Oprah agreed on a fair way to decide
initiation, which involves two closed fists and pretending your grandmother’s
in the room. The compromise proved to be a big ratings boost in most major
markets (except, of course, in Kandahar) and was rated as favorable by almost
every viable demographic besides panty-sniffing Japanese stock brokers
vacationing in Haiti and bomb-sniffing dogs out on recon.
Honestly, I think it made most people feel
a little better about the future: vapid suit-herders could still meditate under
clouds of dharma-jizz in obese central-air pumping boxes, highways would still
shimmer in the hot afternoons and block complete glimpses of fields, bizarre
tension vibes and unprovoked assaults would still be the two most sought-after
traits of every washed-up child actor.
My brother came home in August with half a
femur and a pull-one-over-on-you Midwestern drawl he got from watching too many
John Hughes movies in the hospital. Maybe that’s why nobody argued when he
stopped taking his Ambiens and started stashing them away for what we assumed
would be one heck of an Alive Day party the following year.
“The least coolest person on TV is more
interesting than anyone I know,” he told me while I sponged him down for the
last time, his Budweisers raised above the tub like night goggles.
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