Ollie Ewok

I look like the most reviled creature on Earth, and I’ll tell you what it is: an Ewok. If you don’t hate Ewoks, you’re not paying attention. And don’t give me that “you said ‘the most reviled creature on Earth’; Ewoks live on the forest moon of Endor” garbage. This is the real world. There’s no such thing as Endor. Dummy.

Carrying on. Yesterday, I noted that my beard needed trimming. I’d begun to look like a third-string goalie on the Taliban water-polo team. You’ll also need to know, if you’ve never seen me or seen a picture of me, that I have gigantic lips. Angelina Jolie once asked me if she could borrow some ChapStick and I produced the paint roller and bucket that I normally use and she said, “Sweet Mary, look at the size of those soup coolers!” That’s how big my lips are. Much like an Ewok’s.

To finish off all the necessary descriptions: I’m brown-haired, brown-eyed, and my head is round. There. So, I get out my clippers to nip away some of the scraggly locks I’d grown on my cheeks, and I figured I’d clear away the forest around my mouth first. This same forest is forever getting drenched and soppy with coffee and booze, constantly burnt off by lighters, and it marinates in my own sweat, drool, and face oil. (Pretty, huh?) So, I flip on the trimmers and run them around my puffy lips. Working the shears over my fuzz, I get some of my beard knocked down, but I’m still quite furry. Then, over my head, a tiny leak sprang from the ceiling. Drops fat as chihuahuas rained down on me, and a yellowish puddle collected on the plaster above.

After screaming at my lazy landlord, I figured I should finish my job. I didn’t want to get electrocuted by the trimmers, so I dug in my closet for something to keep the water off. I found an old brown canvas drop cloth that I wound around my head and secured to my noggin by way of two wood dowels that I’d pushed through the brass grommets.

Upon reentering the bathroom and seeing myself in the mirror, large-lipped, jewel-eyed, furry, round, covered in earth-tone cloth secured by wood, I screeched a little. Then I cursed, “Damn you, George Lucas, and your marketing-minded teddy bears! You won this time!”


Thursday, August 7
XXIX Summer Olympics Live
XHAS 8:00 a.m.

The program listing for this says it’s “Fútbol Masculino.” Not sure if that’s Italian or Mexican or what, but I’ll give a go at translating. So I’m guessing “masculino” means “men’s” and “fútbol” means “nobody gives a damn, it’s just guys in shorts with European mullets chasing a checkered ball and squealing and leaping around, maybe tying flowers into each other’s armpit hair.”

Last Comic Standing
NBC 8:00 p.m.

Even though he’s the last comic standing, he still isn’t funny. What would be funny is if I put on a moose-antler helmet and big puffy pair of Mickey Mouse gloves and I walked out on stage and punched this guy in the ball bag. Waka, waka, waka! Give me the check for ten grand, buttholes.

ABC 10:00 p.m.

Oh, thank God. A show about a hospital.

Friday, August 8
War of the Worlds
ABC 8:30 p.m.

Tom Cruise teams up with the white-mohawked, fang-y, scaly, green gremlin-after-it-eats-past-midnight to fight aliens. Since the gremlin is small, Tom must carry it throughout most of the film, but he uses it as a close-distance weapon, hurling its terrifying face at oncoming attackers. I can’t remember the grotesque goblin’s name in the movie, but in real life they call it “Dakota Fanning.”

Savage Planet
PBS 10:00 p.m.

My new PBS show is called Savage Spandex. I drink a lot of iced tea, hit up the neighborhood Chinese buffet for a pre-workout meal of congealed and drying kung pao shrimp (“No, this one. Under the heat lamp here. Thank you.”), and then I do a spin class. No air-conditioning. It’s August. And I’m wearing a too-small leotard. Only.

Saturday, August 9
XXIX Summer Olympics
NBC 8:00 p.m.

Now we’re talking. The events listed are “swimming, beach volleyball, and gymnastics.” Hot molasses in the morning, the swimsuit mother lode! Oh, I love all of those events. Wait. What’s it say here? “Men’s event, men’s event, men’s event.” WHY, YOU DIRTY, NO-GOOD, SONS OF...!

Sunday, August 10
XXIX Summer Olympics
NBC 8:00 p.m.

Two days in a row with this. NBC, you are pissing me off. I want to see some women’s volleyball, and all you’re showing me is men’s synchronized diving. About the only thing gayer than men’s synchronized diving would be a big, bright party hat made out of French raspberries and cake.

Monday, August 11
High School Musical: Get in the Picture
ABC 8:00 p.m.

Let’s put Vanilla Ice, the New Kids on the Block, and Ricki Lake in a room with a one-way mirror, then march these limelight-sucking teenagers through to observe the basket of sadness that ensues. “This is what you’re working for, kids. Someday, you too will be a 40-year-old part-time clown with nicotine-stained fingers and one friend. And your friend is imaginary. And he’s also your cousin, so he kind of has to be your friend even though he doesn’t want to be.”

Tuesday, August 12
The Secret Life of the American Teenager
Family 8:00 p.m.

Watching a kid tie on a Lone Ranger mask and cry under his bed because the other kids called him a fat dork doesn’t sound like an interesting show at all. You’ll have to at least wait until these teens are in their 20s before they start flashing police and huffing Lysol. Wait. Hey, wait. Maybe other people did things differently than... Oh, I get it.

Wednesday, August 13
The International Dancesport World Championships 2007
PBS 8:00 p.m.

If “Dancesport” is a real thing and there was a championship for it a year ago (way to stay current, PBS), then “SaladBowlofVermouthDrinkingandEightHoursofWatch-ingAirwolfRerunssport” is a real thing and I’ve just won the 2008 championship. Stick it, PBS. Put your lips around it not once but twice, then stick it.

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Who are those women in the picture?

Sing it Ewok, sing it! Yub nub eee chop yub nub ah toe meet toe pee-chee keene g'noop dock fling oh ah Yah wah eee chop yah wah ah toe meet toe pee-chee keene g'noop dock fling oh ah Coatee chah tu yub nub coatee chah tu yahwah coatee chah tu glowah allay loo ta nuv Glowah!!!!!

The dreaded "Yub Nub" song. You're getting a knee to the groin for introducing that into this column, swine.

Why can't we get an answer as to who those women are in the picture?

Because nobody cares. And eight people read this column. Including me.

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