This week, humorist and host of the late-night program “Politically Incorrect,” Bill Maher used the words: “America” and “cowardly” in the same sentence. This prompted White House Press Secretary (and genuine hottie) Ari Fleischer to announce that Americans “need to watch what they say.” Maher later retracted his comment, back-pedaling like any good American, saying his comment had been misinterpreted. Fleischer later said that he, himself, had, in fact, never said this, that America was just imagining it.
Silly us! This got me to thinking — not hard, though. After all, these are delicate times. Still, I must say I agree with Mr. Hottie — I mean Fleischer. Mr. Fleischer. That is what I meant. This is a time to watch what we say in America. Why? Just yesterday, I almost found myself musing in the company of friends: “Boy, I think it’s terrible. Really, just terrible.” What a faux-pas that could have been! Imagine all the die-hard Sly Stallone fans in the room I could have offended. Now is a time in America for courage. For solidarity. This is not the time for insulting “Rocky III.” Not even for insulting “Rocky V”.
Then, there was my English section on Tuesday, where I almost asked whether, if one were to find the circumference of a circle the size of the known universe, requiring the circumference be accurate to within the radius of one proton, how many decimal places of pi would need to be used?
Good thing the nasal words of Hottie McFleischer rang in my ears as I opened my mouth. This is NOT the time for Americans to ask whether, if one were to find the circumference of a circle the size of the known universe, requiring the circumference be accurate to within the radius of one proton, how many decimal places of pi would need to be used!
We shouldn’t even be trying to find the circumference of circles now. We have more important things to think about — like the flag shortage. Circles can wait. So this morning, as I pulled out my trusty razor to give myself a shave, I noticed a number of pale white hairs under the blades. These weren’t mine! My hair is brown, mostly!
“Whitey!” I began to yell at my roommate, an albino from Detroit, standing at the sink next to me.
But as I peered into the mirror, I saw not my own reflection, but that of Ari-Hottie Fleischer-Pants whispering seductively. I stopped mid-sentence, my mouth agape. What if Whitey had relatives who were fighter pilots? I’d hate to strike a raw nerve.
It’s bad enough that his parents named him “Whitey,” what with his being an albino and all. You think they would have thought of that. Right? This distracting train of thought soon carried me back to the task at hand — chasing the snow-white fur from my last razor.
And then there was the tiger. I spent the bulk of this afternoon cornering a Bengal tiger in my roommate’s closet after it stowed away, I assume, in the enormous box for Pierson College’s new 57-inch rear-projection television set. And it found its way up to my room, leaving a trail of carnage behind it. Probably. I considered telling Whitey about the tiger, I really did. That is until the ghostly, cloaked figure of Ari FleHOTPERSONischer appeared to me, like Obi-Wan Kenobi to my Luke. Or Mustafa to my Simba. No — Luke. I like Luke more.
“Watch what you say, Luke –” mouthed Ari. Except he said “Greg” instead of “Luke.”
This is the time in America for pride and strength. Not for talking. Especially if that talking is to your roommate who should invest the money in his own damn razors. Seriously. Isn’t that gross? I mean — I wouldn’t use his razors. If he had some, I mean. Rite Aid’s like what, two blocks away?
Plus, some dude keeps using my toothpaste. Just taking it right out of my little cubbie, putting it back when he’s finished. And he squeezes from the middle of the tube. Maybe I should say something to him. And by “say” I mean “let a Bengal tiger loose in his bedroom.” Maybe not.
Greg Yolen is a sophomore in Pierson. Don’t steal his toiletries.