Oh, to be a fly on the wall of the Dr. Oz writing room. No—to be a person on a chair in that writing room.
To make the cut on the Dr. Oz show, you’ve got to know a thing. The thing being, of course, redundancy. When you send the esteemed Dr. Mehmet Oz out into that standing-room-only-lioness-den-and-also-television-studio packed to the brim with bored, middle-aged women, he better be stuffed up to his beady little eyes with tips on how to lose weight.
If not, upon you will the harem of Oz feast.
So, if anyone from the Dr. Oz camp happens to be reading this, I went ahead and drafted a spec script:
Dr. Oz, returning from commercial: “Welcome back ladies, yes, I am a real doctor.” He pauses here to allow swooning. “Now, let’s get right to it: who wants to lose weight?”
Audience: “MEEEEEEEE!!!!! MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!”
Oz: “Okay then. I’ve got a secret to share, something no other doctor will ever tell you. Quick survey: how many of you eat a cheeseburger and French fries every day? Show of hands.”
Everyone raises their hand.
Oz: “Did any of you know that a diet like that is actually bad for you?”
Everyone looks around in disbelief.
Oz: “It’s true, it’s true. What if I told you that, instead of eating a cheeseburger and fries every day, you will lose weight if you eat broccoli and rice instead?”
The audience collectively bows down to The Oz: “We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!”
Dr. Oz: “And here’s a bonus tip—it’s also healthier to drink water instead of soda!”
Everyone is now spasming and speaking in tongues.
Dr. Oz: “And one more thing before we go: if you exercise instead of sitting on your couch, your metabolism will speed up!”
Something like scales fall from upon every eye in the audience. A massive rebirth has taken place. They all go forth into the world, ready to turn their lives around. However, in the time between the end of the show and the next morning, all of these brutal truths are washed away by one last binge, followed by the intoxicating coma that comes after eating a box of Cosmic Brownies….
Tomorrow, Dr. Oz replaces cheeseburger with hot dog. Broccoli becomes spinach. Water is now decaffeinated green tea. No one notices.
The unstoppable Oz cash cow continues to feast upon itself.
Here is a review of Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. Spoilers? Sure.
Now, from what I gather, sometime during the original series, Voldemort managed to impregnate Draco Malfoy, and is the true father of Scorpius. Due to the fact that Harry Potter was somewhat telepathically connected to Voldemort at that time, he’s kind of the dad too.
It is now the year 3030. Scorpius Malfoy and Albus Severus, Harry’s other son, are dating. And not just casually—they’ve both thought about who would be their groomsmen. Meanwhile, another one of Harry’s sons, James Sirius, is battling a pretty heavy heroin addiction. It is hinted that this has caused Ginny, Harry’s alcoholic wife, to elope with Dudley Dursley.
Then, in a breaking of the fourth wall, all of the characters suddenly realize that they are in a play, which itself has been novelized by two dudes who did not create the series which was the basis for the play that was turned into this book.
Browse through People of Walmart for a bit. Pretty scary stuff.
The universe needs balance, though. Enter the yuppies of Trader Joe’s, a force countering the grizzled mass that comprises Walmart’s patronage, not in looks, but in sheer pomposity.
Last Friday, I witnessed a 40-something male, clad in snug, halfway-down-the-quad navy blue short pants and a tight pastel plaid shirt, shaming an elderly woman that may have been his mother, lover—or through some sort of strange sci-fi twist, daughter—for suggesting that they buy frozen corn.
Picture that: unfettered fury, arising from the mere mention of produce stored below thirty two degrees Fahrenheit.
The situation played out like this:
Mother, daughter, or lover: “They have some corn in the freezer.”
Man, through gritted teeth, with a vein protruding from his forehead, talking very slowly: “What did……..I tell you……..about frozen…………………… products.”
Then he stood, glaring at her in silence, as a look of genuine terror overtook the woman’s face.
I feel like I should have intervened, but I got the vibe that this would have earned me a room temperature organic daikon radish stuffed into one of my many unfrozen orifices, courtesy of short pants.
A man is in a situation where another man produces a smooth object.
Man #1: “That’s as smooth as a baby’s bottom.”
Man #2: “What.”
Man 1: “That object you handed me is as smooth as a baby’s bottom.”
Man 2: “How could you possibly know how smooth a baby’s bottom is.”
Man 1: “I…….just do.”
Man 2: “You shouldn’t know what a baby’s ass feels like. You don’t have kids.”
Man 1: “So?”
Man 2: “Yet you know what the buttocks of an infant feels like.”
Man 1: “Yes, I suppose you could say that.”
Man 2: (Producing a badge) “Freeze, buttwipe. I’m an undercover constable. You’re under arrest.”
Later on, in court, Man 1 was unable to produce a believable explanation as to why he possessed so much knowledge about the topography of baby rumps, and went to jail for a very, very long time. The end.
A few weeks ago, at one of them political rallies, Dr. Ben Carson said something like this: Hillary Clinton wrote her senior thesis on Saul Alinsky. Saul Alinsky mentions Lucifer in one of his books. Therefore, Hillary Clinton worships Satan.
Compelling argument, but there’s no way she’s that cool.
So I sat for a while, thinking. Following Dr. Carson’s logic, I learned some very dark truths about myself.
Here are a few:
I read Gravity’s Rainbow, a big novel with a small part featuring coprophilia. Therefore, I am a coprophiliac.
I enjoy using car batteries to torture hookers, because a copy of American Psycho is sitting in my book pile right now. Also, I like to stab small children at the zoo.
I am a homophobic pill popper who hates his mother. That would be from my high school days listening to Eminem.
I cook meth. Thanks, Breaking Bad.
And most horrifying of all, I might not play football next year because I’d rather hang out with Wooderson and drink beer.
I recently read on the internet that all lives matter. Read: since only things with lives matter, that automatically means that anything without life, any object lacking that essential élan vital, is second class scum and not worthy of our time. All of this pleases me, ‘cuz I’ve got this dead guy.
This dead guy does not matter one bit. It’s right there in the hashtag. That gives me the go-ahead to really go to town on this corpse. Sex. I didn’t say it. You were thinking it. Anyways, there are a lot of non-sexual things you can do with a worthless body that just wouldn’t fly with a live person. I plan to stab it first. After that, I’m going to throw it off my balcony and see if it explodes on the concrete below.
That’s it. That’s all I want to do with the dead guy.
I think it’s pretty obvious how the Democratic National Convention is going to end: tomorrow night, right during primetime, expect Hillary Clinton and Bernie Sanders to be sown together, legally making them one person, something called Billary Slinton or Hernie Clanders, who will become the new nominee.
Or they’ll conceive a baby.
Then they’ll pump Hillary full of age-accelerating pills—something the government has been hiding from us—in order for the love child to be born and advance to an electable age by November.
Either way, I don’t care anymore.