Monday Morning Video Laugh - February 14, 2022

Happy Valentine's Day.  What better way to celebrate than showing you the last scene of "Fatal Attraction."  Yes, this is funny.

Dinner last night:  Sausage, peppers, and onions.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - Super Bowl Sunday and I Rarely Care

 

Just to be clear, I hate the Super Bowl.  I rarely watch it.  I don't care who wins or who loses.  And this year the damn game is essentially five miles from my house.

Nope.   I still don't care.

I try to avoid house parties built around watching the game.  There are dozens of reasons why you should invite folks over to your house for a soiree.  Watching an overhyped football game is not one of them.  And, each year, it's more of the same.  Nothing ever changes even though we're up to what Super Bowl number?  175?

And don't you just love how they amp up the importance of this contest by numbering it with Roman numerals.  As if this is even remotely Biblical??  What are we supposed to think?  Disciple Simon Peter was the treasurer for the big football pool set up by Jesus.  Come on!  Get a grip, gang.

Of course, there was a time and a year, ages ago, that I did care.  And it would be the first time in my very young life as as a crazy and likely obnoxious sports fan that I would be vindicated.

Super Bowl III.  My team was in it.  The New York Jets.  How lucky could I get?  Somebody that actually was rooting for was playing in the big game.  Woo hoo!  I might not ever get the opportunity to have a moment like this in my life ever again.  Of course, about nine months later, I would be in a frenzy all over again when the Mets...my Mets...came out of complete mediocrity to win the World Series.

Of course, I would get to see the Mets do this again...well, one more time...in my life.  As for the Jets and the Super Bowl?  Yeah, we're still waiting.

But, in that football season preceding Super Bowl III, it was all that this kid could think about it.  I hung on every pass and every penalty.  You may have remembered that I previously wrote about the year where I went to a lot of Jets games at Shea Stadium courtesy of my mother's boss and her amorous boyfriend.  Well, that ticket opportunity had dried up already.  I didn't get to go to any Jets home games in that championship season.  But I was glued to the television.  Or, in the case of the big American Football League championship game, the radio.  Back then, television coverage of pro football was not abundant. 

I did what I could to stay intimately connected to the New York Jets.

When it was clear that my guys were moving onto the Super Bowl, I could focus on little else.  I sat in class coloring in shapes on my textbook covers with shades of green and white.  Around the house, I walked around with my little toy Jets football all day long.  Tossing up and down.  Side to side.  In the air and then down.  Grandma started to get fed up.  She started to visualize some of her dining room crystal in pieces.

"You're gonna break something with that stupid thing of yours."

I didn't really listen.  If I put the little toy ball down, I almost felt as if I would be severing the connection to my Jets. 

Upstairs in our end of the house, I walked around nervously with my little toy Jets football all day.  Tossing it up and down.  My mother started to get fed up.

"One more time and that goes into the garbage."

Nobody understood what I was feeling.

As would be the case with most teams I rooted for in my life, the Jets never got any respect.  But, for that matter, neither did the whole AFL, which was essentially gum on the shoe of any pro football fan.  They can't be that important because, after all, it's not the NFL.  The AFL team had gotten destroyed in the first two Super Bowls by those assholes from Wisconsin, the Green Bay Packers.  What the heck could the Jets possibly do against this year's NFL juggernaut, the Baltimore Colts?  Especially with quarterback Joe Namath, who had a big mouth and might be a regular wearer of panty hose.

Nevertheless, I viewed the upcoming game with excitement.  And trepidation.

And a little toy Jets football in my hand.

For me, the week preceding the Super Bowl couldn't have gone faster.  I awoke Saturday mentally preparing myself for the contest on Sunday.  Back then, there wasn't the frenzy and chaos behind the Super Bowl that you witness today.  But, in my mind on that day, there was enough frenzy and chaos in my mind to cover a dozen Super Bowl parties in 2013.

But, as I tried to mentally prepare myself, something else weird was going on.  I had a headache.

Now, when I go for my annual physical every December, my current internist and I go through our traditional dialogue.

"You want a flu shot?"

"Doc, I don't get the flu."

"Then, okay, you don't need to get a flu shot."

And that's a fact.  I never get a flu shot.  Because there are only two times in my entire life when I got the flu.  On New Year's Eve freshman year in college.

And on the Saturday before Super Bowl III.

By that night, I was as sick as a dog.  It was the perfect storm of ailments.  Head, stomach, and every bodily portal of entry and exit.  I could barely lift my head off the pillow in my room to watch my favorite TV show, "Get Smart."  I prayed silently that I would be better the next day.  The Jets needed me in perfect condition.

Sunday morning was even worse.  I got parental approval to move my carcass from my bedroom to the living room sofa so I could at least watch the game with my father.

Hugging my little toy Jets football, I curled up on the couch just as the opening whistle blew.

And promptly fell asleep.

As you probably know, this would be the greatest moment in Jets history ever. 

I was in a coma for all of it.

My dad rustled me awake to tell me the final score.  In my body of aches and torment, I could barely muster a smile.

And then I ran down to the bathroom so I could throw up. 

Over time, I have gone in and out of fandom with the New York Jets.  But they have never been in the Super Bowl since.  And, given my luck, likely will be there.  Because, somewhere in this crazy world of irony, somebody will note that the one time the Jets made the Super Bowl, this fan slept right through it.

And then threw up.

Dinner last night:  Grilled bratwurst.

Classic Newsreel of the Month - February 2022

Seventy winters ago!

 

Dinner last night:  Jambon beurre sandwich at Petit Trois.

A Cynic's Guide to Valentine's Day Cards

 

Dinner last night:  Taylor Ham-burger.

Hey, Can We Get a Little Light in Here?

 

...said me from my seat watching Guillermo Del Toro's latest travesty "Nightmare Alley."   It's the total antithesis of somebody wanting to see a movie.   Because of the dark 60 watt bulb lighting throughout, you can't see a thing.

Why am I surprised?   This is another bloated affair from Del Toro, whose movies are as large and sloppy as he is.  For some reason, Hollywood adores this swine and even gave him the Best Picture Oscar for the dreadful "Shape of Water."   Well, this year's nominations (as if anybody still cares) came out this week and the love tryst continues.   

Again, I would counter that nobody knows what they are looking at because the film is so excessively dark.   This makes film noir of the 40s look like a Busby Berkeley musical.  Perhaps if you can't see the action on the screen, it will help you overlook the ugly characters prancing around a lack of story.

For those who care, Bradley Cooper plays this...dark...guy who somehow wanders into a...dark...traveling carnival loaded with live chicken eaters, soothsayers, and a woman who electrocutes herself on cue.  That's the first half of the movie.   If you haven't left, the second half takes Cooper to the big city where he becomes a Kreskin-like mentalist in supper clubs.   While there, he hooks up with a...dark...shrink played by Cate Blanchett.

What happened after that?   Your guess is as good as mine.   But, clearly this is a glimpse of Del Toro's childhood and he must have gotten beaten up a lot in the playground.   He seemingly hates everybody.

We're even.   I hate him.   

Hmmm.  Did I actually just write that?   Sorry.  My vision is still adjusting to light.

LEN'S RATING:  Zero stars.

Dinner last night:  Korean pork from PF Chang's.

This Date in History - February 9

 

Yes, Joe Pesci, it's your special day.  We hope we fuckin' amuse you.

1555:  BISHOP OF GLOUCESTER JOHN HOOPER IS BURNED AT THE STAKE.

Hold the onions.  By the way, is this guy any relation to that Gorton's fisherman guy?

1621:  GREGORY XV BECOMES POPE, THE LAST POPE ELECTED BY ACCLAMATION.

These little Vatican factoids always amaze me.  It's only 1621 and there's already been fourteen other Popes named Gregory.

1825:  AFTER NO PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE RECEIVES A MAJORITY OF ELECTORAL VOTES IN THE ELECTION OF 1824, THE US HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES ELECTS JOHN QUINCY ADAMS PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES.

Did they try and throw Russia under the bus for this one, too?

1849:  NEW ROMAN REPUBLIC ESTABLISHED.

This time, they were smart.  Fiddles were made illegal.

1861:  DURING THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR, JEFFERSON DAVIS IS ELECTED THE PROVISIONAL PRESIDENT OF THE CONFEDERATE STATES OF AMERICA.

In retrospect, what was the North fighting for?  Who wants that part of the country anyway?  Think of the money saved from reduced FEMA payouts.

1870:  THE US WEATHER BUREAU IS ESTABLISHED.

Prior to this, every day was a complete surprise.

1885:  THE FIRST JAPANESE GOVERNMENT-APPROVED IMMIGRANTS ARRIVE IN HAWAII.

If only they had stopped there...

1900:  THE DAVIS CUP COMPETITION IS ESTABLISHED.

For those three people who pay attention to the Davis Cup....

1928:  NEWSCASTER ROGER MUDD IS BORN.

And his name remains...mudd.

1942:  DURING WORLD WAR II, TOP US MILITARY LEADERS HOLD THEIR FIRST FORMAL MEETING TO DISCUSS AMERICAN MILITARY WAR STRATEGY.

Okay, we get bombed on December 7.  It takes them almost two months to decide about meeting on this.  Hello?  Was everybody's Outlook broken?

1942:  YEAR-ROUND DAYLIGHT SAVING TIME IS REINSTATED IN THE US AS A WARTIME MEASURE TO HELP CONSERVE ENERGY MEASURES.

Spring ahead, fall ahead.

1943:  DURING WORLD WAR II, ALLIED FORCES DECLARE GUADALCANAL SECURE, ENDING THE BATTLE OF GUADALCANAL.

Might have happened sooner if those tools hadn't dragged their feet booking that first strategy meeting.

1943:  ACTOR JOE PESCI IS BORN.

And don't you fuggedabowtit.

1945:  ACTRESS MIA FARROW IS BORN.

She was out at a supper club with Sinatra that very night.

1950:  SENATOR JOSEPH MCCARTHY ACCUSES THE US DEPARTMENT OF STATE OF BEING FILLED WITH COMMUNISTS.

Liars and crooks, yes.  Communists, no.

1960:  JOANNE WOODWARD RECEIVES THE FIRST STAR ON THE HOLLYWOOD WALK OF FAME.

It's fascinating what you learn here every Wednesday.

1964:  THE BEATLES MAKE THEIR FIRST APPEARANCE ON THE ED SULLIVAN SHOW.

We love you, yeah, yeah, yeah.

1969:  ACTOR GABBY HAYES DIES.

Now, not so much...

1971:  A 6.4 EARTHQUAKE HITS THE SAN FERNANDO VALLEY AREA OF CALIFORNIA.

Rocking and rolling is here to stay.

1976:  MUSICIAN PERCY FAITH DIES.

He's found a place for the summer.  And the fall.  And the winter.  And forever.

1981:  BILL HALEY OF THE COMETS DIES.

Falling back to earth in a big ole way.

1995:  SPACE SHUTTLE ASTRONAUT BERNARD HARRIS JR. BECOMES THE FIRST AFRICAN AMERICAN TO PERFORM A SPACEWALK.

And also marked the first time the outside of the shuttle was spray painted with graffiti.

2018:  ACTOR JOHN GAVIN DIES.

The boyfriend in "Psycho."

2021:  THE SECOND IMPEACHMENT TRIAL OF DONALD TRUMP BEGINS.

There were like five of them, right?

Dinner last night:   Leftover chicken with vinegar sauce.

Morons of the Month - February 2022

 

As long as there are politicians in this nation, we will always have monthly morons.  And especially those who have a "D" after their name.   Gee, I thought that stood for "Democrat."   Maybe it really signifies "Dummy."

Now, with NY's Bill DeBlasio now doing clean-up on the condiment counter at Burger King, we can officially say without question that Eric Garcetti is the dumbest mayor in the US.   He will hold that title until he is either booted or Mayor Pete goes back to his old job in South Bend.   

There is no better illustration of Garcetti's stupidity than the photo faux pas which caught him maskless at the Rams stadium last week.   When questioned about this, this idiot explained it all away by saying this was only for the selfie and he was holding his breath the entire time.

Hahahahahahahahaha!

If only he could not exhale for about 90 minutes and then we would have a good story.

But lunacy is obviously more contagious than Omicron.   Because, at the very same event, we got the other California shit-for-brains Governor Gavin Newscum caught in a similar selfie.

When caught, Newscum had an explanation that differed from Garshitty's "holding his breath" nonsense.   Nope, Newscum explained that his mask was on at all times and he was holding it at his side.   He only removed it to take a sip of water.

The only people dumber than these two are the ones who pulled the lever next to their names in the voting booth.  That might even be you.

And here's the catch on both of these selfies.   Magic Johnson is also maskless. Now he's as dumb as a door knob, too, but...I mean...he's got an auto immune issue.   Wasn't he deemed HIV Positive 100 years ago?   Shouldn't he be masked at all times?   And not hanging around with these two morons?

This is all a fucking charade.   And surprise...California has now lifted indoor mask mandates.

Dinner last night:  Leftover Chinese food.