I'm currently writing some really stressful, challenging stuff. I needed a break. So I will now skip to matters of far greater importance.
To say I was a little bewildered with this latest Maury Povich clip would be a major understatement. It's even up there with the Obama claim, "Hey, if you like your health insurance, you can keep it!" Fox News really needs to revisit that timeless refrain. It's gold... pure gold.
Back to Maury. All you really need to see is the youtube title: Maury: Did he cheat with a Juggalette? Normally, I'd be satisfied. But pray tell, there's so much more. I suggest you watch the clip in its entirety and then I'll touch on some of the finer points.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gaigTEwJpnA
Okay. This story revolves around Jasmine, Tommy and baby Ryder (I'm assuming it's not spelled "Rider." As you may expect, I'm not a big fan of all these male baby names that end in the letter "r" - Ryder, Skylar, Lancer, Prancer, Sparkler, etc. Maybe if you're an Arab it's a go (Bashar, Hamir, Tafar). But hey, let's just steer clear if you're Texas transplants from Dayton, Ohio. Just make the commitment - no more boy band names. Justin's okay I suppose. We'll find out this Saturday.
Right off the bat, Maury describes her difficult pregnancy as "hormonal." You can always infer how the producers grilled the female guests. They need that info. Any problems with your baby (premature, asthma, congenital defects)? Then, they invariably shift to the mother's experience (prolonged bed rest, near miscarriages, STD's, diarrhea). Other than the emotional turmoil, I suspect she had a fairly uneventful pregnancy. She likely capitulated at some point and said, "well, I was kinda hormonal." Sure enough, Maury seizes the opportunity and declares, "You were hormonal!" Nice segue into a cheating, lie-detector bonanza.
Now check out the Asian man who comes alive when he hears news of fiancee Tommy engaged in a "live sex chat." I think this guy might actually be an audience plant. They're probably looking for that intellectual, ethnic slant. The audience plays off the guests and vice-a-versa. For the remainder of this blog, I will assign said Asian Man the name of "Tofu." This is strictly for reference purposes. I'm well aware that orientals are intellectually superior to mindless Americana. Think about it. How come you never see people of Asian descent on the Maury show? I'll sum it up with 5 words. They... Are... Better... Than... Us.
So after mentioning the live sex chat, Maury kicks it up a notch. Witness that delightfully sardonic smile as he chimes, "and yes... he was TOUCHING himself!" Only MoPo could get away with this shit. For he is the master.
I adore the way Jasmine describes their relationship, particularly the stoic, almost scripted trance-like reading of them being Juggalos and Juggalettes. I particularly enjoyed her edited concern of Tommy cheating on her with "one of 'dem Juggalettes."
Incidentally, I actually knew this couple who were big ICP fans. And this is WAY back in the day. 1991 to be precise. These two were exceptionally cool, pleasant and sharp. I once ran into them at a Metropol concert. They both had the makeup and excessive clown laughter going on. Old school, legit ICP fans. I still have no idea what their names were. I remember encountering him while camping out in a line at Kaufman's at the Ohio Valley Mall. We were getting New Kids on the Block tickets for a show at the Wheeling Civic Center. He was sent to purchase tickets for his teenage sister. Rest assured, I was there to scalp. When the profiteering issue became apparent, the crowd (comprised mostly of local moms and dads) totally turned on me. True story. At one point, I silently farted and everyone started making verbal accusations. "You stink! Go home, you smelly scalper! Nobody here likes you!" I'm not joking. Seriously, you can't make this shit up. Truth be told, the stench was unusually bad. I never admitted it though. But still, I knew what was what.
The moral of that story is this --- I knew a few hardcore ICP fans, and to this day, I still know some (foosball players from the Tiger Pub in Shadyside, OH). They weren't/aren't nimrod dumbshits like Jasmine 'n Tommy and to a lesser extent, baby Ryder. It might be tempting, but please don't assume that ICP fans are indicative of this oblivious, societal consternation. They might not be Harvard Law Review, but they certainly aren't Jasmine and Tommy.
When Jasmine says that baby Ryder "fights for his attention every day," I would like a more detailed version of the what this actual "fighting" entails. Does the baby murmur ICP lyrics? Does he have an angry scowl when pooping? Greater specificity is warranted.
I'm sure we all enjoyed Tommy's description of "what it means to be a Juggalo." Gripping stuff. I did like how they incorporated the makeup application. And how can you not appreciate his blase comment about being caught in the act while sex-skyping? "Hey, it's what guys do!" I say, "Right on, Thomas!" Tommy could possibly be the most simpleminded ICP representative of all-time. He seems beyond dense. I'd loosely term him a "quixotically lovable retard, skittishly oafish yet resolute, dork-a-licious but determined."
The Tommy interrogation reaches a pinnacle at the 3:30 mark. They show a mysteriously hostile background pic. Suddenly, Tofu (aka Hong Kong Phooey) gets back in the act with an accusatory finger-to-chin motion. Tofu must be some kind of underground thespian or off-broadway star. His timing and choreography are stellar. Tofu shines. In all honesty, he's the real star... a vegan gem if you will.
One other anecdote. When growing up, I always thought the lyrics to the Hong Kong Phooey cartoon theme song were... "Hong Kong Phooey! Better than a seafood shop!" Turns out it was, "Hong Kong Phooey! Number one super guy!" You decide.
Not sure what I was thinking.
During the lie detector results, Tommy's expression never changes. It's pure dufus 24/7, all-day all-night. He just can't rid himself of that weirdo smirk. And Jasmine is equally loud and defiant. This provides a nice counterbalance. Yin-Yang. Jugallo-Juggalette. Kind of reminds you of Forrest and Jenny. I could see Tommy saying, "we was like peas and carrots." This would not be a stretch.
Faced with the lie detector results, Jasmine reaches her limit and hollers "You're out! You're done!" It reminded me of the dark alley encounter between Nana and this miscellaneous hoodrat on Seinfeld. "It burned! It's gone!"
Still, you gotta love Tommy. He's just this unabashed dunskie. Even as the scene fades, "We can do this. We can work it out." Reminds you of that Tammy Wynette song - "Stand by your Clown." This will have to suffice. In honor of those who dance and jump around on the great stage of that which is Maury...
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
- William Shakespeare
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