The Buzz Index

Hey folks, it's your ol' buddy Buzz here with....dammit, that nickname just isn't going to catch on.

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This story sounds like a throwaway gag on Two And A Half Men, but here goes. About 10 years ago, my friends and I rented the movie Half-Baked for wild-and-crazy 17-year-old party night of watching the VHS and staying up until midnight. We stopped off at McDonald's for some food and ran into another group of friends. The following dialogue was then exchanged.

Them: What are you guys up to tonight?
Us: We just got Half-Baked and now we're getting some burgers.
Them: Half-baked on what?
Us: No, no, the movie.

Ba dum bum. Here's the real punch line: for all I remember about Half-Baked, I may as well have been smoking something that night. I have no recollection of that movie whatsoever. All I remember is Dave Chappelle is in it, Jon Stewart is in it (and that's only thanks to his constant "they let the guy from Half-Baked host the Oscars?!" jokes) and Bob Saget has the immortal cameo where he talks about sucking dick for coke. Plot, specific scenes, nothing, it's all a blur. It's interesting, since referring back to my last post about the great movies I haven't seen, I could tell you more about Godfather II, Sound of Music and probably several other films on that list than I could about Half-Baked. Cultural osmosis > memory.

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Lyndsy Fonseca has been on Desperate Housewives all season long, but only tonight did I realize that she's the same girl who plays Older Ted's daughter on How I Met Your Mother. Amusingly, her Housewives character is searching for answers about her mysterious father. This tears it, clearly Josh Radnor will end up with Dana Delany. Sure, there's about a 20-year age difference, but hey, who's to say Ted doesn't have a thing for cougars?

By the way, of all the ways to spell 'Lindsay,' I think Lyndsy is near the top of the list for obnoxiousness. Were her parents really big Paul Lynde fans or something?

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Here's why I always tell the ladies I'm an honest guy. It would be very easy for me to go back and include a graph in my Masters picks saying, "And keep an eye on this Trevor Immelman. This young South African has all the talent in the world and could easily make this tournament his major break-through." I could just as easily re-edit my Oscar picks to be dead-on, my reviews to reflect popular opinion or my prediction for the station's Thanksgiving give-away to be much less tragic ("As god as my witness, I thought turkeys could fly"). But no, I let those blog posts stand for history to judge my writing much in the same way that Samuel Pepys' diary is a largely uncensored look at 17th-century British life. I'm sure that with some hindsight, Pepys would've preferred to omit the passage when his wife walks in on he and his mistress, but hey, what's a bit of history without some spice? That passage, by the way, caused the one non-ironic spit-take of my life. I'm reading the admittedly dull diary for second-year English, trying to keep my eyes open, when Pepys suddenly throws in a line about having "my hand in her cunny." I spit milk all over my couch. Forget all of those explorers in British history --- Pepys was clearly the expert on going south of the equator.

By the way, to all of you guys out there, if you have to tell a woman your best quality, don't say you're honest. That's like being a pitcher whose best pitch is a change-up. It's all well and good, but at the end of the day, you need to at least some extent bring some heat. If your best quality is honesty, you're either indirectly saying a) I'm not very good-looking or interesting, but hey, at least I'm up front about it or b) you're lying, and thus negating your alleged best quality right off the bat.