June 21, 2006
Rick filed his column while waiting in vain for Dennis Miller to call him for their scheduled interview Friday. It is a loving rendition of one of Miller's self indulgent "rants," filled with obscure references that only occasional reach the level of "humorous."
I've been waiting by the phone for three hours. I'm hungry. I have to go to the bathroom. My head is pounding. It's been two hours, and still no Dennis.
I don't want to go on a rave but . . . Dennis Miller making me wait is like Albert Einstein anxiously pacing for Anna Nicole Smith to file her term paper on The Heuristic Value of the Theory of Relativity. I mean, I don't want to say I'm getting the raw end of the deal, but this is like Shrek performing a full body cavity search on Minnie Mouse. I mean, I feel like I'm a Leon Klinghoffer-clone sitting on a beach at Banda Aceh in Jakarta during the tsunami, like I have no chance, babe, unless I'm born with flippers instead of arms and legs in which case maybe, if I catch a prevailing wind and a strong tide, I can row my freaking self to Talofa and complain to the local constable that I've been raped in seven different holes by a diminutive dolt with a conflagrant wit bastardizing Comedy Central routines with the ease of a Dillinger in front of a piggy bank in a mute 10 year-old's bedroom after she hit Bingo at the church school bazaar.
The more I sit here the more infuriated I get that the same guy who tasted Hannity & Comb's saliva every day before their show to make sure the acid-tongued duo was acerbic enough, the same Saturday Night Dead has-been who thinks Joe Dirt was passed over by the Hollywood Foreign Press Association members because he didn't let the tights-wearing perfumed sissy-boys from France smell his hotel bed sheets after a night of wrestling with incontinence and a drunken busboy, the same one-dimensional cable TV fixture who has been on more obscure channels than Peter Lemongello selling steak knives to the Dean of the University of Phoenix, this same Used-to-Be whose impact on American Comedy is the equivalent of a simple dangling particle on the Magna Carta, this grain of sand on the head of a pimple on the ass of a camel in need of a mate and a bath, this same performer who was booed off the stage after Ashley Simpson got caught lip-synching "Volkslieder aus aller Welt" to a group of deaf albinos at a Roquefort Cheese festival in Des Moines and still being painfully off key? THAT Dennis Miller?
I don't want to say I feel used, but I feel like the only condom the night Jenna Jameson passed out in the Oakland Raiders' locker room after a Viagra-tasting party. I feel like the mouthpiece of a tuba after the University of Southern California marching band played a marathon medley of "Songs to Eat Sausages With" at the annual Oom-Pah Festival in Polish Town on Bobby Vinton Day. I feel like the grass in the backyard of the Glendale Dog Pound after a mob of angry hookworms made maggot soup in the bellies of 150 mangy hounds in heat.
Just because I've been sitting here squeezing my genitalia for what seems like before I reached puberty while my bladder threatens to explode up my freaking esophagus and through my clenched teeth to discharge the bile that overflowed from my liver about three hours ago, why would I be angry? Because a person of my intelligence and breeding got stood up by a plumose prune-eating fop with bad hair who couldn't find five minutes to help me help him ply his craft however much of an oxymoron that phrase is?
I mean maybe it's just me, but I'd rather be stuck in a single sleeping bag with Dan Dierdorf in Iraq during a large scale attack of camel spiders during a sand storm . . . I'd rather be at the bottom of Don Merideth's boot after he sprinted through a field of cow dung trying to escape from a lathered-up bull with a bad attitude . . . I'd rather be in the trunk of Boomer Essiason's car with a bag of his dirty jocks he threw in there two years ago and forgot about. . . I'd rather do all those things than spend one second talking to Dennis Miller.
Maybe it's just me, but talking to Dennis Miller must be like standing on a mountain of dead fish that have been baking in the sun after a large school of anchovies infected their nervous systems and rotted out their gill wings while a giant bald man with a whip forces me to eat raw calamari with fromundder cheese without chewing it first. It would be like listening to 144 Tibetan monks loudly chanting Barry Manilow lyrics through a megaphone directly into the orifice of my left ear while all four members of Abba sang "Dancing Queen" in an obscure Swahili dialect while gargling rancid milk and fondling each other's buttocks in the other.
Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.
Rick Murphy won four New York Press Association writing awards in 2005. "Low Tidings" is a three-time winner of the Best Column award.