It used to be that every Sunday I sat down and wrote a brief -- as in, somewhere around 3,000 words -- post about the fucktards who write into Walter Scott's Personality Parade in Parade Magazine with unimaginably moronic questions. And when I say "fucktards" what I really mean -- or meant -- in most cases was the editorial staff who made up the questions, since most of the letter writers clearly didn't exist. Though, of course, many, many, many of the letters were written by real people, since I still get emails about once a week asking me to remove their names from the posts in question because, well, it turns out they don't like having high school crushes Googling their names and finding out that they wrote a mythical person a question about whether or not, you know, the corpses on CSI are real dead people or, worse, important questions about immigration reform getting all of those damn immigrant Brits off of our TV screens.
But as Neil Diamond once said, used to be's don't count anymore. I've stopped reporting on Parade for several reasons, not the least of which is that they seem to not be using as many fucking idiots to write their fake questions anymore, which is nice, but also because the magazine is so small now that I frequently can't find it in my Sunday LA Times and end up inadvertently throwing it away along with the coupons for the discount on the Wagon Wheel appetizer plate at Black Angus before I have the chance to be annoyed by the contents therein. I also suspect that my wife occasionally hides the magazine in hopes of not getting my blood pressure up now that I'm 40. But by and large, when I do read it, I find that the questions and answers in Personality Parade are still fucking stupid but are now, more often than not, not as egregiously ruining the very fabric of America, and thus I've decided that my hard work for lo so many years actually paid off. That or I'm just numb now. Could be either one.
At any rate, that's how I felt until this morning. I woke up early, around 11am, and sat down on my sofa to watch football and drink coffee in hopes of finally digesting the fowl beast living in my gullet these last several days. I placed the Sunday LA Times -- minus the sports page and the book revew -- beside me on the sofa and for a few hours my cocker spaniel slept peacefully on top of it. Life seemed good. The Raiders were winning. Things in my stomach seemed to be traveling a sure path. Birds sang. Eventually, however, my dog got off the couch and I found myself staring face-to-face with Parade. Oh, what the fuck, I thought, how bad could it be?
Q: Would Ralph Macchio ever do another Karate Kid movie?—Stephanie Whitley, Smithfield, Va.
A: “No, I don’t have a desire to,” says Macchio, 50. “It seems like a different franchise now.” The father of two is working on a teen driving safety campaign for State Farm in which he teaches his son, 16, the rules of the road (watch the video below). He’s also producing a reality show about Gypsies for the National Geographic Channel, due in the spring.Just fyi, "It seems like a different franchise now" is code for "Are you people for real? I mean, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you? You think I'm fucking William Shatner? Get a fucking life, you fucktards! It was 27 years ago. How would you like to climb into the life you had 27 fucking years ago? Why don't you take your fucking question and shove it up your top-loading VCR, okay? Leave me be. Just leave me fucking be. And stay gold, bitches."