Nothing stinks more in this line of work than having a boring week.
My amazing job allows me to recount stories about the weird inane things that I'm lucky enough to encounter while meandering through life. Even if I'm having an awful week and something hideous happens, the silver lining is that it usually makes good column fodder in the end. But what about those weeks when NOTHING happens, good OR bad? For the past seven days, it's been so hot outside that I've done nothing with my free time but sit on the couch and zone out to bad TV.
Good thing, then, that the world has taken care of things this week and brought the funny in droves.
It started with mankind's greatest cinematic achievement of all time: SHARKNADO. How anyone survived this white-knuckle thrill ride to a hellscape of unimaginable horror is beyond me. My friends and somehow I made it through the terror with nothing more than the clothes on our backs, a steely resolve, and an abundant supply of gummy sharks.
When I first learned that Syfy was adding to their canon of disastrously bad disaster movies with something called "Sharknado," I was elated. Potential plotlines swam through my head faster than a dozen sharknados. Let me guess, a tornado strands a party boat of college students on a deserted island where their own means of survival is swimming across shark-ravaged waters with the help of TV's Tom Wopat? Maybe a tornado strikes a top secret military facility, releasing their man-eating combat robo-shark (also played by TV's Tom Wopat) onto an unsuspecting public?
It turns out I was being WAY too creative. The real plot of Sharknado is as simple as its title: a tornado forms in the ocean (which actually makes it a waterspout but "Sharkspout" sounds lame) and sucks up an infinite number of sharks, flinging them into residential California where they chomp on as many beachfront suburbanites as possible. And the only man who can stop them is Steve from "Beverly Hills 90210," who at one point (spoiler alert) chainsaws his way out of a shark's stomach after being swallowed whole.
They've yet to create a word to duly express the awesomeness of this movie. There was never an explanation as to why 1000 sharks were just hanging out off the California coast in the first place, no explanation why these sharks seemed to care more about biting people than the fact that they were asphyxiating out of the water, and no explanation why the school bus of trapped kids was being driven by Cousin Oliver from the Brady Bunch. In short, it was the best thing ever.
For about a week. Then Geraldo had a birthday. Once a respected investigative reporter for ABC's prestigious 20/20, Geraldo Rivera has spent the past 25 years or so systematically destroying any shred of credibility he once had. Whether it's breaking into empty bank vaults, getting his nose busted by Nazi skinheads, or accidentally airing the secret locations of American troops in Iraq, Geraldo's nothing if not efficient when it comes to ruining his reputation.
Now he's turned 70, and what better way to celebrate than by tweeting a nearly naked photo to a world now incapable of un-seeing it. I suppose it's commendable that the guy's in pretty good shape for 70, but still, he's 70. This was pretty high on my list of unnecessary sights to ever behold. Thank God he's wearing a towel, but it's a towel hanging about six inches way too low and in serious danger of almost exposing the world to a vault I don't EVER care to see the insides of.
Being a fat guy, I guess I can't relate -- but even if I went on "The Biggest Loser" and got myself down to fighting form, I really don't think my first response would be to drop trou and go, "WHOO! CHECK ME OUT, WORLD!" I choose to live my life in a mature manner of utter denial of my appearance and trying desperately hard to NOT look down while in the shower. Dear Santa, please bring my friend Geraldo a pair of cover-alls... and I do mean cover ALL.
So Geraldo definitely got the award for best naked selfie, a title he proudly held for about four days. That was before the world was introduced to its newest superhero. A legend who single-handedly revived my faith in comedy and gave each of us a reason to live through an otherwise boring week. My new favorite person on Earth: Carlos Danger.
I first became aware of New York Congressman Anthony Weiner when a sex scandal forced him to resign from office. Believe it or not, I kinda felt sorry for the guy. Back in 2011, Weiner took a picture of himself in all his, umm, Weiner-ness. He meant to send the pic to an internet hottie he was chatting up, but instead tweeted it out to the general public. Not good. I blame Microsoft. After all, they're the ones who put the "REPLY ALL" button so darn close to the "REPLY" one. Still, not a smart thing to do, Weiner, especially when you've got an innocent wife at home.
That said, where does it say that pervy philanderers can't do their jobs well? Charlie Sheen seems to be doing okay. And this sort of thing seems to happen to European politicians constantly, but over there, they go "tsk, tsk" and find the nearest rug to sweep it under. Weiner screwed up bigtime, but he seemed contrite about the fiasco and I supported his recent decision to run for New York City mayor. Mostly because I don't live there.
But earlier this week, ANOTHER sex scandal came to light. Even after the guy resigned from Congress in disgrace, he kept right on sexting internet girls and sending them pictures of his Anthony Weiner. It got worse when I read a transcript of his texts, which I don't recommend unless you WANT a case of the cooties. These texts take you on a magical journey to an entirely new realm of skeevy. And not the kind of skeevy hidden under a brown paper bag in your gas station's magazine rack. No, these are the kind of gross comments you would immediately assume were written by a 14-year-old boy in the throes of puberty.
Best of all, he was sending all this icky nonsense to girls... using the alias "Carlos Danger." Let that sink in. Carlos Danger. Try to say it without laughing. If there aren't at least five garage bands out there now named "Carlos Danger," I'll be horribly disappointed. Carlos Danger is NOT the name of a sexy internet lover. Carlos Danger sounds more like the guy Starsky & Hutch call on to infiltrate the barrio drug trade. Maybe I'm stating the obvious here, but why bother inventing a cool sexy porno name when your REAL name is Tony Weiner? I'm just sayin'.
So please please please, New Yorkers, do the country a favor and elect Carlos Danger as your next mayor. I shy away from politics in this column, but I strongly endorse anyone named Carlos Danger as mayor of any town I don't live in. It'll come in REAL handy on those boring weeks when we have nothing else to laugh at. Take it from me, your loyal columnist, Pedro Peril.
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