Romantic comedies make real life dating seem like a total drag. The guy I'm dating has never organized his impossibly adorable pre-school class to perform a choreographed song and dance routine at my place of employment, but I'm still supposed to think that he likes me? We've been seeing each other for over two months and I haven't been flown to Hong Kong yet. What a dick. Why do I even return his calls?
People in romantic comedies are always going into barren baseball parks at night, somehow have the keys, somehow know how to turn on the lights, somehow never get caught.
People in romantic comedies always go to extreme measures to woo persons they met only once. In real life, if a woman were to make an extreme romantic gesture, she would be immediately dubbed “psycho” and avoided at all costs.
In real life, I would punch a guy in the face if he started singing to me under any circumstances whatsoever.
People in romantic comedies have an alarming tolerance for cheesy first dates. No one really wants to go on a picnic (I don't know you, so, yes, let us drive out to a field in the middle of nowhere. But first, let me put in a call to Unsolved Mysteries and save everyone the middle man on the search for my hacked up corpse).
In real life, there will be no second date after a "wacky" family dinner involving physical comedy.
People in romantic comedies often live in very small towns filled with friendly, educated people with nice teeth who all get along and bake pies and volunteer in the drama department of the local grade school. There is often a hoedown (are there really such things as town hoedowns in 2010? In the 90s even?) where everyone actually knows how to "hoe down", everyone unashamedly goes, and everyone falls in love.
People in romantic comedies are always being cheered on in their romance by large crowds of strangers, say, in a coffee shop, a classroom full of kindergarteners, a bus, everyone at the DMV.
Many times, the people in romantic comedies are presented to us as persons with flaws. For instance, the main character may be a fat girl, and this fat girl is often played by Julia Roberts or Sandra Bullock, you know, just painfully fat, hard to look at even. Or perhaps the main character is a nerd, you know, Chris Klein or Ryan Reynolds, both of them just woefully nerdy.
Angry slap-fighting in romantic comedies inevitably makes everyone very horny. I poked my boyfriend in the chest once. It led to him taking the key to my apartment off of his keychain and throwing it at me, not to us having passionate sex in an elevator.
Women crying in romantic comedies are always beautiful and the guy is always brushing her lovely hair out of her pretty face. Go take a gander at yourself the next time you cry, my friend. Witness snot.
Lovers in romantic comedies often find themselves running towards each other Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy-style.
No one ever really gets on (or off) the plane at the last second. Most people just take their flights as scheduled, and regret it the whole way. I tried to get off of a plane once for a guy, but they wouldn't let me because my bags had been checked. Fucking terrorists.
People in romantic movies are always primarily supported and loved by the stranger they met on the bus just prior to learning that they have inoperable cancer. I'm pretty sure the presence of a pimple or an allergic sneeze would cause me to not get asked out.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Awful plastic surgery -- Strawberry Shortcake
My sister-in-law Lauren sent me these photos of Strawberry Shortcake:
They've turned Strawberry Shortcake into a Playboy Playmate. She may as well have her top off and be straddling a Vespa in the last picture. And what is this?
I LOVED Strawberry Shortcake as a child. I still use my Strawberry Shortcake sleeping bag regularly. I had ALL of the dolls, except, of course, the boy dolls. For the same reason that I was not allowed to have a Ken doll, I was not allowed to have Huckleberry Pie or the Purple Pie Man. I don't even want to know what Huck looks like now. His name is probably "Huckleberry 'the Situation' Pie."
The whole point of Strawberry Shortcake was that she was not a Barbie Doll.... she lived in a strawberry for the love of christ. Her hat looked like a window treatment and her dress was a mass of giant doilies. Why does updating her mean she has to look like a hooker? Lauren and I object.
Original
Acceptable
WTF?
This 2-inch doll has more hair than I do. And why does she have a Michael Jackson nose? Who felt like that was a good idea?
I LOVED Strawberry Shortcake as a child. I still use my Strawberry Shortcake sleeping bag regularly. I had ALL of the dolls, except, of course, the boy dolls. For the same reason that I was not allowed to have a Ken doll, I was not allowed to have Huckleberry Pie or the Purple Pie Man. I don't even want to know what Huck looks like now. His name is probably "Huckleberry 'the Situation' Pie."
The whole point of Strawberry Shortcake was that she was not a Barbie Doll.... she lived in a strawberry for the love of christ. Her hat looked like a window treatment and her dress was a mass of giant doilies. Why does updating her mean she has to look like a hooker? Lauren and I object.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Non-smokers
I would really like to open this one by posting a dozen pictures of my non-smoker friends smoking my cigarettes. I won't do that, of course, because to do so would be to out them as casual smokers/moochers, and there's no need. They know who they are. These are the people who ask me to remove from Facebook really pretty pictures of myself because they can be seen in the background puffing on a Parliament.
What's going on with Parliaments? When I started smoking, everyone smoked Marlboros and Camels. When did all the cool people start smoking Parliaments? I don't care. I'm not switching. I smoke Marlboro Light 100s which are 5,000 yards long. I need a
Nifty Nabber to light them and I'm not ashamed of that at all. They last longer than regular cigarettes. And they make me look ridiculous, which is of no concern to me. Not when I'm getting cigarette savings.
I have been a smoker for a long time. I started at 16 for the same reason that kids in after-school specials smoke: I had a friend who tried. Also, it was the only thing I could do and get away with that was "bad" because I didn't have the balls to get bad grades or drink, and I needed to defy my parents in some fashion.
My mother loves to tell people the story of how she found out about my smoking. First of all, let's just get out of the way that I was really a piece of crap as a teenager. I was smoking in my bedroom. I wasn't fooling anyone and I wasn't even trying. Although I was sticking my head out my window, my window was right above the kitchen window. My mom was making dinner and she smelled smoke coming down from upstairs. She came banging on my door. I opened the door and she said, "Are you smoking in here?" I looked her straight in the eyes and said, "Yeah." Then I slammed the door in her face and turned up "Guns in the Sky," ("Well, I'm sick of it. It's a load of shit!") I was SO DRAMATIC.
Then my mom grounded me for like, the rest of high school, which is why I never went anywhere when I was in high school. I snuck out to smoke and write and give blowjobs in cars, which is the way it seems to be with parenting: if you try to control your kids, you will just make everything worse. What my mother should have done was sit me down at the kitchen table and force me to smoke pack after pack of Marlboro reds (that's what I smoked back then) until I puked. Then I'm sure I would have never smoked again. But as is was, she drove me to suck dicks. It's the same old tale.
I've never even considered quitting smoking, even though, as all sentient human beings know by now
For this reason, I am obviously NOT a proponent of smoking. It is a filthy, disgusting habit, but it is addictive for many reasons, and I like to do it when I do certain things, like, for example: I like to smoke when I drive, when I drink, when I write, when I lay out by the pool, before and after running, after sex, and generally any time when I am putting my mind to some sort of "use." For years I said that I would quit when I had a baby, but no baby = no quitting. And anyway, if I have no progeny, who really cares how long I live? May as well tap out early in that case.
Part of the problem with smoking is that it is legal. If you could get an 8 ball of coke at the 7-11, I would totally do coke every day of the week. But, as it is, you can only get liquor and cigarettes and Slurpees at the 7-11, so I have a very real alcohol/cigarette/Slurpee problem. I'm sure there are people who DO have access to coke as if it can be found in a 7-11, and to those people, I say, I'm sorry for bumming all that coke from you. You must feel about me the way I feel about the people who are always bumming cigarettes from me and acting as if they don't know how to go about getting their own damn cigarettes. With all the sin tax piled on, a pack of shitty cigarettes costs $10 in Chicago. That's why I buy the super long ones.
Rather than worry about quitting, I've recently decided to class up my smoking. I'm going to start smoking expensive cigarettes -- no matter that I will no longer have money for food. I'm also going to carry my cigarettes in a classy silver cigarette case engraved with the words "FUMARISTA LOCA" in cursive and use a comically long cigarette holder.
Also, I will always wear a really fancy hat from now on when I smoke.
I feel the need to do this because I say, take pride!! Drinkers are allowed to drink in style. Why not smokers? Smokers are the most pathetic, marginalized, hated group of citizens in America today. Have you ever seen the outsides of buildings in Chicago in the dead of winter -- all smoking floors have been abolished, so they're out there in the freezing cold, with no mittens, having foregone their 15 minute lunch breaks to huddle in doorways while trying to eke out a few drags before taking a 10 minute elevator ride back to the 56th floor.
You used to be able to smoke in bars, but not anymore. I am always trying to get away with things. My friends are annoyed by this, but I will smoke just about anywhere until someone comes up to me and tells me to stop. I will act like I am from Europe and had NO IDEA that I wasn't allowed to smoke in the ladies room at Wrigley Field. I don't care if I get caught. At that point, I've gotten when I needed. If I have to put my cigarette out, so what? I was actually told I couldn't smoke on an outdoor sidewalk while a truck was driving by spewing black smoke. The server and I both actually coughed while we were having the exchange where she was telling me that I couldn't smoke in the street, and this truck is going by infecting my lungs and the rest of the sidewalk a thousand times more than I could do if I smoked one million cigarettes at this sidewalk part of the restaurant.
I know smoking is gross. But you know what else is gross? Gaucho pants. THOSE should be illegal in bars.
What's going on with Parliaments? When I started smoking, everyone smoked Marlboros and Camels. When did all the cool people start smoking Parliaments? I don't care. I'm not switching. I smoke Marlboro Light 100s which are 5,000 yards long. I need a
I have been a smoker for a long time. I started at 16 for the same reason that kids in after-school specials smoke: I had a friend who tried. Also, it was the only thing I could do and get away with that was "bad" because I didn't have the balls to get bad grades or drink, and I needed to defy my parents in some fashion.
My mother loves to tell people the story of how she found out about my smoking. First of all, let's just get out of the way that I was really a piece of crap as a teenager. I was smoking in my bedroom. I wasn't fooling anyone and I wasn't even trying. Although I was sticking my head out my window, my window was right above the kitchen window. My mom was making dinner and she smelled smoke coming down from upstairs. She came banging on my door. I opened the door and she said, "Are you smoking in here?" I looked her straight in the eyes and said, "Yeah." Then I slammed the door in her face and turned up "Guns in the Sky," ("Well, I'm sick of it. It's a load of shit!") I was SO DRAMATIC.
Then my mom grounded me for like, the rest of high school, which is why I never went anywhere when I was in high school. I snuck out to smoke and write and give blowjobs in cars, which is the way it seems to be with parenting: if you try to control your kids, you will just make everything worse. What my mother should have done was sit me down at the kitchen table and force me to smoke pack after pack of Marlboro reds (that's what I smoked back then) until I puked. Then I'm sure I would have never smoked again. But as is was, she drove me to suck dicks. It's the same old tale.
I've never even considered quitting smoking, even though, as all sentient human beings know by now
Part of the problem with smoking is that it is legal. If you could get an 8 ball of coke at the 7-11, I would totally do coke every day of the week. But, as it is, you can only get liquor and cigarettes and Slurpees at the 7-11, so I have a very real alcohol/cigarette/Slurpee problem. I'm sure there are people who DO have access to coke as if it can be found in a 7-11, and to those people, I say, I'm sorry for bumming all that coke from you. You must feel about me the way I feel about the people who are always bumming cigarettes from me and acting as if they don't know how to go about getting their own damn cigarettes. With all the sin tax piled on, a pack of shitty cigarettes costs $10 in Chicago. That's why I buy the super long ones.
Rather than worry about quitting, I've recently decided to class up my smoking. I'm going to start smoking expensive cigarettes -- no matter that I will no longer have money for food. I'm also going to carry my cigarettes in a classy silver cigarette case engraved with the words "FUMARISTA LOCA" in cursive and use a comically long cigarette holder.
Also, I will always wear a really fancy hat from now on when I smoke.
I feel the need to do this because I say, take pride!! Drinkers are allowed to drink in style. Why not smokers? Smokers are the most pathetic, marginalized, hated group of citizens in America today. Have you ever seen the outsides of buildings in Chicago in the dead of winter -- all smoking floors have been abolished, so they're out there in the freezing cold, with no mittens, having foregone their 15 minute lunch breaks to huddle in doorways while trying to eke out a few drags before taking a 10 minute elevator ride back to the 56th floor.
You used to be able to smoke in bars, but not anymore. I am always trying to get away with things. My friends are annoyed by this, but I will smoke just about anywhere until someone comes up to me and tells me to stop. I will act like I am from Europe and had NO IDEA that I wasn't allowed to smoke in the ladies room at Wrigley Field. I don't care if I get caught. At that point, I've gotten when I needed. If I have to put my cigarette out, so what? I was actually told I couldn't smoke on an outdoor sidewalk while a truck was driving by spewing black smoke. The server and I both actually coughed while we were having the exchange where she was telling me that I couldn't smoke in the street, and this truck is going by infecting my lungs and the rest of the sidewalk a thousand times more than I could do if I smoked one million cigarettes at this sidewalk part of the restaurant.
I know smoking is gross. But you know what else is gross? Gaucho pants. THOSE should be illegal in bars.
Friday, July 02, 2010
The Brownie Pants
After a long day of cleaning and doing laundry and grocery shopping and paying the bills and getting the oil changed and ironing the 15 button down shirts of her husband and two parochial school children, my mother would have to drive us to Lombard or Fucking Wilmette to battle it out for an hour-long “basketball” or “volleyball” game with the children of St. Mary’s or St. Joseph’s, or some other Catholic grade school that HAD a gymnasium to practice in. We weren’t so blessed and had to practice at the gyms of real (public) schools. I don’t recall anyone ever teaching us any rules or skills to these games. The ball would just show up in your hands and you would start running and jumping wild as a Whirling Dervish, and sometimes things would happen that were considered lucky, and you would get points, and other times, you would foul out. This happened to me. Whereas I do recall being better than mediocre at volleyball, but mostly because I was insane with energy and they gave you knee pads, which made you invincible, I don’t recall anyone ever teaching me any rules about basketball. It isn't true, of course, that we didn’t have coaches. Very dedicated, kind, and exceedingly patient fathers or older sisters or brothers would coach our teams, but I was too busy goofing around to pay attention, and for some reason, this wasn’t corrected, because I was the muscle of the team. I would foul out of every single basketball game, usually near the end of the third quarter, and this was never discouraged. I suspect it may have actually been strategic, to put the giant girl out on the court to pick off the other team’s most talented ball handlers. Some cute little thing would come towards me dribbling, and I’d stick out my arm and clothes-line her in her throat because no one ever told me that this was not the goal of basketball.
I didn’t care about the rules. It never occurred to me to ask. I fouled out of every game and spent a quarter sitting on the bench, so the most important thing to me about the basketball games was my hair. I would put it up in tremendous curly pigtails and adorn it with giant bows and then spend a minimum of four hours trying to “do” my bangs. This took resolve and courage and was achieved with a curling iron and hot rollers and bobby pins and barrettes and eight cans of Aqua Net, and they never “turned out” anyway. The girls’ sports teams were much about the hair. We looked like gymnasts from Czechoslovakia (that country existed back then) flailing around the court.
The one thing that was OK about being the tallest girl in my class was that I got picked first for all manner of PE activities, the most exciting of which were capture the flag and dodge ball, capture the flag because there were only three boys in my class who could run faster than me, and dodge ball because of my lightening fast reflexes and Hulk-like strength. I was 5’7” as a 12 year old, and being tall is the most shameful thing you can be when you are a young girl. The only thing that would have been more shameful would have been if I had been 9 feet tall with actual reproductive organs coming out of my forehead.
I didn’t know my own strength, and again, we were encouraged to try to win, so I would bean the smallest girls right in the face and specifically aim for the nuts of the boys, again, because no one ever told me not to. It occurs to me now that the PE teachers let me behave this way probably because it was hilarious. It was a Catholic grade school without a gym, so for all I know the PE teachers were volunteers, or worse, being paid some insulting salary of $300 a year to babysit us for an hour 3x a week.
So anyway, after school, and after I did my homework and spent the whole late afternoon doing my hair, my mother would drive around town picking up my classmates, and then she’d have to sit and watch this agonizing spectacle for an hour and then drive us back to Naperville and drop everyone off at home and then come home and cook us dinner. And because my father was a consultant, he left home every Sunday night and didn’t come home till Friday, so she was doing this all by herself. When I would go into emotional hysterics about the tragedy of my unfortunate hair or my embarrassing great height, it’s no wonder that she would tell me to shut up. She had tuna casserole to bake and 7 more shirts to iron and then after all of that, had to help me study the explorers for a Social Studies quiz. And I’m sure my little brother had some needs of his own. And than her husband would call every night from wherever he was, a Marriott in Seattle or Albuquerque or Philadelphia, and he would say, “How did it go?” and I’m sure she wanted to reach through the phone and strangle him for leaving her alone with us all week. It seems like a miserable fucking existence, but she did this for me, and she was then the same age that I am now. Last week I wouldn’t even flip over my apparently-dead next door neighbor lying in her own vomit in my hallway just to see whether or not she was still breathing, so I hardly think I would be any good at parenting a pre-teen and encouraging her myriad extracurricular activities.
I had a lot of activities. I played the piano and the clarinet, and was not particularly talented at either. I loved gymnastics and ballet until I grew out of my leotard and looked so comically gigantic next to the other girls, that I finally had to bow out with no grace whatsoever. I think I fell off a balance beam and was lying in a pool of my own blood and the teachers were just like, she’s too big to pick up. Let her bleed out.
The one thing that my mom wanted me to do that I didn’t want to do was join the damn Brownies. When I was in second grade, even the largest Brownie pants to be found in all of Ohio did not fit me. My mother, who fancied herself to be somewhat of a seamstress, set out to make me a pair of pants that I could wear to Brownies; however, these pants that she made were not the official shade of Brownie brown -- that beautiful smooth brown of Atlantic City boardwalk fudge.
No, these pants were a sort of oatmeal color. I cried every Tuesday afternoon as I changed into my ridiculous impostor Brownie pants, and finally, my mother let me to stop going to Brownies. For the short time I was in the Brownies, I learned two things: (1) how to attach macaroni to things, and (2) how to apply a tourniquet. I'm sure they meant to teach us more about first aid, but they didn't. Just, if someone's bleeding take off your belt and cut off the circulation until the limb falls off. To this day, that's the only thing I know about helping people. You stubbed your toe? I'm taking off my belt. Your boyfriend dumped you? Here comes a tourniquet! So, come to think of it, Marcie should be counting her blessings that I didn't get around to practicing any first aid on her last week when she was lying in a lump down the hall.
If I ever meet a Brownie-pants-maker, I will glue some macaroni to that culprit's face, and apply a bunch of tourniquets, and bean him in the nuts with a dodge ball.
I didn’t care about the rules. It never occurred to me to ask. I fouled out of every game and spent a quarter sitting on the bench, so the most important thing to me about the basketball games was my hair. I would put it up in tremendous curly pigtails and adorn it with giant bows and then spend a minimum of four hours trying to “do” my bangs. This took resolve and courage and was achieved with a curling iron and hot rollers and bobby pins and barrettes and eight cans of Aqua Net, and they never “turned out” anyway. The girls’ sports teams were much about the hair. We looked like gymnasts from Czechoslovakia (that country existed back then) flailing around the court.
The one thing that was OK about being the tallest girl in my class was that I got picked first for all manner of PE activities, the most exciting of which were capture the flag and dodge ball, capture the flag because there were only three boys in my class who could run faster than me, and dodge ball because of my lightening fast reflexes and Hulk-like strength. I was 5’7” as a 12 year old, and being tall is the most shameful thing you can be when you are a young girl. The only thing that would have been more shameful would have been if I had been 9 feet tall with actual reproductive organs coming out of my forehead.
I didn’t know my own strength, and again, we were encouraged to try to win, so I would bean the smallest girls right in the face and specifically aim for the nuts of the boys, again, because no one ever told me not to. It occurs to me now that the PE teachers let me behave this way probably because it was hilarious. It was a Catholic grade school without a gym, so for all I know the PE teachers were volunteers, or worse, being paid some insulting salary of $300 a year to babysit us for an hour 3x a week.
So anyway, after school, and after I did my homework and spent the whole late afternoon doing my hair, my mother would drive around town picking up my classmates, and then she’d have to sit and watch this agonizing spectacle for an hour and then drive us back to Naperville and drop everyone off at home and then come home and cook us dinner. And because my father was a consultant, he left home every Sunday night and didn’t come home till Friday, so she was doing this all by herself. When I would go into emotional hysterics about the tragedy of my unfortunate hair or my embarrassing great height, it’s no wonder that she would tell me to shut up. She had tuna casserole to bake and 7 more shirts to iron and then after all of that, had to help me study the explorers for a Social Studies quiz. And I’m sure my little brother had some needs of his own. And than her husband would call every night from wherever he was, a Marriott in Seattle or Albuquerque or Philadelphia, and he would say, “How did it go?” and I’m sure she wanted to reach through the phone and strangle him for leaving her alone with us all week. It seems like a miserable fucking existence, but she did this for me, and she was then the same age that I am now. Last week I wouldn’t even flip over my apparently-dead next door neighbor lying in her own vomit in my hallway just to see whether or not she was still breathing, so I hardly think I would be any good at parenting a pre-teen and encouraging her myriad extracurricular activities.
I had a lot of activities. I played the piano and the clarinet, and was not particularly talented at either. I loved gymnastics and ballet until I grew out of my leotard and looked so comically gigantic next to the other girls, that I finally had to bow out with no grace whatsoever. I think I fell off a balance beam and was lying in a pool of my own blood and the teachers were just like, she’s too big to pick up. Let her bleed out.
The one thing that my mom wanted me to do that I didn’t want to do was join the damn Brownies. When I was in second grade, even the largest Brownie pants to be found in all of Ohio did not fit me. My mother, who fancied herself to be somewhat of a seamstress, set out to make me a pair of pants that I could wear to Brownies; however, these pants that she made were not the official shade of Brownie brown -- that beautiful smooth brown of Atlantic City boardwalk fudge.
If I ever meet a Brownie-pants-maker, I will glue some macaroni to that culprit's face, and apply a bunch of tourniquets, and bean him in the nuts with a dodge ball.
Thursday, July 01, 2010
100 People
In the early days of the Internet, when there were some people with email addresses and some hold outs, it used to be fairly common for most of your email to come in the form of the "forward." By now, if you are fortunate, this has mostly died out. You'll get the occasional LOL cat,
but for the most part, everyone who's anyone knows better than to forward you a chain letter prescribing a bleak demise if you don't send it to 10 people. For now, only your great aunt who just got her first AOL account is sending you shit like the following, which is something that came around circa 2001:
---
THE WHOLE WORLD AS 100 PEOPLE
If we could shrink the earth's population to a village of 100 people, with all the existing human ratios remaining the same, it would look like this:
There would be:
57 Asians
21 Europeans
14 from the Western Hemisphere (north and south)
8 Africans
52 would be female
48 would be male
70 would be non-white
30 white
70 would be non-Christian
30 would be Christian
89 would be heterosexual
11 homosexual
59% of the entire world's wealth would be in the hands of only 6 people and all 6 would be citizens of the United States.
80 would live in substandard housing
70 would be unable to read
50 would suffer from malnutrition -- 1 would be near death, 1 would be near birth
1 would have a college education
1 would own a computer
Suddenly feeling fortunate?
Me too.
---
2001 was a long time ago, so I did some checking around. Here's an update:
Out of 100 people, there would be:
99 Asians
1 vaguely "brown" person named Alan
51 would be female
48 would be male
1 would be RuPaul
70 would be non-white
30 would have a great tan
70 would not be able to board an airplane without arousing suspicion
30 would be in-expertly trying to jam over-sized roller bags into the overhead compartment while mumbling under their breath about the "ferners" on the flight
89 would be able to get legally married
11 would be really snappy dressers
59% of the entire world's wealth would be in the hands of Dick Cheney, who, as I understand it, is the only citizen of the United States able to come and go as he pleases, commit treason at his leisure, not show up for depositions, embezzle, start wars, perjure himself, and shoot people in the face.
80 would live in Louisiana
70 would not be able to identify Louisiana on a map of Louisiana
50 would suffer from malnutrition -- 49 would be sitting in a McDonalds, the other one would be sitting behind Sally Struthers in a Unicef commercial
1 would have a Homer Simpson soundbox on his iPhone
100 would be able to re-create the Thriller video from start to finish
1 (probably Alan) would eat kittens for lunch
but for the most part, everyone who's anyone knows better than to forward you a chain letter prescribing a bleak demise if you don't send it to 10 people. For now, only your great aunt who just got her first AOL account is sending you shit like the following, which is something that came around circa 2001:
---
THE WHOLE WORLD AS 100 PEOPLE
If we could shrink the earth's population to a village of 100 people, with all the existing human ratios remaining the same, it would look like this:
There would be:
57 Asians
21 Europeans
14 from the Western Hemisphere (north and south)
8 Africans
52 would be female
48 would be male
70 would be non-white
30 white
70 would be non-Christian
30 would be Christian
89 would be heterosexual
11 homosexual
59% of the entire world's wealth would be in the hands of only 6 people and all 6 would be citizens of the United States.
80 would live in substandard housing
70 would be unable to read
50 would suffer from malnutrition -- 1 would be near death, 1 would be near birth
1 would have a college education
1 would own a computer
Suddenly feeling fortunate?
Me too.
---
2001 was a long time ago, so I did some checking around. Here's an update:
Out of 100 people, there would be:
99 Asians
1 vaguely "brown" person named Alan
51 would be female
48 would be male
1 would be RuPaul
70 would be non-white
30 would have a great tan
70 would not be able to board an airplane without arousing suspicion
30 would be in-expertly trying to jam over-sized roller bags into the overhead compartment while mumbling under their breath about the "ferners" on the flight
89 would be able to get legally married
11 would be really snappy dressers
59% of the entire world's wealth would be in the hands of Dick Cheney, who, as I understand it, is the only citizen of the United States able to come and go as he pleases, commit treason at his leisure, not show up for depositions, embezzle, start wars, perjure himself, and shoot people in the face.
80 would live in Louisiana
70 would not be able to identify Louisiana on a map of Louisiana
50 would suffer from malnutrition -- 49 would be sitting in a McDonalds, the other one would be sitting behind Sally Struthers in a Unicef commercial
1 would have a Homer Simpson soundbox on his iPhone
100 would be able to re-create the Thriller video from start to finish
1 (probably Alan) would eat kittens for lunch
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