - but who am I to cast aspersions while on my one-hundredth beer this long holiday weekend?
To the point:
The first subject was a boy who was cursed with a malady named Progeria. Progeria is a genetic disease which causes people to age prematurely. This young man, named Orny, was eight years old and had the body of a fifty-six year old with the rheumatiz. He was doomed to be dead within five years. The narrator of the program described the disease as being caused by a single gene that was, by nature, just wrong.
I said, “How can there be a wrong gene? I’ve seen Gattaca. There’s only, like, four genes. G, A T, and C.”
Scoop said, “Yeah, but somewhere this kid’s got a Schwa. His chromosones go: ‘G, A, T, ə,’ and whammo! Not only does he drool and totter, he’s pissed over his stolen BMX and his Medicare prescription benefits.”
Within the next five minutes, Scoop and I were introduced to another poor soul with the same condition, but who had managed to hold on until the ripe old age of nineteen. She was three feet tall, with a fat stomach, mediocre breasts, and skinny arms and legs. However, since she had made it to high school, her classmates had voted her prom queen. Because her condition was incurable, she posited that, “I think the high point of my life was being voted prom queen. It’s not going to get better for me than that.”
“Bullshit!” exclaimed Scoop. “The world will always need new Oompa Loompas.”
After we managed to get the elderly out of the way, we were introduced to a woman from Illinois who was a low-rent radio personality before she, well, stroked out. And when she recovered, she was miraculously able to speak without a Kirk-Douglas-slur, but she did have an English accent. Even though she’d never been to England. Granted, it was the shittiest English accent since every Goddamned actor in “Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves”, but regardless…
This woman had a therapist testing her to see if her accent was genuine, or an excuse to not have to announce the Traffic and Weather On The Threes. So they asked her, “In America, we say, ‘We’re going to the pharmacy to get our prescription. What do you say in England?’” And she said, “We say, ‘We go to the pharmacy to fill the script.’”
Scoop (who spent about six months living in London) yelled, “Christ! They say, ‘We go to the chemist for the fucking script!’ If they want to test this right, you need to turn it around! Ask the bitch, ‘In England, we say: “We’re going to the chemist to fill the script.” Translate that to American.’ And if she doesn’t say, “GIVE ME ALL THE OXY, OR I SHOOT!” then you shut off her disability..or maybe stab her’”
The point of the above story is: I’m not a monster in a vacuum, okay?
Plus, my girl’s funnier and more fun than yours.