When I returned from my Hoffgazing, I emailed Candy, who said, among other things, “HOLY CRAP” and “How was it?”
Sarah: It was breathtaking. Seriously. And I’m SO PISSED that I grabbed the wrong camera cable because I cannot upload the picture of me & Hoffster until I find the right cable.
Candy: DUDE! You took a picture of yourself and The Hoff?
So how long was the line? And what’s he look like in person?
Sarah: Oh no, Hoff’s publicist’s assistant took a picture of ME, The HOFF, and my HOFF PLANE.
I think that plane might need to be a prize on SBTB for something.
The line was probably about 100 people, maybe, and he looks rather sculpted in person, in a scalpel sense, not a Bowflex sense.
Candy: The HOFF PLANE definitely needs to be some kind of SBTB prize, I think.
Maybe some sort of poetry competition? Compose an Ode to Hoff, and win the autographed Hoffplane?
And then… IT WAS ON.
Candy: This Is Just to Say
I have folded
that were in
your printer tray
you were probably
to throw at your coworkers
they looked awesome on fire
and so crashy
Sarah: Once upon a midnight dreary as I read, confused and weary
over yet another page of Hasselhoff’n lore.
While I pondered, nearly napping, out of nowhere came a tapping
of a HoffPlane flamely flapping, flapping at my bedroom door.
“‘Tis some washed up B-list star, tapping at my bedroom door.
Only this and nothing more.”
Candy: The Love Song of D. Michael Hasselhoff (abbreviated)
Let us go then, you and I
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like yet another drowning victim rescued on Baywatch;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted aisles
The garish guiles
Of straight-to-video movie posters in cult video rental stores
And sticky-floored second-run theaters of yore:
B-movie plots that follow like a tedious argument
Of lascivious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the bookstore women stand, a train,
Waiting for the Hoff to sign their plane
* * * *
No! I am not Bruce Campbell, nor was meant to be;
Am a driver of talking cars, one that will do
To make a cameo, star in a TV series or two,
Be a campy villain; occasionally a bit of a tool,
Alcoholic, but glad to be of use,
Inexplicable pop star, inexplicable music videos;
Full of publicity stunts, and a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear my chains of gold.
Shall I get a nose job? Can I has a peach?
I shall wear fire-engine red Speedos and run upon the beach
I have seen myself singing, each to each.
Sarah: There once was a Hoff from Nantucket.
He liked his booze in a bucket.
The lolrus was mad
Snuck in to Hoff’s pad.
And made off in the night with MAH BUKKIT!
Sarah: Without warning
As a whirlwind
swoops a Hoff Plane.
Hoff shakes my heart.
i carry a hoff with me (I carry it in
my pocket) I am never without it (anwhere
i go, he goes, my hoff, and whatever is done
by only me is Baywatch, my darling)
no fate (for hoff is so great, so true) i want
no world (for beautiful hoff is, his nose so sculpted)
and it’s hoff whatever a car has always meant
and whatever the sun will always shine is Hoff.
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the plug and the hair of the bud
and the implant of the Hairclub for Men; which grows
not but that Hoff’s soul can hope and bald spot can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping hoff and I apart
I carry your Hoff (I carry it in my pocket)
Candy: Shall I compare Hoff to a summer’s day?
He is more drunky and less temperate.
Rough strides do shake the darling pecs of Dave,
And Botox’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the crashing Hoffplane burns,
And often do his music records tank,
Except in Germany, where people yearn
To hear him sing; to them he doth not stank.
And soon the plastic surgery shall fade,
As shall his hair, and soft his belly grows;
His name would doubtless pass into the shade—
But fame lives long in syndicated shows.
So long reruns are run, and eyes can see
So long lives Hoff, and Kit, and Yasmine Bleeth.
Are you done weeping yet, O Bitchery? Behold, a Contest of Hoff Poetry! We hope to do to poetry what Fark does to Photoshop. Let forth your creativity in HoffPoetry in the comments, and post early, post often, post in all stages of insanity. Instead of harvesting them individually and posting for anonymous voting later, we’re going to have voting and poem-posting ongoing in the comments, so make sure you leave a comment as to which one you like best – and feel free to change your vote. Seriously. The Hoff has inspired mass hysteria!
You have until midnight on Friday, June 8th 2007 to participate in this frenzy.
Candy and I are keeping track of the voting as it progresses, and the winner gets a HoffTastic Smart Bitch Prize Package of:
1. The HoffPlane that was (a) tossed at my mother in law and more importantly (b) photographed as being held lovingly by The Hoff. No one has touched it since the Hoffster. What a memento.
2. A copy of the Hoffobiography Don’t Hassel the Hoff of your very own.
3. An opportunity to read and guest-review Smart-Bitch style the Hoffobiography if you like.
4. A $25 gift certificate to Amazon so you can buy something you might want to read afterward. You know, something good.
5. The T-Shirt from the book signing, a size L. Want to see it again?
That ought to inspire you. Bring it!