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80 Years Ago

Archives 02-28-2001

North County Lines by Bob

An Award Winning Column

For comments or questions contact Bob at bobncl@hotmail.com



I had a horrible nightmare last night. I was chained to a seat at a Barbra Streisand film festival.

In front of me, Kathie Lee Gifford and Adolph Hitler were making out, swapping spit.

Thinking about the demon child they'd produce if things went too far sent chills racing through my body.

Be the Antichrist or an employee at the drivers license bureau. "To apply for an application to file an application for a new drivers license without the renewal application form that you didn't receive in the mail because you failed to notify us immediately after not receiving it, you'll have to go to the end of the line that runs out the door, down the street, and around the block."

Two seats down from Hitler and Kathie Lee, Ricki Lake was making out with herself.

At first I didn't understand why Ricki wasn't locking lips with another member of her species. Then I remembered livestock wasn't allowed in theaters. Someone had let Ricki in, though. Probably the usher with the bad toupee, Burt Reynolds.

Rosie O'Donnell's rear occupied the 12 seats next to Ricki Lake. Rosie was stuffing her face with a wheelbarrow full of buttered popcorn and a 55-gallon drum of chocolate covered peanuts.

When the peanuts and popcorn were gone, she licked the bottom of both containers. Then she picked up a washtub of root beer and sucked it down with a single gulp.

Rosie keeps eating like that, I thought, her waist size will soon equal her IQ multiplied by 100, or maybe 1,000. Measuring a minuscule intelligence level can be tricky. In the seat next to Rosie, a movie producer was talking on a cellular phone. "For the female lead," he said, "I want someone with no acting ability who's uglier than mud. I don't care if she is busy haunting a house in Scarsdale. Get me Sandra Bullock."

The producer paused a second then continued, "For the male lead I want someone who thinks he's the next Errol Flynn when he'll never be anything more than a washed-up Elmer Fudd. I don't care if only eight people went to see Mask of Zorro. Get me Antonio Banderas."

At the end of the aisle, Pinky and the Brain were sitting on top of a seat, talking.

"Are you pondering what I'm pondering, Pinky?"

"I think so, Brain. But if we make jello clothes for the people in Fairy Tale Land, won't Oprah and Cher look all squiggley wiggley?"

Several seats to my left, Itchy and Boogers of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs fame were hunkered back in their seats, discussing Itchy's problem.

"You can't drink beer in a theater, Itchy. They'll throw you out."

"Throw me out of a Streisand film festival, Boogers. You gotta be kidding. They'd be doing me a favor."

"You're right, Itchy. Pop me a top too."

"I wish I could, Boogers. But I only have six cases left."

"Give me a beer, Itchy, or I'll go sit next to Bob of North County Lines."

"Bob doesn't have any beer, Boogers."

"That's true, Itchy. But this is his story."

"Good point, Boogers. Here, let me open it for you."

"How long before they throw us out, Itchy?"

"If we're lucky, Boogers, soon, real soon."

I looked at the screen. Barbra's nose was entering a room. Two hours later, more than half of it was still outside when the intermission sign flashed and the lights blinked on.

"Praise be!" I yelled. "Glory, glory, hallelujah! My eyes have seen the disappearing of Barbra Streisand's nose!"

My joy was short-lived, however. Eminem walked in front of the screen, grabbed a microphone, and tried to spell a word, "f-o-e-t-o-e-g-r-a-f-f. Is that close?" he asked.

Someone in the audience yelled, "Not if you're trying to spell photograph! Why don't you try spelling something easier like idiot?"

"Okay," Eminem said, "i-d-e-u-t-t."

Could hell be more horrible? I thought. Chained to a seat at a Barbra Streisand film festival, listening to Eminem's feeble spelling attempts.

A deep voice echoed through the theater, "Where do you think you are?"

"Oh, no," I said. "I can't be down there already. Are you red with horns and a pointed tail?"

"The boss isn't here," the voice replied.

"Where is he?" I asked. "I need to speak with him about getting out of this place."

"He's in Washington DC," the voice replied.

"What's he's doing there?" I asked.

"Destroying the United States, bit by bit, piece by piece."

"I thought politicians were in charge of doing that," I replied.

"Nothing but pawns," the voice said, "the boss controls their every move."

"That explains a lot," I said. "Now can I go home?"

"No," the voice replied. "Not until you kiss Wynnona Judd and change her from a frog into a human being or at least a facsimile thereof."

"Oh, no, please," I said, "don't torture me like that. Let me go. I promise, as soon as I get home, I'll send in $19.95 and have my soul saved by a television evangelist."

"Plenty of those down here," the voice replied.

"Any good ones you can recommend?" I asked.

"If any were good," the voice answered, "they wouldn't all be here or arriving later."

"I guess I'm out of luck," I said.

"Yes," the voice replied, "you certainly are."



Overton County News
415 West Main Street
P.O. Box 479
Livingston, Tennessee 38570
tel 931.823.6485
fax 931.823.6486

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