Pikachu Swag!
Merry Sanchez, exhilarated Not only this, but the And so superhappy Sanchez Instantly the source of "The Sister of Sanchez The Sister of Sanchez lifted "‘I am inexplicably The Sister of Sanchez jingled Supa-sucka-fied Sanchez NEXT WEEK: a thorough
on Thanksgiving morning, bounded up the six flights of stairs to his hovel,
with visions of holiday festivities dancing in his mind’s eye! For Thanksgiving
is the day that generous Sanchez invites his friends over to his home, hauls
the boxes upon boxes of unopened promo CDs up to the roof, cracks the jewel-boxes
with a claw hammer, and everyone has a grand old time hurtling the aluminum
minifrisbees down at the intersection and watches them bust on the asphalt!
It’s a tradition that sentimental Sanchez has carried on every November
since his career as an all-pro audio-pundit began! The invention of the Ancient
Rite of the Tossing of the Compact Discs began when superrespected Sanchez was
asked to submit his top 10 CDs of the year to some zine or other. Stymied Sanchez
was, of course, at a loss, as he doesn’t bother to listen to the
records he reviews. So clever Sanchez decided he would rate the CDs simply on
the basis of how spectacularly they shattered upon encountering the ground!
That first year–mawkish Sanchez recalls wet-eyedly–Dionne Farris
came in at number one for landing square in the back of a pickup truck, while
Alice in Chains came in at number two for crashing right in front of
a Domino’s delivery guy on a bike, who swerved into the wrong lane
and almost got run down by an oncoming Buick! Noting that both aforementioned
records were Columbia product, satisfied Sanchez has savored the savvy
of Donny Ienner ever since!
good Lord had granted humble Sanchez a wonderful item with which to lead off
his holiday column–Paul McCartney is dating an amputee! Supersly
Sanchez discovered this while slurping his borscht at Veselka–he
noticed that some suckerish lone diner had headed off to the bathroom, leaving
his copy of the Globe on the table. Criminally minded Sanchez
held the tabloid on his lap when the guy came back to discover the harsh realities
of the law of snooze-you-lose; this fellow certainly had snost and lost. Rapt
Sanchez devoured the piece about the multimillionaire Liverpudlian’s one-legged
squeeze. The woman, 31-year-old Heather Mills, a former model (go figure),
was hit by a cop on a motorcycle in 1993. Sympathetic Sanchez is very glad that
the woman lives in England, where CHiPS reruns aren’t quite
so common as on this side of the Atlantic. Sanchez, too, is traumatized by the
sight of Erik Estrada, but only because Sanchez’s teeth are wide-gapped
and snaggly, making the smooch of Sanchez not unlike running one’s tongue
across a defective kalimba. But Sanchez digresses. Sanchez noticed that four
incredulous NYU girls were gaping at the sight of Sanchez reading the magazine
hidden under the table and giggling–for from their perspective it appeared
that pervy Sanchez was staring into his crotch and guffawing as beet-colored
soup dribbled into his facial hair. Elsewhere in the Globe, recent brain-surgery
patient Annette Funicello complains that Judge Judy is "too
mean," and a story titled "First Lady’s First Lover," claims
that "the man who made a woman out of Hillary" happened to be a "Jim
Carrey look-alike."
skipped home, jaunted up the stairs, opened the door, and was assaulted by the
sight of his Sister sitting–regal as Jay-Z in his Scarface
reenactment of Mariah’s "Heartbreaker" video bubblebath
scene–absolutely buried in bootleg Pikachu merch! A poorly embroidered
Pikachu cavorted on a cap pulled down over her eyes, her mouth was muffled by
a Pikachu scarf, a line of can-can dancing Pikachus made their way up the arms
of her long-sleeved t, over which she wore a short-sleeved t depicting a Pikachu
bounding from his red and white Pikachu ball. Pikachu headbands were wrapped
around her pants’ legs like so many zebra-striped fluorescent bandannas
up and down the jeans of Bret Michaels! And the sofa on which the Sister
of Sanchez smugly sat was crowded with plush stuffed Pikachu toys of varying
sizes, all set up to be staring at the door.
the dough was as plain as a bite of a Beatles melody in a Noel Gallagher
song to shattered Sanchez; "‘WHO DARES INTRUDE ON THE ARMIES OF THE
SISTER OF SANCHEZ,’ booms the power-mad Sister of Sanchez!" the power-mad
Sister of Sanchez boomed.
has heartlessly stolen the only thing Sanchez has in the whole of his
hideous little world!" wracked Sanchez screamed back. "HIS COMPLIMENTARY
PROMOTIONAL RECORDED PRODUCT!"
her Pikachu lid slightly to show her eyes and blinked at superdestroyed Sanchez,
who realized that there were more plush stuffed Pikachu toys at the edges of
his peripheral vision. In fact, there were Pikachus on the dresser, the television,
the television stand, the haphazard stacks of VHS tapes, and on the shelves
around the entrance to the apartment. Ambushed Sanchez was surrounded. "How
could you?" Sanchez yelped.
driven to medicate myself and the ocean of pain within me with a restful round
of retail,’ the Sister of Sanchez sniffles," sniffled the Sister of
Sanchez, who then removed her Pikachu hat and sang sweetly to the ceiling; "Tell
me why-ee?" Then the Sister of Sanchez shook it off. "‘You
ought to come to the suburbs for the parental experience anyway,’ the Sister
of Sanchez blithely says with a wave of her arm," waved the Sister of Sanchez
blithely. "How can Sanchez stand the holiday commuter crowds in this fragile
state?!" hoarsed Sanchez.
a key in Sanchez’s face. "‘There was enough cash left over to
rent a Lincoln Town Car,’ she said, jingling the rental-car key in Sanchez’s
face."
was of course Shanghaied into driving the boatlike vehicle while his Sister
smoked pinners and repeatedly rewound and sang along with a cassette tape of
Journey’s "Don’t Stop Believin’." Sanchez was
numb and wordless by the time he sat staring at his yams–the yams are really
all that interest superpicky Sanchez in the Thanksgiving genre of foods–and
so of course was assaulted by his Ma with cheery attempts to engage him in a
conversation. "I watched a fascinating documentary on VH1
about this guy–such terrible things that happened to him–he was in
this band called Crush, and his Dad was Australian, and he got into this accident
and had to have extensive facial reconstruction surgery–what was his name?"
the Mother of Sanchez blathered, trying her hand at feigning a shared
interest with Sanchez. "Billy Joel couldn’t say enough nice
things about the fellow. Oh yes, I remember! Chris something–Chris Gaines.
It’s people like that that make you think that awful facial hair looks
good on you, too, isn’t it?" Psychologically pulverized Sanchez shoved
a forkful of yam into his maw. That’s when the Sister of Sanchez leapt
up from her seat, unbuckled her belt, and flashed a fraction of ass upon which
the eyes and pointy, bent ears of a yellow cartoon animal were revealed. "‘Lookit
my new tattoo,’ the emphatic Sister of Sanchez exults!" exulted the
emphatic Sister of Sanchez.
Sanchezian dissection of the ex-Slacker King’s epic shrugging off of genderlessness
in favor of an ersatz Stax-horn-laden electrocockrockery opus titled Beck’s
Had Sex. Sanchez’s copy of which, not incidentally, got sold by his
Sister, too.