Newsgroups: alt.butt.harp Subject: RICHH: LOST IN TV HELL--PART 4 Message-ID: <1992May5.055709.9902@tigger.jvnc.net> From: richh@tigger.jvnc.net (RICHH) Date: Tue, 5 May 1992 05:57:09 GMT Sender: news@tigger.jvnc.net (Zee News Genie) Organization: JvNCnet, Princeton University, NJ Originator: richh@tigger.jvnc.net Lines: 114 So I'm in The Foot Locker trying to buy a pair of Reebok's when one of the shoes in front of me starts to ring. So I think, "Oh fuck. Why didn't I go to Herman's, why. . ." and I look around for the hidden camera, cleverly disguised as a telescope set up at the entrance to the store. "Hey," I think to myself, because thinking to anyone else is a big waste of time, "Hey, don't be nervous. Show no fear and they'll go away. They just want attention." But no, my stupid fucking brother has to pick the phone up and put it to his ear and flash some stupid smile. Then he says, "Hello. Puma." The rocket scientist at the other end says, "Sorry, I must have the wrong sneaker." And he marveled at his witticism. My brother stands up, looks at the 'telescope', and grabs his nuts, redeeming himself, but just barely. Then some dopey chick comes along, takes the phone from my brother and says, "Wow, now I know just what to get my boyfriend, like ohmigod, it's perfect. . ." Shot her. So the kid from the Encyclopedia Brittanica commercial shows up and this older guy in a raincoat comes over, tousles his hair, and says, "Well Timmy, we've got a lot of talking to do. Let's step into this back room over here. We walked over and put our ears to the door when all of a sudden the kid blurts out, "Wow, I always wondered where my prostate was." The older guy took time out from his work, looked up at Timmy, sighed, and said, "Yes Timmy, you can laugh about it now, but when you're my age that juicy little prostate of yours will enlarge, necessitating some painful surgery, and then you'll cry when you pee, speaking of which, how good's your aim?" "All right, but I don't have to go right now." The old man let out this weird laugh. "You will," he said, pressing on the boy's bladder with his left palm while pulling out a warm Meister Brau from under his raincoat with his right. Well, we had all heard enough, so we backed away from the door. My brother and I just wanted to leave, which wasn't easy, since the police had cordoned off the area and were detaining witnesses to the shooting of the bimbette on the sneaker-phone. So I threw open the door to the back room which caused Timmy to lose his aim and hit the old dude right in the eye with a noxious yellow stream. The man howled, the police drew their weapons, and we escaped in the confusion. So we're at this bar when this moron with a bag full of videotapes comes over and joins us. So my brother gives me one of these 'Christ, not another kiddie-porn broker' looks. But it's worse, much worse. The guy asks, "Who's the greatest fighter of all time?" I just look into my glass, trying not to think about all that time I spent in Haiti. The guy starts in again. "C'mon, you look like sports fans. Who's the greatest fighter of all time?" I say, "Barkeep, another double vodka martini. Very dry." "Same as before, he asks, smiling, "no olive, no vermouth? "Bingo." So my brother feels like fucking with this guy. He says, seeing quite clearly the Muhammed Ali videotape in the guy's bag, "Well, pound for pound, there's really no question." The guy with the tapes nods. "I mean the moves, the feet, the street fighting ability. I'm talking raw, savage punching power." The guy says, Yeah, well. . ." "Well what, Roberto Duran. No doubt about it." I down the vodka and say, "But Marciano did retire undefeated." "Only because he never fought Duran." "Bullshit. Apples and oranges. You can't compare a pencil- necked middleweight to an undefeated heavyweight." "I can do what the fuck I want." "Besides, I mean, Duran, Hearns, Leonard. Everyone knows they're all pussies who would rather slap-fight each other for seven figures in East Bumfuck, New Jersey than do one round with Michael Spinks, the only real fighter in the division." "Michael Spinks? Are you nuts?" So the guy with the tapes says, "Excuse me, aren't you two forgetting someone?" My brother and I look at each other and I say, "Of course, I mean pound for pound, no one could touch Bruce Lee. My brother says, "Bullshit. Jean Claude Van Damme is not only bigger and better-looking, but he can outact Bruce Lee any day of the week." "Don't believe the hype, dude. I guarantee you that Bruce Lee, Worf and George the Animal Steele could take any three guys you name any day of the week." "First of all, Steven Segal could take Bruce Lee simply because he spent time in Japan. He knows the Oriental mind. And Worf. Don't give me no fucking Worf. Tasha Yar could kick Worf's Klingon butt with one of her long, tanned, supple legs tied behind her back." We saw the videotape guy drawing his forefinger across his throat to signal "Cut" to his cameraman and we knew we had him. But he kept on. "Haven't you guys ever heard of Muhammed Ali?" My brother's face went blank and he replied, "Who?" I shook my head. "Sorry, doesn't ring a bell. Hey, got any wacky bloopers? Like when L.T. ended Theisman's career, or that punch Rudy Tomjonavich took that nearly killed him." I ordered a fifth of grain and my brother said, "Don't we already have that tape, you know, 'Career-ending bloops, bleeps, foul-ups, smash-ups, and blunders.' You know, the one with all that footage from the Munich Olympics." I started in on the grain and said, "Isn't that the one with that close-up of Olga--" My brother nodded. "--Korbut's snatch when she missed a front walkover on the beam." The video guy asked, "Hey, where'd you get this tape anyway?" I asked the bartender if he had anything stronger than 200 proof. He handed me a Baretta, which I promptly unloaded into the video guy. Man, I hate Mondays. RICHH