As I read about all this in the Wall Street Journal, I had a startling epiphany. This immediately annoyed me, because I hate epiphanies in books and movies. Whenever I get to the part of the book in which the character says, "...and as I looked out the window, I realized that...," followed by some sort of idiot, reductive little truism, my tendency is to hurl that book against something breakable. And epiphanies absolutely suck while you're driving a car. Like the time I modified my theory about the so-called "George Foreman" grill. It used to seem completely obvious that one fine morning, George Foreman was watching his wife use a waffle iron and thought to himself, "Man, I could put a HAMBURGER in there."
But then one day while I was driving down Southwest Trafficway, I had a melodramatic epiphany, pulled my car off the road (which on Southwest Trafficway means I parked in somebody's yard), and fumbled with my cellphone. In the kind of stunned voice people usually reserve for telling the babysitter that the CALLS ARE COMING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE, I said to my girlfriend, "GEORGE FOREMAN IS A PAID SPOKESMAN! HE DID NOT INVENT THE GEORGE FOREMAN GRILL!"
Instead of screaming and running out of the house in terror, she chose not to say anything. I halfheartedly shrieked a little bit, to prompt her. Finally, she said, "Are you on your way back from Sunfresh yet?" As she was saying that, the guy whose yard I'd parked in ripped the door open, dragged me out of the car by what would have been my lapels if I'd been wearing a jacket and in that voice that starts off really quiet and calm, but by the end of the sentence is violently screaming, demanded to know how I intended to pay for his rose bushes.
Anyway, my epiphany was this: I'm going to go shopping at the new Dollar Store next to Half Price Books in Westport this weekend, because I am one poor motherfucker.
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The Grand Poobah of Baseball, Dud Selig doesn't want the guys getting hurt. He needs them to drive a mile of cars back from Mexico or the gubermint is going to take the Used Cars lot away from his daughter and Kurt Russell will be forced to make really crappy movies and, oh wait, my bad.
Got to stop dropping acid before I read this column...
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