Posting about Mel Gibson is, like, the biggest thing now that Cindy Sheehan's a nobody, now that Brad and Jen have rilly broken up, now that Tom Cruise's kid's name has been entered into the dictionary of standard baby names, and so forth.
So I'm hoppin' on the bandwagon, and poasting about Mel.
Mel? I. Don't. Give. A. Fuck. About. You.
I don't care if you're an anti-semite. There are plenty who are, in this world, and you're all fuckwits.
I don't care if you're an alkie, seeking treatment. I mean, good on ya, but keep it to yourself. I got enough troubles of me own these days to worry about whether you go on a bender or recite the steps and the traditions.
I don't care if you are Catholic, old-school or new. I don't care if you're red. I don't care if you're blue. I will not care if you're in the rain, I will not care if you're on a train. I will not care for you here nor there, I will not care for you anywhere. Even if you're eggs and ham, I don't care 'bout you, old man.
And that's my final word on the subject.
BUT....what if he were GREEN eggs and ham? Would you like him in a cop car? Would you like him in a bar? Would you like him, would you care, would you like him anywhere, Gek-I-Am?
Everyone says stupid crap when they are drunk. If he said he hated redheads, I can assure you, I would not be writing hate mail to him. If I had that much time on my hands I would kill myself.
"If I had that much time on my hands, I would kill myself"
I didn't think killing one'sself took all that long.
"If he said he hated redheads..."
Hey, I owe Mel bigtime, but if he dives off THAT highboard, even I'll hawk a lugie at him.
But, still and all, I do owe him.
I once (and still) owned a revolver, but desperately wanted an automatic pistol. More particularly, I wanted a Beretta Model 92F 9mm, but was making no headway with impressing The Beneficiary vis-a-vis the importance of the thing. Since she, in a fit of common sense which I can only attribute to raw animal survival instinct, took total and absolute control of our money early in our marriage, this was a problem.
True, she kept us fed and clothed and housed, but she selfishly refused to budge on the pistol issue, which I estimated we could pay for by cutting the kids back to one meal a day for only eight months. Hell, them little Bangladeshis would JUMP at THAT deal, so I figgered OUR kids would manage OK. You oughta heard THAT argument.
At any rate, it wasn't working out.
Then we went to see "Lethal Weapon" in '87. Mel killed roughly 2700 bad guys and did semi-homoerotic suicide stuff with his pistol.
"There!" I said, "see that gun? THAT'S the gun I want! How could you deny me?"
She gazed at the movie, enraptured at the blazing power of the thing. Or, as it later turned out, at Mel's nekkid ass parading across the screen on a variety of occasions.
"So, then," she purred, stroking my leg, "does that gun come with that ass?"
"Oh, hell yeah," I said. "Thought you knew that. It comes in the box with the pistol."
Had it within the week. Thanks, Mel!
(Oh, come on, she didn't get cheated. She had access to the ass all that time...in fact, there's enough raw material for TWO o' them puppies, albeit a little doughier.)
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