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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Seems like everybody's got something against salt these days. You can't dip your French fry into the saltshaker in a restaurant any more without getting dirty looks from every overzealous health nut in the joint, like you just sluiced the skin off an newborn baby and stuffed it with StoveTop and onions. You'd think it was strychnine or pure Bolivian blow the way these shitbirds put on a sour puss. Well I hate to be the only pooper at the party, and I don't want to give any of you politically correct folks an anal hernia, but I've just got to say it anyway:

Fuck you all, I love salt.

Don't look at me like I just crawled out from under a rock on planet Neanderthal. I've read all the screaming headlines printed in vivid blood red about what doctors of today have to say about salt. That it'll boost your blood pressure higher than Tim Leary in a hot air balloon and make your arteries hard like a fifteen year-old at the Playboy mansion. Doctors of today cross the street to avoid salt spilled on the sidewalk and wear full-body condoms when they swim in the ocean, I know. But you know what the thing is? The doctors of today are for shit.

I'm not kidding, they're worthless. Remember a few years back when they decided that flying a kite was good for arthritis? Then all those old suckers were killed by lighting? Then the doctors decided that wine is good for your heart, so everybody ran out and stocked up on the vino, but then a week later doctors "discovered" that drinking too much wine will make you shit out your ovaries. What, do these guys own a chain of liquor stores or something? Every other day they're pulling some startling revelation out of their collective ass, like eggs give you glaucoma or milk makes your feet stink. I swear to God these guys are filling out some kind of Medical Mad Libs they got in med school and are laughing their asses off as they fill them out at their posh doctor parties and make drunken prank calls to the press. I trust those guys about as far as I can throw a herniated disk.

So I'm not about to let these slappy sons of bitches ruin the great fun I have eating salt. And I do mean fun. I don't care what it is, salt makes it better: steak, burgers, potatoes, salad. Even ice water. And don't forget to salt your butter. Have you ever had unsalted butter? Sweet bland-assed Moses, I had some of that stuff on a roll once accidentally and I thought I'd had a stroke that paralyzed my taste buds. The mere memory of it gives me the shivers.

I don't think people today realize how lucky we are in this day and age, to have salt available in the quantities that we do. Just the other day I enjoyed a salt-encrusted fudge roll at one of my favorite breakfast haunts, the Gravestone Mill. A simple pleasure, true, but just try and order yourself up one of those about 6,000 years ago. You just couldn't do it. And not just because you weren't born yet. Back in the day salt was rarer than a celibate high school girl and in many cultures was worth more than its weight in gold. This may sound crazy to your modern ears, but just imagine trying to choke down a doughy, overcooked baked potato with just some gold flakes on the top. Not too appealing, eh?

After that, when salt became more readily available, it predated refrigeration as a way to preserve food. Now that's what I'm talking about. If I should ever stumble upon a time machine, you know precisely where I'm setting the dial. That had to be some kind of heaven on earth. All the salt you could eat, and nary a dirty look for your trouble.

Sure, folks only lived to about 30 back then, but when you died, I bet it was with a salty smile on your dry, crackled lips. Amen.

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I have to admit, a few years ago the sound of a bustle in my hedgerow would have left me terrified. I was naïve, to say the least, and suffer a fear of mortality like anybody else. At least that's what my new houseguest said, and that's when I became aware what there was to fear, whilst before I suspected the sound might be a bear or some kind of Jack the Ripper fan intent on re-creating the crimes in vivid detail, only with men this time instead of trollops.

Likewise when I heard the whistle of the pied piper calling through the crack'd window in my den, at the time I kept running to the kitchen to see who left tea boiling on the stove top. This was before my new friend Jimmy Page came to stay with us.

Page is an insightful limey, you have to give him that. Before he showed up to stay with us I was scared of silly things, like the possibilities of violent crime, chemical terrorism, nuclear annihilation, all of these highly unlikely possibilities. Jimmy opened my eyes to the existence of dragons, mythical knights, multi-headed beasts from fables, and dark wizards who can destroy you with a handful of powder. And I've seen the powder that he travels with so I know he's not kidding.

Laughing trees, talking spirits, and some big pushy bitch he calls "the May Queen"--Mr. Page inhabits a very scarey world, folks, and he's welcomed me into it. Hence I've decided that, as enjoyable as his company is, I have to find a way to kick him out. I simply cannot continue going to work each day like the world is a normal place when I know there's half-goat demons out there who dance before me in the street on my way to work. And I can't hit them with the Volkswagen, either, they can float and dance on my hood with their cloven hooves. There's several of them in those commune offices I work at, too. I've never noticed before now that Ted Ted fellow is even smaller than me. Makes you wonder. Wonder? I meant terrified.

I'm not sure the exact length of time Jimmy Page is planning on staying. I wouldn't feel right asking him to leave, I'm all too aware of that magic dust in his suitcase. I've asked him how long he'll be around and he assures me he is bound for an otherworld, though I'm not sure where that is or I'd buy him a ticket already. He's mentioned something about a stairway of some kind, I'm unclear as to how tall it needs to be or where he wants it built, but I figure if I buy a tall enough stepladder it might make do in a pinch.

In the end, I'll probably get rid of him the same way I got rid of Donovan during his long stay in the late '60s: I'll move to the roof for a few days. We have a spare bedroom up there, hidden away from those unfamiliar with the house, and in times of houseguests myself, Arvelyn, and our cat Makeshift can squeeze in there comfortably for a long space of time, until our houseguest goes out for food or something and we change the locks. We've thus far managed to outlast every houseguest, although I must admit there were a number of doubtful moments where we worried that guy from The Commish was going to win in the end.

Not that there won't be a down side to Mr. Page's exit; the next time there is a bustle in my hedgerow, I'll undoubtedly be alarmed then. I'll soon forget about the pied pipers and May Queens. Though I've always known all that glitters isn't gold. Most of the time it's just glitter. Glitter glitters, you know.

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