Alanis Morissette Relieved Age of Irony is Over

nformed recently that the Age if Irony is now officially dead, singer/songwriter Alanis Morissette held a brief press conference near Times Square today to express her relief. Stung by past criticism regarding her incorrect examples of events that she assumed illustrated irony, Morissette told a small crowd of reporters how grateful she was that her "long nightmare has, like, finally ended."

Reading from a prepared statement, Morissette went on to say, "I am like so totally happy this has happened, you know? I mean, like I'm sorry it took a whole bunch of people being killed for it to come about and all, but still, you know what I mean, right? Because, I mean, like, what if one of the guys that was in the World Trade Center that day had, like, won the lottery the day before? Or what if he was going to win it like the day after that happened, but he couldn't because he, like, died or whatever? Or what if there were like two people in there, and it, like, rained on their wedding day? I mean, like, I think you see my point, right?"

When asked for further clarification, Morissette simply shrugged and said, "Well, you know, I'm just all like, what-ever. I mean like, you know?"

In concluding her remarks, Morissette spent five minutes twirling around in a circle with her hands in the air. She then proceeded to remove all her clothing, and walked the five blocks back to her hotel unescorted.

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I swear to God you break one little hip, slip into a light four-month coma, and the entire world passes you by. It's like you died, nobody bothers to bring you up to date on the lotto numbers or the once-in-a-lifetime cataclysmic events you missed while you had a feeding tube sticking out of your ass like a goddamned ringtail lemur. The Red Sox? The World Series? For that very reason I'm still unconvinced that I didn't die that day, living ever since in some kind of strange Jacob's Ladder hinterworld. The motherloving Red Sox? That gimpy bunch of fruits? I spend the autumn on the rack at Jiffy Lube and the whole world passes me by like I was driving a Prius in the Indy 500.

While I was in my coma, dreaming about soft foods and My Little Pony, I had some vague awareness that I was probably missing some big events out in the so-called "real" world. I knew if I stayed in there long enough, the usual grab bag of celebrities would probably kick off, and I might just miss the Al-Qaeda razing the city of Chicago like it was the Crusades 2. And I was fine with all that. But I'm still pissed off that nobody though to bust out the electroshock paddles when the Sox came back from 3-0 against the Yankees back in October. Trust me, I would have climbed down off my pretty-hair pony and rejoined the waking world to see that, they wouldn't have had to shock-paddle me more than three or four times. No acrid stink of fried chest hair for this guy. We're talking playoff action here.

Back in my day, doctors could recognize a coma for what it was: a hard-earned vacation for people who hate to travel. They didn't mess around with all these expensive EKGs and CAT-scans. They just tossed a spare blanket on you and left a glass of water on the nightstand for when you eventually woke your ass up. And if there wasn't room at the hospital, thanks to a fireworks fight at the coal mine or war breaking out in the Balkans, there was always some nice family out there proud to host a comatose American. Hell, I had a guy comatose on my couch for three months back in '57. I didn't mind it one bit, he kept the nachos warm while I was in the bathroom.

But that world's as far gone as an underground bunker full of Scientologists, readers. Nowadays, it's screw you and your 86-year World Series curse, old man. As long as your family keeps sending the hard sucking candies, we're keeping you in that coma.

My God, the Red Sox. How did this self described bunch of "fucking morons" defeat the mighty-footed Yankee juggernaut? I've seen the footage on Betamax, and I'm still not sure how it happened. The only sane conclusion is that the 2004 Yankees were, to a man, a bunch of pussies. If I were Steinbrenner, I'd be pissed nobody pointed this out to me earlier. I bet next season the Yankees have some kind of public disclosure rule where that kind of stuff gets exposed, possibly over the public address system. "Now batting, Alex Rodriguez: Pussy. Also plays some third base."

Did anybody else see Rodriguez karate-chop that ball like he thought he was Jackie Baseball Chan or something? What a pussy. If I saw that in a little league game, I'd be down on the field, bitch-slapping some little kids. The ghost of Babe Ruth needed to pry his fat ass out of the grave for about ten minutes and give that Rodriguez guy a serious murph, and pronto.

Kevin Brown? Another big pussy. Only the Yankees could find a way to spend so much money on a guy whose spine is held together with Polydent. This guy gives the elderly a bad name.

Jeter? He's always been a pussy. You can pull all the carnival bullshit you want, throwing some steroid freak out at the plate with a backward pass like you think you're Magic Johnson, but… actually, there's no "but" involved, that alone makes you a pretty big pussy. I've slapped little leaguers for more manly pranks than that.

Mussina? Pussina. That guy belongs in an elementary school library, checking book margins for nude doodles of Minnie Mouse. Matsui? Japanese Baseball Robot. Not a pussy, but not very convincing either. They might have pulled that one over on us if it weren't for all the sponsorship logos printed on his teeth. Bernie Williams? You ever see that cartoon aardvark Arthur? Same guy. Both pussies. And a name like Georgie Posada speaks for itself.

Few would call Gary Sheffield a pussy, but you've got to look at the company a man keeps. Something's not right with this guy. Plus Sheffield swings harder on a bunt than Jack Nicholson saying hello to Scatman Crothers. And they want to know how he ended up with rancid hamburger for a shoulder by the end of the season? After the Twins game when he tried to catch that fly ball in his mouth, it dawned on me that the guy's arms are tied on with twine, like a scarecrow. They're just for looks kids.

And don't get me started on the "Cardinals." Anyone with half a memory knows those guys were the "other" team from the Bad News Bears movies, all growed up. I don't know what they did with the real Cardinals to make sure the Red Sox Cinderella story came true, but Guantanamo Bay is the first place I'd look.

Anyway, bitter rant aside, it's good to be back among the conscious. Thanks for calling, if any of you called. Sorry I wasn't able to answer the phone: coma and everything. But I'm sure subconsciously it meant something to me, on some kind of psychic Caller-ID level. But the next time I get jumped for slapping little-leaguers, I expect a marked improvement in coma management, people. Good day.

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"Politics makes strange bedfellows, but sheep are surprisingly comfortable."

I heard once that you never talk about religion or politics with people, which sounds like a good idea 'cause that way they never know you're an idiot. Oh, they might think they know, and they may even tell you so, but they don't got no proof. That's what counts. So I try to stay out of politics. And public swimming pools.

It's amazing more people don't catch diseases from public swimming pools. All those people swimming around in the same lukewarm water with each other, spitting and blowing snot and peeing. It's like venereal soup or something. Which might not be too bad, actually, if you threw in some mushrooms. I love mushrooms.

I got tuberculosis or something from a public pool last year. True story. It's a good thing they have a cure for that now. I've just got to convince the doctor to give it to me, I think he's holding out just to be a dick. It's probably not even TB, he said I should go home and try to sleep it off for a few months and if it gets any worse come back.

I know a friend, Loomis, and he caught genital warts from a toilet seat. No shit. He got real pissed but the guy said it's his own fault for not waiting until he was finished before sitting down. Loomis is still waiting for that jackass to call him back.

It would really suck to have genital warts because then everybody would take a look at your hands and know you've been masturbating. Or touching frogs repeatedly. I don't know which is worse. I don't want everyone to know I masturbate. Sure, they can guess, but they have no proof. Those 7-11 security camera photos are way too grainy, that shit won't stand up in court.

I always heard if you get a sexual disease it makes your wang burn. But I say my dingle's always hot for action, mama. Then they slap me and say it's a free clinic, not a singles bar. But there's not much difference, I keep seeing the same people in both places, there's just more lights in the clinic.

If my schlong ever burnt from a sexual disease, I would just put some ice cream on it. Think about it—nothing can live in ice cream, it's too cold. Plus, chicks love ice cream. Actually, guys love ice cream, too. I'd probably lick myself down there if I had ice cream. Or if my back could bend that far. Even without the ice cream.

I wish my back could bend like that.

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