Out of curiosity, I watched the censored version of Knocked Up here in Thailand on HBO. I own the DVD, a legal copy even, and wanted to see how it would differ, as well as to check out the Thai subtitles (did you know the polite Thai for “blowjob” is “boowup?” know you do!) As expected, they cut out any sexual situations, drug references, and most swearing (though “shit” appears to have been rehabilitated from the Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television) which cut out about twenty minutes from the running time and would have left a naive, first-time viewer slightly confused. (“How did the lead actress get pregnant? They just kissed!”) Laden with F-bombs, The Big Lebowski feels like a half hour and has something to do with rugs.
This sheltered cable existence took it’s toll one evening on our honeymoon in the States. One night we were staying in a hotel room in Orlando, Florida and Mook was taking a shower. I decided to see what was on TV and turned on Cinemax about halfway into Hostel. A few minutes later, Mook rushed out of the bathroom asking what was all that screaming. It was actually me, shrieking like a little girl at the scene where a guy takes a blowtorch to the Japanese girl’s face. Unfortunately, I missed all the scenes with exposed boobs, which apparently come in the first half of the movie.
I would like to share a link to one of my favorite sports personalities, former NBA player Paul Shirley, who has played all around the world and also authored a book Can I Keep My Jersey? His humor is drier than silica gel, and he’s a fantastic writer. He also has excellent taste in music, and just broke up with a spanish girl. Feel his pain and sample his wit here, a semi-regular column he does for ESPN.com. An excerpt:
I first saw my ex-girlfriend, whom I’ll call B for the rest of this column, in the Barcelona airport from 100 feet away. From that distance, and then again from two feet, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Half-Dutch and half-Spanish, she’s 5-foot-10, blonde, and possesses the most disarming smile since Audrey Hepburn’s. My opening line was “I came over here to find out if you speak English.” Thankfully, she did. Equally thankfully, she didn’t laugh at my typically Paul and typically amateurish approach. For 45 minutes, B and I spoke like we’d known each other for years. Her English was nearly flawless; not bad, considering it was her fourth-best language. I was smitten. Unfortunately, I would soon be leaving Spain. I was in the airport with my team en route to our last game of the year. After that, I was supposed to be back in the United States to oversee the release of my book and, as it turned out, to rehabilitate the ankle I would break in the game I was about to play.
I didn’t put much stock in our chances. She was decidedly not American, and I was decidedly not going to be in Spain in the near future. As such, I halfheartedly asked for her e-mail address, saying that, because of our lifestyles (she traveled a lot for her job as well), it was possible that we might end up in the same place one day.
At first, she refused. I was disappointed and said goodbye. But, as with all males, my hope springs eternal. After an hour of Interneting in the airport, I tore a map of Kansas from the pocket atlas that accompanies me all over the world and wrote a note that included my e-mail address in the margins. On my way to my gate, I found B and gave it to her.
She e-mailed me the next day.
Not his funniest work, understandably. For a better idea of that you’ll have to read about his encounter with the “dirtiest player ever.”