Now, first, when Twitter told me about Vanilla Ice having his own TV show, I was a little upset, because, DUDE! Vanilla Ice has his own TV show! I shouldn't have to find out about these things from Twitter! I mean, sure, when everyone was bustin' a move to "Ice Ice Baby" and sitting in dark theaters watching the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles battle Shredder for the last canister of mutant making ooze I was singing along to my "Chipmunks Go Hollywood" tape and memorizing "Boil Them Cabbage Down" so I could perform with the Junior High Fiddling Club**. So, yeah, sure, technically, I wasn't his target audience. But, just because I could sing "Eye of the Tiger" in a falsetto chipmunk voice didn't mean everyone in the Fiddling Club was as clueless about popular music as I was. I mean, I think some of them even wore fanny packs! So, it's not like I didn't know who Vanilla Ice was, I just, didn't, you know, find his music interesting enough to not change the radio station when "Ice Ice Baby" came on. (Maybe he should have added a singing chipmunk to his act. Or a duck. Or a chicken. Really, any kind of singing animal would have probably livened it up for me. And a banjo. Because there is nothing not awesome about the banjo when you are 14 years old.)
Obviously, someone should have told me about this sooner. Because, guys, his show is fly! Seriously, it's all that AND a bag of chips! I watched two episodes of it and not only did he pull a palm tree out of the ground, he planted other plants, drained a pool, swept up raccoon poo, laid pavers around the pool and battled a six-foot long alligator! (OK. Kinda.) The only thing that could have made the show better was if Vanilla Ice and the alligator had broken into a duet remix of "Fame".
You know. Like the Chipmunks.
Because cute singing animals never go out of style.
Unlike fanny packs.
*Which I plan to exploit One Grain of Rice style in the Mother's Days to come. Because literature can give people dangerous ideas. Or, rather, mathematically sound ones that will land them on the deck in 7 to 8 years, with their feet up for the whole weekend, as the yard is mowed, weeded, trimmed, barked, planted, etc. As long as I don't teach the children to count. Or add. Or multiply. Or...read.... Aw, crud puddles. Well, at least I don't electrocute myself with the mower anymore.
**Too bad no one played the banjo....