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H A S S E L H O F F :
A   R E T R O S P E C T I V E


As David Hasslehoff and his wife, Pamela Bach, recover from their injuries incurred when, according to police reports, a strong gust of wind blew them off their motorcycle on February 25th, 2003, I would like to share my fondest Hasselhoff memory.

But first off, I want to get one thing straight, Jack: David H. is one of my arch-nemeses, hands down.

Granted, David mesmerized me in his "Knight Rider" years. Who doesn't love a grown man that talks to his car and wears a leather jacket with an elastic waistband? But my allegiance failed when Davey-boy disappeared from the entertainment landscape for quite some time. Was he cryogenically frozen? Perhaps. However, I like to imagine he was voluntarily locked away in a room in the Swiss Alps decorated with tapestries, pillows, velvet blacklight posters, and the world's biggest Cheeto. He spent his days, alone, reading R. Crumb cartoons, pulling bong hits from his pet bong, which he named Kit's Revenge, and drinking canned Pabst Blue Ribbon, all in search of the majestic inspiration that would one day become "Baywatch," an idea that no doubt lurked deep within his pea brain since he was first able to touch himself.

Without "Baywatch," we never would have gotten to know Pamela Anderson beyond her position as a prop on"Tool Time." Amen, "Baywatch." Although, she's proof that silicone and the 80s metal-slut look can be grand long past the end of metal or the 80s, at least, until you start to age. Either way, as a young adolescent, on the mammary tip, I looked fondly upon those Golden Years when David got away with a huge rib cage and no muscle, just one giant torso, traipsing his way down the beach alongside bronze gods and goddesses. Most of the time they ran, however, David rode in the yellow pickup, thereby sparing us from slow motion shots of his hairy man breasts bouncing to and fro like the UN Security Council deliberating a resolution. He did punish himself, though subtly, with that TV son he had, Hobie. What a jellyfish that kid was, eh?

I pinpoint the start of my Hasselhoff rage to the time of his blasphemous exodus to Europe, a spawning singing career in tow. He abandoned America to focus on his singing career abroad, and his career flourished. Sure, we Americans can't decide upon a president but at least we acknowledge crap when we see it! Hasselhoff, a musician? Can someone say, "Pass the cyanide"? I need a colonic. I'm just glad no one let that shit fly over here or I'd be president of the Deport David movement.

December 2000, the Hasselhoff nightmare took me one step closer to the brink. Jeckyll & Hyde. Hasselhoff on Broadway? I nearly threw in the towel once that he's added a theater headline to his wafer-thin repertoire. If you ever needed a reason to believe musicals are the work of the devil, see Rent; if that doesn't convince you, look no further, for it arrived, flesh and blood, in the form of David motherfucking Hasselhoff, star of stage and screen. If the Hoff is not careful, he may one day bring Armageddon all by himself.



Sold out.

Shoot me now.


As a little epilogue to this, my own little realization that I will never be able to escape the reach of this curly-haired holiday fruitbasket: A few years ago, around the time Hasselhoff was prancing his trash on stage, I went to a Knicks game. They were playing the L.A. Clippers, so everybody was giving their tickets away; I got mine from a homeless guy for a jelly roll and a sock with a hole in it. I arrived in my seat well before tip-off to find that singing the national anthem was none other than Mr. Shitbag, himself. He sang and the Jumbotron focused in on his black-turtlenecked head. His face strained with the pain and emotion of two centuries' patriotic passion. He looked like he was fighting against a steak burrito with extra sour cream and had a sewed-up rectum. The crowd was silent and respectful as he sang. Halfway through the song, I crooned back at David, at the top of my lungs, "You SUUUUCK!." No one in the audience denied this.

He gave a little Broadway ending with a tooty-fruity, "and the home... of the... Bra-aaa-aaaa-aaaaaaaaaaa-a-a-a-a-a-aaaaaaaaa-a-aave!" He then looked to the heavens with a shit-eating grin. He had defeated me one final time, and in my own hometown arena, no less. There was nothing I could do but bow my head. Before I blacked out though, the last thing I saw was his mug on the Jumbotron, winking at me, thinking to himself, "I was so FUCKING ONNNNNNN! Yeah!"

I hate that man. Ugh. Yet, all I can do is take solace in the fact that I will never have the opportunity to leave the indelible shitstain on entertainment's underwear that he has. So I got that going for me, which is nice.

Get well soon, David. My life just isn't the same when I have to wish you well.



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