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Somewhere Out There, Little Ricky Is Making Her His ‘Prostate’

Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!

I don’t usually get into the whole ‘currently watching’, ‘currently reading’, ‘currently hearing’ type of things… but I’ve gotta tell you — I scored big-time on the movie front, and I’m a happy man.

From last week… on TiVo… without commerical interruption, from HBO… Better Off Dead. Again, I exclaim, ‘Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!‘ And to that, I add, ‘Hee!‘

I don’t think I’ve ever seen this movie all the way through, without commercials. And it’s been a while since I’ve seen it at all. Still — I know what’s coming. I can’t quite quote it by heart — it’s not a Python movie, fer goodness sakes — but I can come pretty damned close. I’m about halfway through — Lane’s just escaped the evil clutches of the ‘Two dollars!‘ paperboys, and found his little brother with the trashy women. And you know what that means, right?

That’s right. ‘Testicles all over me!’ time is coming soon.

(And believe me, folks, I’ve never been so excited to say that. No, really. This is even better than grandpa’s birthday parties. Um… ahem. Moving on.)

So, anyway, all we’ve gotta do is get through the talking burger and the ‘Franch‘ dinner, and then we’ll be there. Oh, I can’t stand it. Hee.

(‘Franch fries.’ ‘Gee, I’m sorry your mom blew up, Ricky‘… *snort* Hoo! How many Oscars did this thing win, anyway?)

Okay, enough about me and my Diane Franklin thing.

(Erm… did I type that out loud? Really?)

Well, I mean, it’s not a ‘thing‘, exactly. Sure, the (fake) French accent is cool. And that whole scene working on the car, with the little smudges of dirt on her face… um, yeah, there’s nothing wrong with that. Still, her hair reminds me a lot of my grandmother’s, and… well… look, let’s just move on. I’m all creeped out now. And I have this craving for French bread.

(You know, just like grandma used to make. Um, ew!)

So. Where the hell was I, anyway?

Oh, right — nowhere. I’ve just been blathering about this movie. Okay, fine. What else we got?

I’ll tell you something that’s been bothering me for a while, now — school zones.

Now, hear me out here. I’m not upset that there are school zones. Hey, ‘kids are people, too’, and ‘it takes a village’, and ‘just say no’, and all that other little children crap. I’m down with that. Protect the kiddies from speeding cars — fine.

But what I’ve noticed, just recently, is that all school zones are not the same. I always thought they were, but no. I’ve found that there are different speed limits, depending on the school zone.

Now, is it just me, or does this seem wrong, somehow?

I mean, who decides how fast cars can go in a given school zone, anyway? The parents? Teachers? Angry, emasculated, pissy principals? ‘Fuck it — let’s let ’em go sixty-five through here, and we’ll weed out the dumbasses. Survival of the fittest, man.‘

Seriously, though, I’ve seen a whole range of limits out there, from ten miles an hour all the way up to twenty-five. And all I can think is… why?

Are the kids just tougher in some neighborhoods? Can the junior high kids downtown survive a higher-speed impact than those soft, pansy suburban wankers? And how do they figure that out? Do they take a couple of the kids from detention and run ’em over, to see what their limit is?

Or maybe it’s based on grade point average. If your school falls behind, then the speed limits get jacked up. I can see that — it even serves double duty. Not only does it put the pressure on — if you don’t shape your ass up, then soon cars will be whizzing by like it’s the damned autobahn — but it also just might pick off a couple of the dumber kids, if they forget how to look both ways before crossing. Smear a couple of the loserly kids onto your bumper, and the grading curve goes up for everybody. Problem solved!

Nah, that’s probably not it. It makes too much sense. But I’m sure there’d be lawsuits of some kind, and Sally Struthers or somebody would get involved, and then we’d have to run her over… so yeah, I’m sure that’s not it.

Maybe it depends on how many kids are in the school. There’s probably a team of statisticians somewhere, geeking over their fancy caluclators, determining how many cars and kids can be expected theoretically co-exist before little Johnny or Jane gets squooshed by some soccer mom in a minivan. And then they get out the abaci and the slide rules and figure out how fast those cars can go, with a ninety percent chance or better of avoiding significant bloodshed. I’m sure it’s all very scientific.

Or… it’s just not. Probably, they just let a janitor or hall monitor or something roll dice until they find a number they like. Or they just settle on how many beers the health teacher / football coach / resident pervert can chug. That’s why you get some of these weird-ass schools with speed limits like ’12’ or ’18’ or something. Maybe. I dunno.

Anyway, it just struck me as odd. You know, while driving by schools on my commute. I mean, it’s not like I’m just hanging around schoolyards or anything. Or lurking, or skulking, or even driving back and forth by the playground… um, looking for exchange students… from, er, France, say. With hair like my grandma’s. Or — *ahem* — something.

Yeah, I’m not doing that. No, seriously. Hell, I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. How would I know how fast I’m allowed to cruise around the parking lot? The rules are different everywhere! It’s so damned confusing! I’m never gonna find a chick with an accent who can ski and pitch and fix my broken-down Camaro. Dammit!