I know that most of you are hard at work during traditional business hours, which means that you miss out on a lot of high quality daytime television. So that’s why I’m here to give you the scoop on what’s going on in the real world while you’re busy with your cubicles and office gossip.
Sure, you have your spreadsheets and your quarterly report that must be on that back-stabbing, ass-kissing bastard McAllister’s desk by noon. Sure, you have your forms to file in yellow, white, and pink triplicate and Helen’s surprise birthday party in the kitchen. But I have none of that. I have nothing but time, and lots of it, and that’s why I’m able to do the sort of important research that you would do if only you weren’t so busy.
Here are the results of today’s exhaustive research. I’m wearing a white lab coat, crepe-soled sensible shoes, plastic black-rimmed glasses, and my hair is pulled back into a severe bun, all to lend an air of authenticity (or, failing that, the beginning of a really hot “Forum” entry in Penthouse).
On the days when I don’t go to the gym just after it opens, I go later in the morning, preferably during an hour when I can watch a hideously bad talk show with less guilt than I would if I watched it at home. Today I arrived at 9:10, cursing myself for having missed the first ten minutes of “Live With Regis and Kelly”. I don’t like missing their entrance into the studio, because then I can’t check out what Kelly’s wearing and make fun of the hideous taste of her stylist. (It also means I can’t gaze lovingly at her gams, but that’s another story — for Maxim.) That first handful of minutes is vital anyway, because it sets the tone for the rest of the hour. Past research has found that it’s usually most entertaining if Regis had been out drinking wine the previous night.
Anyway, one of today’s guests was none other than my ex-husband, Neanderthal-browed Nicolas Cage, who sauntered onstage in a full black leather ensemble. Skin-tight pants, boots made not just for walkin’ but for struttin’, and a multi-zippered motorcycle jacket. At first I thought he’d suffered head trauma and was under the impression that he was auditioning for a part in his 1983 movie, “Valley Girl”. But as Nic was quick to point out, while soaking up the dripping, drooling admiration of both co-hosts, “I only feel comfortable wearing leather.”
He wasn’t kidding. I was waiting for a smile. A raised eyebrow. Some indication that he wasn’t taking himself nearly as seriously as he appeared to be. I thought he would crack the stone facade that I’ve come to know is his only facial expression. But no.
He was even very somber when he said, “I worship no false idols” — after coolly mentioning that he lives in a house where Dean Martin and Tom Jones once lived (but no, not at the same time, kidz). And that he owns a fleet of cars. And that he races cars. (I’m just waiting for the day when one of these “celebrity” race-car drivers dies in a fiery crash. If it can’t be Tom Cruise, then I’m willing to settle for Nicolas.)
Because I’m so multi-talented, and thanks to close-captioning, I was able to watch two shows at the same time. I read parts of “Montel” while listening to “Live”. Montel’s guests included, among others, a mother who breast-fed her son until he was like five or six, and experts who said there was nothing wrong with it. I couldn’t watch for very long, however, because I was on the verge of forgetting I was in a public place and about to start screaming at the television the way I do at home.
You know what … I don’t care if “they” say it’s OK to breast-feed until a kid is five or six. I don’t care if it’s healthy. I don’t care. I. don’t. care. All I can say, and all I will say, is this: If a kid can ask for it, he’s too old for it. If he’s old enough to handle a cup, it shouldn’t be his mother’s. End of story.
The rest of my day was spent in the “development” phase, until 4:00, when I felt compelled to watch “Oprah”, even though I despise her and that chronic Tuesday guest Dr. Phil. Although I’m unwavering in my Oprah stance, I was actually willing to give Dr. Phil a second chance (and no, I didn’t plan that rhyme). I was even all set to report back to you, quite sheepishly, that I was wrr-wrrrr-wrrrrr-wrong about him. Alas, I turned the TV off in a huff halfway through the show, disgusted not only with Oprah, Dr. Phil, and every teary-eyed, head-nodding member of the audience, but myself as well for putting up with the bullshit for as long as I did.
What did you learn from all of this? Nothing. What did I learn from all of this? Nothing. Will I be watching “Live” tomorrow morning? Yes. Of course. I can’t miss Sarah Michelle Gellar, can I?
It’s all in the name of research, friends. And I do it all for you.