Monday, June 23, 2014

It's A Beautiful Day

It's been a long time.  I shouldn't have left you.  But maybe stop being so damn greedy, friend, because it's not like you've just been languishing along, alone and afraid all this time without a dope beat to step to or anything.  Seriously. 

There's a reason I'm back,  though, even if our magical time together is only fleeting.  I got a call this morning.  Yeah, I'm bragging.  Did you get one?  Anyway, in the call, the person on the other end - the Caller if you will - was working up some pretty impressive sniveling about the besieging of his body by what I can only assume is the rotovirus that will end humanity.  Then there was some discussion about meetings or cubicles or colleagues with chin pubes or I don't know - I was in Target and also awake so I was having a hard time keeping up with all of these trials and tribulations that honest to God wage-earners go through during their day to day.  But then Caller was all, "Hey, guess what?  It's JT's birthday."  And I was all, "Remember the dark days in between when sexy used to be here and the time that it was not yet back and we just kind of plodded through, like, dead-eyed raising the roof or whatever, just totally unaware of all the sexy that was yet to knock us on our asses with its inevitable, glorious return?  I like to call it the Resexyrection and --" and then Caller totally rudely interrupted and was like, "I'm not talking about Justin Timberlake, I'm talking about Trainor and were you just putting sexy into the word resurrection because I feel like there's some blasphemy going down if so, but..." and he kept talking but I was still in Target so it's not like I was listening anymore.

But.  Then Caller was like, "so, maybe you could send Trainor a happy birthday text or whatever and it could be funny if you'd like make fun of me, or whatever, because that's funny."  Ear perk.  Is it?  IS IT?  Tell me more, my little green friend. So how should it start?  How about the classic "So a rabbi, a priest, and a computer programmer walk into a bar holding a rental purchase agreement..."?  We've all heard that one 1,000 times, though, am I right?  Or, like, do I throw in birthday wishes in the middle of my jab about how some people are so stupid they don't even know all the details about the New Jersey tax implications (and don't even get me started about the California rent-to-own tax implications. Only a real moron wouldn't understand those - you know what I'm sayin'? And, by the way, Oooweee!, them's a lotta candles on that cake).  It's just not seamless, you know?  And, in a text?  P'shaw.  You might as well just ask me to send my trite HBD hopes and dreams to old John -- on the anniversary of that first day he soared head-first (assumedly) out of his mother's warm uteral hug and into this cold, hard earth -- via Facebook.  Shudder.  I'm not a complete asshole. 

So, that brings me here. 

Instead of being another HBD Facebook asshole, I'm gonna be an Eggs a Lady asshole and discuss some of John's brethren and sistren (it's sexist that sistren isn't a word.  The Establishment should be ashamed.  ASHAMED!) with whom John shares a birthday on the luckiest of all days, June 23.

First, obviously:   Clarence Thomas. Besides (frankly, uncannily similar) dashing good looks and  likewise poetic ways to beautifully mold and twist a phrase in the English language, both CT and JT hold command of a floor like no other.  They make decisions like their jobs depend on it or something.  While one's an associate, the other is an  actual Chief - a Chief of Information, mind you (hat tip, by the way, to the creator of that job title), so I guess they both know a thing or two about working it like a boss.  But, wait.  Chiefs are obviously better than associates, so suck it, Clarence Thomas.  John is superior.

Next, it is important, nay crucial, to note that June 23 is also the date of birth of the best American Idol judge besides Simon Cowell or one-time guest judge Mary J. Blige that Fox TV has ever seen.  Mr. Randy Jackson.  During this paragraph, I would like to use the word dawg a minimum of 4 total times, dawg.  Here are four musicians Randy Jackson has worked with that I'm going to go ahead and assume John has in his iTunes repertoire, dawg:  Blue Oyster Cult, Richard Marx, the incomparable Celine Dion, and Stryper.  Once I had a dream that Randy Jackson and I were eating at an Outback Steakhouse and we both reached for the same bite of bloomin onion and lightning shot through my veins just as I am sure it is presently shooting through yours during this electrifying retelling.  Dawg, Randy's pure animal magnetism during my REM state screams June 23.  It screams Mr. Trainor.  But, nope.  People tell me when he walks through the halls of the old business-place, old JT is making ladies and gents alike swoon like it's nobody's business.  Nobody.  Oh, crap.  That's obsolete.  Old JT is making ladies and gents alike swoon 'cuz he's Owning it.  Keep on owning it, John.  Own it harder than Randy Jackson.  Own it harder than Tito Jackson.  Just Own It, boss.  Own It.

There are so many other June 23 Spirit Animal People (People Animals?  Spirit People?  Dope Ass Shit Gemini-Cancer Cuspers?) who John is similar to but also better than.  People like LaDainian Tomlinson who once said, "Absolutely. You're going to definitely think about the games that got away, what you could have done different."  Do I think John thinks about games that got away, stores that missed sales quotas, the pre-approval process as it relates to man's search for meaning in an often dark and meaningless, mysterious world?  Obviously I think that.  Do I hate it that LaDainian Tomlinson assumes I am going to think about those things?  Yes I do.  Does it make me want to punch someone in the vas deferens everytime someone doesn't add an l and a y to make the word different an adverb instead of an adjective when modifying a verb?  You bet your sweet ass it does.  But this is about John, not me.  So instead of betting your sweet ass, let's just think of John's sweet birthday ass, instead.  

There are others.  So many others.  Jason Mraz of the whitebread, neither here nor there voice that makes me want to study logorithms and drink a Slush Puppie just because.  Johnannes Gutenberg, whose whole being was kinda shaped on a career that by its very definition John kinda spits into the face of each and every day with that whole "Screw You, Paper; I'm an Officer of Information" title.  There's Bob Fosse (JAZZHANDS!) and June Carter Cash and even Joss-my-name-rhymes-with-Boss-but-I'll-Never-Be-as-Boss-as-Trainor Whedon, as well, dawg (I missed saying it.  Sue me.).  But it's clear that John rules supreme, I mean rules chief, above all the rest.

So, I'd like to raise a blog post to the original JT, on the anniversary that our land was graced with his presence.  So, whatever, Texts.  Screw you, Facebook Happy Birthdays.  This here is my here here (hear hear?) to Mr. T.  Happy Birthday, Chief. Happy Freaking Birthday.