Today is my friend, Coco’s birthday. Her natal date coincides with the opening of Justin Bieber’s concert movie, Never Say Never, not to be confused as I was with the 1983 James Bond film Never Say Never Again.
That film was actually a new adaptation of Thunderball, a Bond film released in 1965. This remake was the final Bond film starring Sean Connery, who had initially stopped playing 007 in 1971. Connery’s incentive to reprise the role could have been for only one of two reasons, he was tossed a mountain of money, or more likely, he wanted to flaunt his junk again in a wet suit at age 53.
Ten days ago, I received an email from MovieTickets.com inviting me to “enter for a chance to win a date with Justin” at a screening of his film in my hometown.
Doesn’t MovieTickets.com know by now that I am in the over 40 under death age demographic? I see films with subtitles called Late Stage. While reaching for one of the air-sickness bags I stockpile in my desk I heaved and wondered:
Me: Why is Justin Bieber remaking James Bond now? Is it because they have the same initials so this smiling haircut thinks he can do anything?
Eventually I realized Justin was starring in an entirely different film. I forwarded the invitation to select members of my posse announcing, “I can so easily say never to this.” In an email reeking of snark, Coco asked if that film was on my must-see list. I snarked back, “Thought I’d treat you to it for your b-day so you can access your inner pedophile.” Chomping the bait, John-Mayer-sleeve-tattoo-loving Coco sounded off about Justin’s lack of appeal. She did not mince her words about why she considers this latest teen idol unworthy of her time.
This gave me a light bulb.
Coco has recently relocated from the Hamptons to the city. Although my paltry wages were reduced 20 per cent in January 2009 by my employer, E. Ben Ezer-Scrooge, a fellow in deep denial that the cost of living increases, so due to my financial limitations it is impossible for me to go gift-giving nuts. Yet, I can afford to use my vast imagination. There has yet to be a tax for being clever. Now that I’ve pointed that out, New York City should soon find a way to issue the first think tax in the nation, where I’ll find myself paying several pennies for my thoughts. It occurred to me during my latest brainstorm that since Coco loathes Justin Bieber and loves the city, I should marry the two in the guise of her gift.
First, I went to my neighborhood news seller and picked up two magazines, one devoted to cover boy, Justin, and the other, this week’s issue of Time Out New York.
When I returned home, I went online and ordered a subscription to TONY for Coco that will start in four to six weeks. Then, I slipped into my Dr. Frankenstein lab coat and went to work.
Step 1: Open the Bieber magazine to the centerfold. Observe the picture. Yawn so loudly, several agitated hounds bark.
Step 2: With stainless steel letter opener designed by Enzo Mari in 1962, slip the letter opener under a staple and lift. Repeat with second staple.
Step 3: Lift out guts of Bieber magazine. Save for wrapping fish.
Step 4: Open TONY to center section.
Read excellent Joke of the Week by Dan St. Germain. Photograph joke.
Step 5: See Step 2.
Step 6: Slip the empty Bieber magazine cover’s staples into microscopic holes in now staple-less TONY. Go blind as you fumble doing this 1,073 times or until you lose count.
Step 7: Accomplish Step 6 — hide TONY inside a Justin Bieber rag cover.
Step 8: Regain enough vision to do a mediocre wrap job.