Okay, fellows, help me out here. You wake up. You're not sure what happened last night. You find out that (1) You're in Las Vegas, and (2) Last night you got lit up like a Christmas tree and married Carmen Electra. How upset are YOU gonna be? I've got to tell you, if waking up after a bender always had this kind of consequences, I'd be sucking down tequila like Kool-Aid. Back in the glorious days of my misspent youth, the aftermath of a night of excess usually involved waking up under someone's coffee table, being unable to find my shoes, and retching. Lots of retching. Carmen Electra-type women rarely figured into the equation. Okay, never. I don't want to talk about it.
Folks, we have got to get this NBA strike settled soon, if for no other reason than to keep Rodman occupied. For that boy, idle hands are more than just the Devil's Workshop, they're the Devil's Industrial Park.
Ridiculous behavior on the part of NBA stars is one of the reasons that the recent strike was such a huge mistake. Baseball lost years worth of goodwill during its last lengthy strike. Thanks to idiots like Rodman, basketball doesn't have a lot of goodwill to fritter away.
And how about the new Mrs. Rodman? In case you're not familiar, Carmen Electra is a so-called "supermodel" who's starred in the occasional Budweiser ad and who was a regular on "Baywatch." I'm beginning to see a pattern here...call it the "Baywatch curse." First Pamela Lee got her naughty home videos stolen and posted on the Internet, now Carmen Electra has married a guy whose nickname is "the Worm." Of course, I suppose it's no more than can be expected, since "Baywatch" has apparently become the New York Yankees of bimbo-dom. Don't get me wrong, Carmen's got a balcony you could do Shakespeare from, if you know what I mean, but I wouldn't look for her to start a new career in the aerospace industry anytime soon.
All that aside, you've got to feel for Carmen, who is, in the words of the sad old song, more to be pitied than censured. First, ladies, consider what it would be like to wake up in a hotel room with Dennis Rodman prancing around in your underwear singing "I Enjoy Being a Girl." If THAT isn't enough to make you swear off drinking for life, I don't know what is. Then you start to consider that this is a man who used to date Madonna. What do you call for first, a lawyer, a rehab clinic, or a blood test? Or do you just do the honorable thing and shoot yourself right then and there? Then, to add insult to injury, the guy petitions for an annulment. What must it be like to be culled by Dennis Rodman?
Well, I suppose we should look for a moral here, some sort of object lesson to be learned. Otherwise the whole column is just a collection of cheap shots at foolish celebrities, and we certainly can't have THAT, can we?
I guess we can just use this tale as a comfort to everyone who's ever looked at their son-in-law, brother-in-law, or best friends' boyfriend and gone "You know, she could do a lot better." Yeah, but consider, she could have done a heck of a lot worse, too. She could have married Dennis Rodman.
Hmmm. Excuse me, I have to go call my mother-in-law.
© 1998 Jerry D. Rhoades, Jr.