The Dream Goes on Forever: Game 2, Debate 3, Falafels and Slayer
It was hard trying to watch both the debate and the game while at the same time trying to maintain a presence in the Command Post chat room while looking for a lost Language Arts notebook while keeping the cycle of laundry to dryer to basket going strong while listening to a litany of Halloween costume ideas my daughter didn't choose. It took ten minutes for her to get to the one she decided on. She's going to be a banana. Her best friend is going to be a phone. Together they make.....banana phone! If you have to ask, you'll never understand.
Sort of like Pedro Martinez. He lost to the Yankees last night. His team is down two games to none. Here's what he had to say, mostly in reference to the Who's Your Daddy chants:
"It actually made me feel really, really good," said Martinez, in another bizarre late-night press session. "I actually kind of like it. I don't like to brag about myself, but they did make me feel important. I got their attention."
Nice to know at least one Red Sox came out of that loss feeling good.
As Jason says: Red Sox Nation, your Game 6 starter. I'd just like to take this moment to point out that Britain made the Falklands feel important, too.
Well, at least with the Yankee game we had a clear winner. As for last night's debate, the winners were the people who fell asleep ten minutes in, drool dripping down chin, can of beer balancing precariously on stomach. That's how I imagine Mr. Undecided Voter. Comes home late from work, tired, disheveled and cursing his commute. Strips off his tie and jacket, and near everything else. Gets right down to his boxers and Hanes t-shirt. Keeps the black socks on, though. Reads the note from his wife that she's gone out. Find his dinner in the microwave, heats it up and heads for the couch. Not before grabbing a cold one from the fridge. He's determined that by the end of this debate, he'll have made up his mind. He will pay attention. He will open the laptop so he can check the scorecards of the pundits, which help to clarify things that may be over his head. He's going to study the candidates for body language and facial tics, for hidden receivers and crib notes.
Just two minutes in a tiny bead of drool forms in the corner of his mouth, which has been hanging open, slack jawed since Kerry and Bush first shook hands. He wipes the drool, takes a swig of beer and takes a quick run through the Internet to keep from falling asleep. He hits CNN, Drudge, FOX and MSNBC, all the while keeping one eye on the tv, sure that at any moment one candidate will say something so brilliant, so stupendous, so amazing that Mr. Undecided Voter will, in the blink of an eye, become Mr. Decided. He goes back to paying full attention. Something about flu vaccines. He takes a bite of the overcooked chicken his wife left him. He silently bitches about her cooking and wonders where the hell she goes every night. He wonders if you could die from the flu. His eyes glaze over.
He switches briefly to the Yankee game but feels guilty because he's supposed to be doing the right American thing by watching the debate so he can make an informed choice. He takes a minute or so to nod approvingly at Lieber and switches back to the debate.
He falls asleep. Immediately begins dreaming. [Ed note: Let me insert here that this is the actual dream I had last night, which played out like a home movie of this strange, boxers clad man] He's in Yankee Stadium, holding a huge platter overflowing with hot dogs, sausages and pizza. Someone offers him a bowl of New England clam chowder but he declines. He's in the mood for barbecue. Texas barbecue. He finishes what's on his platter and asks the vendor to bring him barbecued steak. The vendor, who look suspiciously like Terry McAullife, winks at him. He turns his attention to the game. George Bush is throwing out the first ball. He beans Bob Schieffer, who was standing at home plate, in the head. Schieffer goes down and John Kerry comes running over with a Band-Aid. Mr. Undecided Voter lets out a belch that shakes the stadium. Everyone applauds and the strains of a Slayer song, Bitter Peace, come through the Yankee Stadium speakers. Bob Sheppard sings along on the PA system. Initiate blood purge, coalition in massacre! The whole of the Stadium is banging its collective head, like 55,000 bobbleheads bobbing in unison. Mr. Voter does the Beavis and Butthead head bang thing, all flying hair and pumping metal sign. He has a ring of barbecue sauce around his mouth, making him look like a heavy metal clown, maybe one of those guys from Slipknot, if he were chowing down.
The scoreboard camera is panning the crowd and faces appear on the screen, larger than life. Mr. Voter stares at the screen, his eyes wide, his gaze transfixed just like when he's home watching porn. He chomps on his chicken leg and sauce goes flying everywhere, along with bits of chicken skin and spittle. The people sitting next to him don't seem to notice. They, too, are fixated on the giant screen, which is now showing Bill O'Reilly, who is seated in the bleachers, in the top row. He's grinning, but his grin is too wide, his teeth too clenched for it to be real. Mr. Voter notices that Bill O'Reilly has lettuce caught between his two front teeth. The camera pans back to reveal a woman sitting on Bill's lap. Mr. Voter recognizes this woman as his wife. The wife notices Mr. Voter staring at them, his mouth hanging open to reveal little chewed up pieces of steak and green beans speckled with A-1 steak sauce. A piece of steak falls out of his mouth. His wife mouths the words "I love you" on the screen and Mr. Voter realizes she's talking to O'Reilly, who is now standing on the pitcher's mound, trying to wrest Lieber's hat off of him. Lieber falls to the ground and blood gushes out of a head wound. Kerry again rushes over with a Band-Aid. The crowd goes insane when see the blood and as Bob Sheppard once again invokes Slayer (Can't stop the warring factions!) 55,000 New York Yankee fans pelt Bill O'Reilly with loofah sponges. As Mr. Undecided Voter pounds his chest and does a Tarzan yell and flies hover about his head, eyeing the ketchup that has lodged in his hair, the dream abruptly ends.
Mr. Voter is still on his couch, his beer still balanced, his chicken lukewarm. Bush is talking about Tommy Lee! Oh, no. Tom Lee. The Yankees are winning. John Kerry wants to be respected in the world. And Bill O'Reilly wants to sex you up with a falafel.