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| Viki's Voice 2 |
| note: Viki Reed is a talented, humorous and dare I say somewhat peculiar writer. She has agreed to write for our e-zine on a bi-weekly basis. Her columns will then be archived here for future genrations to read, laugh and probably get a little pissed off about. Braisco. Game Shows of the Living Dead: GOOD ANSWER! GOOD ANSWER! 10/24/99 In the 1990's, some Hollywood Player decided to remake all 1970's game-shows. What comes out of your TV is thirty minutes of contestants and hosts sporting zombie-eyes.. The New Family Feud stars Louie Anderson as hostage, more than host. He walks spongy Minnesotans through exchanges like: "Name something you'd find in a mall.... you need 200 right answers to win, which means you must match at least 148 people on this last question...you only have 4 seconds on the clock...things you'd find in a mall?" Don't forget what made Family Feud great in the first place: the usually soused Richard Dawson snaking his tongue down a housewife's throat while her whole family claps to Hee-Haw music. Extreme Gong, the spawn of Chuck Barris's anarchic Gong Show, is a stroke of extreme emptiness. A migraine with an audience; emceed with faked-enjoyment by goateed-stud George Gray, who flaps-around like a new sail on an old crab-trowler. Actors perform stupid people tricks on a level of self-awareness so acute that you can feel them mentally adding Extreme Gong to their resumes. Going back in a time is much saucier: recall Jaye P. Morgan flashing her old but lovely cans at The Unknown Comic. Those were the days. As for the malodorous New Hollywood Squares, you'd expect a Greenwich Village performance-artist like Whoopi Goldberg to find a better showcase for the word ‘fart'. Undeniably, Hollywood Squares money is not to be passed, like so much gas. Whoopi is no Paul Lynde (the queeny, schunk-drunk ‘center-square legend'). Also missing is vice: you don't see many squares smoking or drinking scotch anymore. But there, for His Grace is Brazilian actor Antonio Banderas; mercifully banished to a corner in no-square land, where he's unburdened from having to quip in phonetic English. The New Match Game is a death after life experience. Who else but lascivious, skull-faced Gene Rayburn could've humped spontaneity into what is essentially live Mad Libs? Where's a relaxed (tipsy) Charles Nelson Reilly tugging on a pipe? Where's Brett Somers and Richard Dawson leering at Joyce Bufont? Okay, we don't miss Nipsy Russell's stinky poems, but a sugary-pastry, like host Michael Burger, can't lift a show that still thinks "boobies", "potty", and "whoopie" are risque. Just turn the zombies around and march them backwards into the biggest Hollywood Boulevard sinkhole-and don't even think about remaking The $1.98 Beauty Pageant with or without Rip Taylor. Copyright of Viki Reed 1999 Viki can be reached at divilo@pacbell.net  10/10/99 By the time a woman settles down or simply settles for one man forever; she has dated every archetype ever imagined. I went out with The Loser, for starters. A guy like this will have at least two friends with police records. He quits or gets fired from every job within a year. He cuts himself whenever handling sharp instruments. He'll offer to fix your car, but have to ask for a ride to your house. Your needs are secondary compared to those of his best friend from junior high-school. Collapses into REM sleep after sex every time. Lasted six months. Then there was "The Chairman of the Board" A real Big-Shot. Loved appearances, and demanded physical perfection from me, while he strutted lifts. He'd still insisted on dutch-dinners after dating me for seven months. I think he got his news from Rolling Stone and Playboy. I couldn't discern him as possessing any special skills-unless you count boasting. Checked his reflection when walking past any and all shiny surfaces: spoons, toe-clippers, and microwave doors included. Lasted 1 1/2 years. The Divorced Older Guy was my first biggie after the medical student. Big as in relationship, that is. When he told me about his marriage, I wanted a divorce from his ex! Sometimes broken marriages are like victimless crimes, but this one was a homicide. He had two traumatized kids that I suspected were sneaking smokes in the bathroom at day-care. He also had a daughter who was a year younger than I. Impossible as it seems my self esteem was lower than his. Nonetheless, I broke it off after 8 months to date The Actor-Waiter. My divorced, older guy didn't want it to end so he let me sleep with the actor while still letting him buy me things. I know. Shame on us all. Which brings me to the Sign of the Leech: The Actor-Waiter. He was very sensitive, very deep, very well-read, very needy and very into himself. Very everything. I was very angry when he moved in and went-on unemployment immediately. Sure, he was very good-looking. Very unrealistic. He really, really, really liked me so very much and only loved me when I was very disgusted with him. He couldn't act his way out of a paper-bag or into a job, but the very best of actors when it came to bull-shitting me. Each time he broke-up with me over seven and a half years was like reauditioning. Would you believe I married this professional sponge? For the record, I didn't keep the wife gig: he replaced me with a girl with a network holding deal. I didn't date, but I did flirt with this Man-Boy. Upon introduction he compared me to the woman that carried him. I got the feeling that if I were to make love to him, he would call-out his mother's name. In my experience with these types, they commonly insist on independence but happily hand you their skid-marks on laundry-day. I feigned sleepiness and made him take me home. I was "The Beard" for this cutie in college. I was the last girl this man dated before realizing he's always been queer and proud of it. He was nice, fantastic in El-Sacko, loved what I did with my dorm-room, was a great gab and more considerate than any man I've ever dated. He might've been the one if I had a penis. That's why he went to Gold's Gym so much... I almost made a Sugar-Daddy. Who was kidding who, here? White pubic-hair, liver-spots, and a rickety walk are not going to melt the vagina into submission. Perhaps the seventeen platinum credit cards and weekends in the Bahamas would. I had to make sure. A relapse into the Divorced Older Guy type. Ultimately I couldn't relate to a man who had kids as old as my parents and who knew way many more dead people than anyone I met. He oft repeated, "At my age..." I broke it off gently after two months of shopping and purging. Almost a decade after losing my virginity, I finally met The One. The hardest of all dates to find. He was looking for all the same things as I was and didn't break-up with me once ever. He's not perfect and cuts me a lot of slack. He talked marriage, houses, dogs, furniture and proposed to me two months after our first overnight chat. We had a baby within two years of marriage and he's got my back even when I'm an utter crotch. He attempts to due his duty in the boudoir with a tenacity and honor that is truly remarkable. All spiders are squashed on demand. This is my man. My only regret is that I didn't meet him sooner, like ten years ago, but I probably would've dumped him for being too nice. 9/26/99 For Better Or Worse: For Better: Your wife will only ever pledge her body to you. For Worse: It works both ways, crap. For Better: There's no law that says you have to have a big church wedding. For Worse: There seems to be no dissuading your bride from planning a wedding from a weather-balloon. For Better: Your wife can look pretty sexy and hot when she wants to. For Worse: What's to want now that she has you? For Better: You can share house-keeping duties. For Worse: She gets to keep the house if you get divorced. For Better: The sex gets better and better. For Worse: It's hard to complain when you hardly ever get it. For Better: You can always talk things out. For Worse: You can't out-talk a woman. For Better: Marriage makes you more attractive to the opposite sex. For Worse: Do that math, dumbsh*t. For Better: You have the rest of your lives to think about having kids. For Worse: You live about six lifetimes for every year you remain married. For Better: No more condoms! For Worse: You have to buy tampons and douches instead. Twice the price, twice the product, double the humiliation. For Better: You know each other's sense of humor so innately, it's almost psychic. For Worse: Try squeezing a laugh out of your spouse without causing personal injury. For Better: When you get married you suddenly have two cars! For Worse: When you get married usually one car gets totaled and you have to drive each other to work every damn day. For Better: You can be more relaxed and more ‘you' around your spouse than anyone else in the world. For Worse: You had no conception of your spouse's propensity for excess gastric mass. Burping is supposed to be funny now. For Better: She'll grow her hair long for you. For Worse: She'll bitch about hair products, how she can't let it down because she's always doing housework, and how she needs a haircut. For Better: She'll heal and lick your wounds. For Worse: Those are the first scabs to be picked in the event of an argument. For Better: She lets you watch NFL Games sometimes. For Worse: She lets you watch NFL Games sometimes. For Better: She cleans the bathroom. For Worse: She knows exactly how many times you pleasure yourself every day, down to the hour. Viki Reed is wanted in three states, if you see her, you are to consider her armed, dangerous, and a big complainer. Contact the FBI or your local law enforcement agents should you see Viki Reed. She is known to grow a beard to change her appearance. You can contact Viki Reed at Divilo@pacbell.net |
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