Sweet Fancy Moses (and some others)

Elaine Benes: dancer extraordinaire and muse of many. When my life expires and I swap one land of long white clouds for another, Elaine will be there. Somewhere up there in the eternal paradise the good Christians promised us, between the Tuscan villas and the bouncy castles, there will be a huge, shimmering dance club. It will be called Post-Puddy and will pump out funk music all hours of the day and night. It is here that we will meet Elaine, grooving and grinding all over the dance floor with her eyes closed and a big, wasted smile on her face. The walls are stacked with chilled bottles of Bombay Sapphire and an elaborate lemon tree sprouts majestically in the corner. Beautiful people lie underneath it and make out.

An immaculately dressed barman, reminiscent of a young Jack Nicholson, smiles seductively and hands me a stiff gin & tonic. Elaine grabs my hand and pulls me in for a close one. ‘Brick House’ starts pumping over the club speakers. Ms. Benes shakes her ass and throws in a few ‘little kicks’ for good measure. The crowd cheers. ‘Single Ladies’ is on next.

The amalgamation of Bombay Sapphire and Elaine Benes is, of course, the inspiration for this blog and my life in general. Alcohol clearly brings out the best in her; I can think of almost no one else in the fictional universe with whom I would rather get my wasted face on. However, my mind cannot help but wander to the rest of the Seinfeld characters and the intoxicant it would be most fun to consume with each of them.

For Jerry, it would most definitely be cocaine. Blow would match his sneakers for one thing. There could be jokes made about nostril sizes and the Jewish faith which I’m sure he would find amusing. And Jerry’s already manic speed talking would go into overdrive after a few lines. He would pace around his apartment in a frenzy, muttering things like ‘if you want a joke, try some coke’ and scribbling them furiously down on a pad. He won’t stop talking for hours, his words getting closer together, especially when he discovers that the high he’s experiencing is known as the ‘superman syndrome.’ And eventually, he will put on some 80’s techno and start cleaning his apartment at double speed.

Taking an acid trip with Kramer would a mind-blowing experience. “Listen buddy” he’d whisper to you a couple of hours in, “don’t talk to loud but there are bugs running up the wall. They’re spies from the top, I know they are.” He’d swallow nervously and wipe the sweat from his brow. “THEY’RE FREAKING ME OUT!!!” He’d yell suddenly before rushing to the front door to spy on the invisible ninja robots through the peep hole. By the end of the day, you’d be pulling up the floorboards to make a protective moat around the living room, and filling it with bottles of ginger ale.

The thought of getting blazed with Newman is both hilarious and disturbing. The incoherent stories about the postal service would be a dream come true. We would tear open envelopes, cackling hysterically at the love letters and Christmas cards between puffs of smoke. And then, our stomachs rumbling with serious munchies, Newman would order twelve pizzas, all with extra cheese, and we would gobble them down, stopping only to praise the person who invented double crust with our mouths full of half chewed dough.

And then we get to George Costanza, and my mind goes uncomfortably blank. Getting drunk with George would be a depressing experience, reminiscent of the worst kind of Tom Waits song. The addition of weed into the equation would simply heighten the uncomfortable paranoia and low self-esteem that George lives his life by even at his soberest. And baby, let’s not even get started on the hallucinogens. There is little that scares me more than entering a warped, unstable parallel universe with George and his neuroses and plaid shirts. The only thing that could top it would be the inclusion of Frank and Estelle Costanza, yelling at each other like demons and sucking everyone around them into a black hole. All the orange juice in the world couldn’t get rid of that nightmare. With all this in mind, I guess George’s drug of choice would have to be Prozac. He seems long overdue for a serious dose. And perhaps get his parents on some as well.

And I’m sure that somewhere in the American Midwest, there is a balding, acne-scarred Mark Chapman-wannabe hunched over a computer in some basement. A photograph of his ex-girlfriend lies ripped to pieces on the linoleum floor. He stuffs another handful of Cheetos into his mouth, wiping the orange powder on his track pants. His sweat drips onto his keyboard as he types the final sentences of his morbid thoughts into a little blog titled Prozac & Costanza.

He is Bizzaro Telford.