Drinking Helmets

One little test I used to do was on a Monday morning when we’d meet the host, I would ask the host if he would be interested in doing a sketch called “The William Holden Drinking Helmet.” I would always gauge by their reaction, because poor Bill Holden had fallen and cracked his head open and bled to death. So I always thought, if they laughed at that at least, I knew it would be a good week.

— Tim Kazurinsky

Writer, Saturday Night Live

It would have been cool if the ship’s counselor on Star Trek was bowling-shoe ugly.

So, like, every week, she’s still single and doing yoga with Dr. Crusher. Then that week’s diplomat comes on board for some kind of summit, and she thinks he’s handsome, but of course she can read his feelings, which are something like, “Goddamn, Stardate: Help Me, I’m currently circling the Pockmarked Planet of the Wad of Cottage Cheese system.”

She’d try anyway, though, and get up against him, saying, “Perhaps I can escort you to your quarters?” and he’d be like, “Nah, you know what, I’m just gonna take this brochure from the Chamber of Commerce and walk around your bigass plane for a bit. You stay here.”

Sure, I’ll spend thousands of dollars a year on insurance with you. You guys seem, like, professional and smart as hell, what with those Wile E. Coyote level kids pimpin your shit and everything.

And, seriously, an insurance company named Italiano? How can I lose? I got a real nice house, here. Be a shame if somethin’ were to happen to it.

Sean Connery’s the most frightening thing you could hear on ‘The X-Files.’

I mean, there you are, sitting in the dark, and the credits are doing their

duh-duh duh-duh duh

duh-duh duh-duh duh

dah! dah! dah!

wah wah wah wah wah wah

thing, while that hand has a glowing finger bone, and a guy’s head screams and then goes all sideways and kinda Gumby on him, and that weird snail thing in a hood gets a huge face boner made out of snot, and then, out of the blue:

"Ach! What’sh thish? Paranorrrmal Ocktivity?

Eh, errrr, government deniesh nollech.”

Hey, here’s a free goldmine for you, ESPN:

1. Line up a hot chick sabermetrician to appear regularly on Baseball Tonight.

2. Start an ad campaign about “ESPN Baseball: Your Best Friend.”

3. Start promoting the girl sabermetrician to The Cars’ “Best Friend’s Girl,” and whenever the line “I kinda like the way she dips” comes up, flash: “DIPS: DEFENSE INDEPENDENT PITCHING STATISTICS.”

4. Have her murder John Kruk.

5. Every baseball nerd in America will watch your show.

One day I will grow up to write dialogue for Russian immigrant characters on television.

Dey weal all haff ubvious accent, bit because Aye em bat writer, dey weal all spick wit, how you say, Americanski idiom. Like, say,

I come to here uff de boat, and I ken not get good job. It is sex of wan, haff dozen of other. But a bird een hand, as dey say. I em batting one-tousand.

Da! Da! Is good, is good!

In 1972 a crack cholo unit was sent to their nana’s for a birthday party they didn’t even care about.

These vatos promptly escaped from a group photo to the Glendale Galleria. Today, still expected to take care of their little brother Hector after school and before their sister comes home from her shift at the hospital, they survive on a diet of Krispy Kreme and ride the bus. If you have a hairnet, if no one else can help, and if you drive an El Camino that can fit most of them in back, except for the fat one who has something wrong with his foot, maybe you can hire the C-Team.