As summer falls, tell yourself that it was only a bad movie

THE FILP SIDE

August 25, 1994|By Kevin Cowherd | Kevin Cowherd,Sun Staff Writer

It is the last gasp of August, a listless, enervating time in which the dominant mood (unless you happen to be 3 and spend your days circling the driveway on a Big Wheel) is: We're sick of summer.

We want it to end right now.

We're sick of family togetherness. Let's face it, shoe-horning three kids and two adults into a Honda Accord and driving 200 miles to Aunt Bee's Gingerbread House or Walt's World of Reptiles takes a heavy psychic toll on everyone.

Sharing a beach house with your sister Judy and her family sounds like a good idea, until that first cookout on the deck when you accidentally put mustard instead of ketchup on little Justin's hotdog, and little Justin (age 7) calls you a "stupid bonehead" and Judy says: "Justin! That's no way to talk to your Uncle Dave!" and Justin answers: "I wish I'd never been born!"

We're sick of the kids being underfoot. We're sick of their friends being underfoot. When does school start, anyway?

As a parent, how many times can you sit through "Return of Jafar" and listen to that goofy parrot Iago without snapping and ++ hurling yourself through the picture window?

There are certain things animals should never be asked to do. Snappy repartee is one of them.

"Aladdin," "Three Ninjas," we've seen them each, what, 20, 30 times this summer?

Watch "Free Willy" three times in a row with a sick child and you're praying Willy gets caught in a tuna net.

We're sick of sleep-overs, too. Don't kids ever sleep in their own homes in the summer?

It's like a Ramada Inn. You walk into your house at the end of the day and some 12-year-old you never saw before rushes up and says: "Wow, this is so cool! You're staying here, too?!"

We're sick of all the re-runs on TV.

In the TV listings this week for "Murphy Brown," the plot summary said: "Murphy screams at someone again -- don't waste your time."

They don't even pretend anyone's watching this stuff anymore.

It's gotten so bad that when you come across something like "Ernest Goes to Camp," the whole family stampedes into the room like it's "The Longest Day."

We're sick of stupid summer movies, too.

Out in Hollywood, studio executives at New Line Productions must flip their calendars to August and find this reminder: release another lame Jim Carrey film.

Have you seen "The Mask?"

"The Mask" is so dumb, it makes "Ace Ventura: Pet Detective" look like "Citizen Kane."

Thank God for "Forrest Gump." "Forrest Gump" is "Spartacus" compared to junk like Pauly Shore's "In the Army Now."

We're sick of humidity. Worse, we're sick of all the rain.

It's usually so dry this time of year that the weatherman on the 11 o'clock news is clucking (in his best I-feel-for-you voice): "Boy, the farmers could really use some rain!"

So this summer it rains and rains and rains. And now the farmers are whining: "Geez, we can't grow our crops in this! It's too wet!"

Yo, what's the deal with you farmers? Are you people ever satisfied?

We're sick of mowing the lawn. That's what happens when it rains: the grass never stops growing.

By mid-August, lawns are usually as brown and rutted as the Ho Chi Minh Trail, circa 1968.

This summer everything is green and lush.

Green and lush is vastly overrated, my friend. Especially if you're pulling the Toro out of the shed every five days.

What else? We're sick of those produce trucks on the side of the road. These produce people, they put out those prissy little red cones so traffic has to squeeze into one lane and they have room to sell their tomatoes and watermelon and whatever.

Who do these produce people think they are?

One day, we should all go out to where they live, pull a truck in front of their house and start selling Valvoline and radial tires.

See how they like it.

We're sick of golfers. Everywhere you look, they're walking around in their tangerine polo shirts and green pants and boring people with how they tackled that dogleg right on the eighth hole.

Golfers are beautiful. They tell you they play the game to relax. Then you watch them sling their clubs over their shoulder and stumble out to their cars at the ungodly hour of 6 on a Saturday morning, exhausted from not enough sleep, hands shaking from 10 cups of coffee.

Six hours later, the car pulls back in the driveway and they're red-faced and cursing and swigging Mylanta as they tell you about the lousy day they had on the course.

Look, we don't want to see you people anymore.

We're sick of the pool, too. So sick of it we could scream. You go to the pool and what do you do?

Splash, splash, splash.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Been there, done that.

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