Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me . . .
The National Evil is adamantly opposed to personal delusion. We say you’ve gotta size yourself up in the mirror, accept yourself for what you are, and head off to the plastic surgeon with a confident strut that says: Modern technology has liberated me from the shackles of my me-ness, so screw you, mirror.
Given that bold stance, the Evil has been hesitant to write word one about 30 Rock, because I’ve had a sneaking suspicion that I only like it because of Tina Fey; I think she could spend half an hour a week standing in front of a camera telling the world what an asshole I am and I’d still watch. And I know I’m not the first person to comment on the rise of this sexy dork in our public consciousness, but I did notice something new while traipsing about town this weekend.
Just like every other guy, when I spy an attractive female, I:
1. Picture her naked.
2. Picture her naked in bed with me.
3. Picture her in a chicken suit.
(No, that’s not weird; just like every other guy, I’m considering investing in a hot-wing franchise—mostly pub food, plenty of beers on tap, flat-panel TVs spewing sports everywhere, leave-your-silverware-at-home kinda place, we’ve all been there—and I’m looking for a sexy “chick” spokesmascot.)
Only now I find myself adding a #4—sometimes even a #3, supplanting the chicken suit.
4. Picture her in Tina Fey glasses.
Holy moly! Is this happening to anyone else? And ladies, have you considered how amazing it is that a pair glasses might be the sexual come-hither accessory of the late aughts? The funny underwear of the face?
Anyway, the important point is that Tina Fey shares the National Evil’s birthday. (Today, people.) So while you’re thinking of her, or thinking of picking up some sex-glasses to draw the gents, remember the Evil, too. And it will be the hap-hap-happiest birthday ever.
Besides the time I wrestled my demons . . . and won. Though it was only thumb war, which they said doesn’t count in a, you know, metaphysical sense.