By Zach Hosseini
Ah, 2003, we hardly knew ya. For me at least, it will be stricken forever from my memory (See: Aaron “Bleeping” Boone, Oct. 16 and Oct. 17). But some good stuff happened right? Right? Well I’m sure something did, and that’s why I’m inventing an end of the year wrap-up that you won’t find anywhere else, not anywhere. Nope, nobody on the whole entire face of the world will write a year-end, un-funny summary of quasi-major issues and simultaneously and egregiously leave out the few morally uplifting stories that got buried. Nope, just me. But as a service to my tens of dozens of loyal readers (official numbers may vary), I’m going to take this year’s lame events and match them up with the one thing that makes my life worth living: my “This is Spinal Tap” DVD. So, without further ado …
“Well, this piece is called ‘Lick My Love Pump.'” Mmm, Paris Hilton, you tasty treat. You made an art out of becoming famous for doing nothing. But, you were brilliant enough to turn (unwittingly) your only talent into a PR vehicle for your new television show. Cheers, and I can’t wait to see you at the Adult Movie Awards. I’ll be the ugly guy with the stained Dallas Cowboys sweater with the skeevy smile. Trust me; you’ll know it’s me.
“Dozens of people spontaneously combust each year. It’s just not really widely reported … ” A whole nation of people spontaneously combusted in October. (Yankee fans may skip down to the next paragraph, or go back to ruining the world.) There was a collective misery in this city for those three hours every night when the Red Sox played their division series against the Oakland Athletics and then the American League Championship Series against the Yankees. But it was a misery born out of caring about every pitch, hit and inch of Johnny Damon’s hair. Some pundits say we enjoy losing, that we’re inherently masochistic. But it’s not that, it’s a passion and lust which we reserve only for those 25 pampered men.
“The numbers all go to 11. Look, right across the board, 11, 11, 11 … ” You can count in sets of 11 the number of casualties America suffered this past year in Iraq. “Two soldiers killed today in Baghdad” or “Eleven soldiers seriously injured in freak walking accident in Mosul.” And can somebody please tell me why the military sent every single defective jeep to Iraq? You’d think that for the 80 quadzillion or so dollars President Bush asked for, they could get something better than what I drove in 11th grade. And there is not a foreseeable end to this conflict either. Eventually, if it hasn’t happened yet, someone you know will be coming home without a limb, or in a body bag.
“We’ve got armadillos in our trousers. It’s really quite frightening … ” Well, I couldn’t really find a quote that didn’t totally disrespect what happened at the Station Night Club in Rhode Island. But I used something light and goofy. Now, let’s get back to the issue. What was striking about what happened that fateful night in West Warwick was how far reaching the tragedy was. As the casualty count went up, stories came out about wives, sons and friends who died just listening to music. These weren’t drug dealers, they were doctors, salesmen and moms.
“As long as there’s, you know, sex and drugs, I can do without the rock and roll … ” I know it is clich
