Christmas DOA!
Christmas, a real damned Andy Williams Captain Piccard let it snow make it so time of year of the same warm and fuzzy films of peace on Earth, and radio stations that assault our secular arses with Johnny Mathis jingling all the way in a one horse open sleigh with bells ringing are you listening? Move over Little Drummer Boy unless your name is Ginger Baker. The Mike Marino Forensic Fun Films, Inc. is pleased to announce some positively Un-Hallmark Movie Moments adding realism to your mental eggnog this charge card season of schmaltz and mistletoe and suicide and toys for tots. The all new updated “Miracle on 34th Street & Pennsylvania Ave” where Jill Stein assumes the Natalie Wood child in disbelief roll this time around. In this version, young Jill believes in Santa, but can’t believe Donald “Scrooge” Trump is her new president. “I want a recount,” she cries to her smother mother played by Hillary Clinton. Finally in court a bag full of ballots are emptied on a judges desk confirming that “Yes Virginia, there is a Santa and according to the recount, he is your president” On the way home from court in New York City, they pass a large mental institution. “Stop the car,” she falsetto’d….he promised me a room and here it is!!!” The big scene of the film is the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade where Kim Kardasians real ass blows up causing wide spread (no pun intended) throughout the parade route. What would the holly jolly film season be without Ralphie shooting his eye out? OD’d on Darren McGavin’s major award? Then this year it’s The Amityville Christmas Story where this time Ralphie blows a fuse and after wiping out the family on a triple dog dare he goes to a Chinese restaurant dressed as a giant pink Easter Bunny carrying a fully automatic weapon all because of a bad version of Fa Ra Ra! “Oh, Little Town of Washington” is new production where Joseph and Mary portrayed by Bill and Hillary Clinton arrive in Washington but find there is no room at the White House so grab a spot in an alley off the Beltway where they await the birth of their little baby, Jesus portrayed by Bernie Sanders who is soon visited by three wise politicians, an oxymoron in and of itself. They are also visited by three wise kings from the Middle East who are turned away as King Herrod Trump declares them Guantanamo material. Other new releases include the entire Manson Family Reunion cast in “It Came Upon Midnight Unclear” Murder and Mistletoe do not mix!! There is more slapstick fun this season in the remake of the Bing Crosby classic of “White Christmas. In our version “White Christmas Lives Matter” a riotous romp of rioting and racism where an African American family are evicted from the White House and as a result BLM meets the Ku Klux Klan in a David Duke-Al Sharpton remake of “Westside Story” Also starring the Three Stooges who use the “N” (Nyuk!) there I said it! word freely..so if Nyuk, Nyuk, Nyuk is found offensive stay home glued to your yoga mat watching reruns of Victory at Standing Rock while listening to the Venture’s surf album version of “Pipeline!” Drama? Tune into the Snowden-Assange version of “Silent Night, Holy Shit’ where silence is golden a plumber has to be called in to plug the wikileaks and other secrets. There is a touch of Dicken’s hidden in this experimental film where Hillary Clinton as Screwed Scrooge is visited by the Ghost of Vince Foster and Vlad the Putz Pitin in a tuxedo is puttin’ on the Ritz in a Mel Brooks inspired dance number. “Home Alone Four” starring Jimmy Hoffa and “I Saw Monica Kissing Santa Claus Under the Beltway Mistletoe Beltbuckle” with Deep Throat Lewinsky is a must see this “on your knees season to be jolly.” This Season….don’t make it Hallmark...make it Christmas DOA...Santa’s got a brand new bag this year.
Christmas Unplugged
Nothing lifts the spirits up to a plateau of cheer and good fellowship than the annual dazzling display of diversity of decorated houses adorned with a massive myriad of Christmas lights and yard displays of Santa, Nativity scenes, sleighs and and a few animated Frosty the Snowmen. I remember as a kid driving around the neighborhood with my parents at night mesmerized by the awesome arrays of electricity as eclectic near kinetic art. I also remember helping my dad string lights around the house outside as well as in the crabapple trees (4) that stood as sentinels in the front and side yard. It was a pain in the ass! I’ve learned over the years that most “combatants” for the yearly Christmas Neighborhood Decor Award were driven by the demons of competitive extreme sportsmanlike ferver. Some decor was sedate and minimalist while yet others following the creed of over indulgence such as the Danny Devito character in “Deck the Halls” wanted his house to attain a glow so that it could be seen from the space station! Some folks merely drape a few white icicle Italian lights that will garner a mere ho hum from the parade of families, while yet other displays try to outdo Rockefeller Center eliciting “oohs and aaahs” usually reserved for special events similar to a nuclear bomb test at Alamogordo or a female impersonator show in North Beach called “Merry Stripmas!” The sleigh with reindeer is a yearly fave among children. They see cute magical creatures that the Jolly Fatmans ass around the globe to deliver toys to all deserving girls and boys. Mom sees them as a relic of a childhood long gone, memories of the family pitching in to make this a joyous holiday. Dad on the other hand, if he is from Michigan sees venison pure and simple and can’t wait for the next hunting season where he’ll bustout the orange vest and a ticket to Finland to land a trophy buck. One thing I’ve never seen is an ice fishing shanty decked out in it’s holiday adornment. Or the hunting camp or treestand, unless you count empty beer bottles and poker chips as appropriate decor for the outdoorsman. The other fun aspect is watching the neighbors try to outdo each other. Martini in hand it’s the reincarnation of Clark Griswold. Lights all strung up, in place strategically, ready to be powered up and voila….he didn’t check all the bulbs. There is a defective bastard in the bunch, I call the “terrorist” bulb that is harder to find than Bin Laden was or Jimmy Hoffa is. Another tradition fading fast is that of Christmas carolers who roam the ‘hood singing Silent Night and Most Wonderful Time of the Year and being invited in for a hot toddy and cookies. When working in radio around Christmas on year, dear sweet older woman called when I was on the air and asked what was the proper response to carolers. “Do I invite them in for a drink or merely give them some money for some great humanitarian cause?” I replied that I found firing a warning shot over their heads was sufficient.” At teh end of the season don't bother taking the lghts and displays down for storage. If you live in Detroit they'll be stolen anyway! So this year soak it all up...enjoy...and Christmas Eve if you hear someone on the roof trying to enter your house grab your shotgun...you have a right to defend your property even if it is Santa!
Oh, Tannenbaum
The title may sound as if it’s going to be a tale about a Jewish Family, the Tannenbaums of the Bronx, but that would a falsehood. No, This is about Oh Tannenbaum, or the Christmas Tree. Did you know your choice of tree for Christmas can reveal a lot about you? There is the old argument, real versus Sears off the rack trees you assemble after a six pack of Fosters Ale and a rousing chorus of profanities as all the pieces don’t fit snugly enough to support the disco ball size ornaments you intend to accessories it with. First, the REAL tree…Douglas Fir, Scotch Pine, Blue Spruce….just a few examples it doesn’t really matter which one but does matter as to how you acquire it. The born again Yuppie will go to the nearest tree lot to pick the grandest one he can afford. The attendant will them tie it down on the hood or in the hatchback of the SUV thereby saving the metrosexual customer from ruining his manicured nails. On the other hand we have the Daniel Boone consumer who not only wants a real tree but prefers to stalk one at a tree farm with trusty saw in tow to do the manly thing..Cut his own in the pioneer spirit. All he’s missing is a coonskin hat and a flintlock rifle from 1790. He prefers a live tree as there may be a squirrel hiding in the branches and being a small game hunter can kill two birds with one stone! A tree for the holidays and stir fried squirrel to compliment the turkey and cranberry sauce. The avid fishermen will also opt for a live tree for purely self serving reasons...after New Years he can discard it in Lake Wannachuwakka where he fishes and it will provide habitat for perch and bass come the summer. The Communist will spray paint his tree red to celebrate the October Revolution while the Socialist will go with ten miniature tabletop trees. That way when the manifesto gang comes a caroling they each get one to prove equality is alive and well. Have yourself a merry comrad Christmas! The Republican Christmas Tree will be as large as the one in Rockefeller Center and will also have one in every room of the mansion. Nothing like a tree with a musical angel on top to serenade you with “Silent Night” as you sit upon the throne reading the current issue of Forbes Magazine. The Democrat will opt for a small Austrian pine Christmas Tree to show they identify with the underdog of all Christmas Trees, and light it with candles, which yes can be a fire hazard but they want to prove their solidarity with the Environmental Movement by not resorting to burn fossil fuels in the form of electricity. Besides if the tree catches on fire they will tell you it’s natures way of cleaning the forest and they help keep the empolyment rates high by keep firefighters employed. Catholics love a big ass tree just as they like a big ass baroque church with a ton of stained glass scenes of the saints for Midnight Mass. Then tree is taken first to the nearby church for an actual pine needle baptism, the tree then goes into the confessional to admit to having sex with an oak tree followed by communion which in this case is in the form of a bark and sap. The White House also has Christmas Tree displays and this year, President Trump has promised to pardon the trees should Mueller send them to jail for obstruction of the rose garden view. He is also sending more troops to the California/Mexico border with M-16s and Christmas wreaths for the hopeful immigrants from Honduras. So when choosing your Holiday Tree….be careful what you by. It says a lot about you...and if you post it on Facebook they’ll steal your information and sell it to then highest bidder! Santa’s been Hacked!!!
The 2018 Olympics: That Time of the Month!
This year, the Winter Olympics being held in Pyeongchang, South Korea have given us a bucketful of humor, politics, clusterfucks, doping, bad sportsmanship and what the hell...even a little crime to spice up the event. The North Korean Teams, being touted by North Korean Kim Jung Un as “super athletes” didn’t even score one eggroll or medal so pretty sure when they return home across the DMZ its Hi Ho, Hi Ho it’s off to prison camp we go...the North Korean Cheerleaders of course were not exactly the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders, but managed to look somewhat interested in the fact that South Korea has indoor toilets, electricity and even food, not all of it from dog farms either. There is speculation that the North Korean athletes got a late start as they were confused as to the location and instead of Pyeongchang they ended up a P.J. Chang restaurant in Encino, California and while there have applied for political asylum at a local McDonalds. Many changes are expected at the next Winter Olympics as the IOC has been monitoring events and procedures that are need of an upgrade. The first and most obvious change to be made is that from now on all countries who compete in downhill skiing or snowboarding on the half pipe must be blonde. The IOC has noticed that a tremendous amount of peroxide has been on display from Vonn to Kim for as the Germans say...”Achtung! From now vonn, you vill be blonde!” This of course will bar all brunettes and especially gingers from competition. One of TEAM USA’s figure skaters talked to reporters about performing while having her period. While Cloe Kim ends up on cereal boxes, the figure skater picture will grace boxes of Tampons from Shanghai to San Francisco. New events to be added at the request of the North Korean government who appear to be coming out of the Hermit Nation Closet want to include Land Mine Curling and a Live Grenade Toss as sanctioned events. This could at the very least make valium sport of Curling at least watchable. Bad news for Team USA….the Vikings of Norway have taken the most medals with Team USA coming in at fourth place. Worse yet, Team USA’s Curling Team were given medals that read…”Womens Curling Team. Perhaps that was a last minute joke seeing as the USA Men lost in Hockey and the Women’s Team crushed it! Perhaps if there were less Metrosexuals worried about doing their nails and getting spa treatments they might do better next time. More Gay men are expected to be competing in the next winter Olympics just to give the lesbians a run for their money in hopes of snagging gold medals and endorsements. I can see it now...the first Olympians to have their faces on jars of Vaseline as an official sponsor. Don’t forget the Bi-Sexual Biathalon! Vice President Pence will light the torch for the opening LGBT Ceremony followed by a shopping spree, wine tasting and a spa treatment with cucumbers and a chocolate massage. Canada Gets The Gold, except this time Canadian skier David Duncan got the Gold in the Grand Theft Auto Competition beating Team USA from Detroit! Which has prompted myself and other Facebook friends, Andy and Mark to come up with a new category of events that involve crime ...downhill muggings ..snowboard hit and run...blood curdling curling....drive-by shooting biathlon...get iced figure skating...bobsled bank robbing, luge and quaaludes DUI and the ever popular kidnapping marathon! New events will include The NRA Dodge the School Shooter Bullets for the kids. They’ll love it as live ammo will be used to give them a thrill! (All safety measures will be in place including safety officers on site hiding in stairwells from the Broward County Sheriff’s Office as well as the FBI to take messages). So...if you enjoyed the Winter Olympics as comedy relief...you’re sure to bust a gut at the next one in Bejing, China. Bring tanks and guns, but no coolers allowed in the Olympic Village. Goodby for Mao...I mean for Now!
Olympics Haiku
The 2018 Winter Olympics will be coming to a close soon and this year in Pyeonchang has been a showcase for confusion and so many clusterfucks that the Mike “Cosell” Marino Sports Team has gone deep into the Olympic Village to discover what really happened. On the issue of the Canadian hockey player Jocelyne Larocque who appeared to be taking off her silver medal after losing the gold medal game to the United States 3-2 in a shootout. That is not true. Yes, she did remove it out of patriotic pride as all Canadian athletes were asked to remove all silver medals and send them directly to Canada by request of Prime Minister Trudeau. It seems that in the last month or so there has been an outbreak of werewolves in the city of Toronto and they need to be melted down to issue silver bullets to the RCMP. All politics aside, In hockey Puck rhymes with Fuck? So Silver Bronze or Gold the purpose of hockey is get the puck in the net, puck and net being erotic euphemisms for using your big stick and getting your “puck” in her “net”. As for the political balancing act between the United States and North Korea, the media has attacked Vice President Pence for ignoring the North Korean delegation sent by Kim Jung Un including his second in command...his sister. They were sitting right behind Mr. and Mrs. Pence and not even a nod or a wink to acknowledge them. When asked why Pence snubbed the North Koreans in such a humiliating manner, President Trump said it was a simple case of mistaken identity. “What can you expect,” he said, “All Asians look alike!” More turmoil has surfaced from the Association of Brunettes and Redheads who are protesting the new ruling this year by the International Olympic Committee that to able for females to compete in ski and snowboard events they must be attractive and Lindsey Vonn blonde. The gingers were especially peeved because even if the die there hair….the freckles will give them away. In figure skating, Nathen Chen, the USA team skater said most enjoy the female skaters ever since Yamaguchi’s thighs of glory and short skirts have propelled the male interest in the sport and art of figure skating just for the chance of a sneak peek when they do a one legged spin! “That’s not to say women don’t have their faves on ice,” Chen said recently to our reporter. “That I can’t speak too but only two males come to mind, Brian Boitano and Scott Hamilton.” Nathan Chen also wears his bulge well even on the ice which most of us would lose under winter conditions. Scott Hamilton is more Yoda like and could be an Ewok character in “Disney on Ice”. It may seem unmanly for a male to figure skate but then again...would you have the balls to tell Rosie Grier that real men don’t crochet? How stupid would that be unless you have a death wish! Imagine Disney characters competing at the Olympics, We’d be watching Goofy chase the Little Mermaid around a rink while Donald Duck does backflips with his pants off exposing himself and shaking his feathers suggestively. More controversy involving Nicole Schott, the German woman who intended to skate to Schindler’s List. Someone goofed up and the wrong record was played for her performance. Instead of Schindler, jaws drop the goose stepping anthem of the Nazi party, "Horst-Wessel-Lied." Regarding the North Korean athletes, the prospect of failure to live up to Kim Jung Uns great expectations could spell trouble in River City. Remember 1966? The entire 1966 North Korean World Cup squad were arrested and thrown into a concentration camp for failing to bring about national glory. Former leader Kim Il-Sung gave the order to have them arrested after they lost to 5-3 Portugal days after they were seen drinking with local women in public! In fact, the North Korean teams weren’t even in Pyeongchang for the Olympics this year! They got confused and ended up a P. J. Chang restaurant in Encino, California. The good news is they all got jobs as dishwashers so will escape the gulags afterall! As for the 200 Beautiful Women North Korean Cheerleaders? One was caught on camera applauding (by mistake) one of the USA teams. Mistake or not, Kim Jung Un will probably have her sent to a prison camp as he did with 21 other female members of the cheerleading squad last year for some unknown reason. If you notice the cheerleaders from North Korea are no longer present at the Olympics. It seems they feared what would happen due to this faux pas so sought refuge on the Underground Railroad operated by the Nigerian Bobsled Team and made there way to safety in Japan where they all have been offered jobs as comfort girls on the Ginza strip. Kim Jung Un has applauded the American High School students for walking out of schools to get more gun control. He’s hoping this movement will mushroom and soon will remove all automatic weapons from the US troops stationed in South Korea. No doubt about it Chloe Kim is the Superstar of the Olympics and you’ll see her face on products from Cereal boxes to custom Snowboards to Tampons!
Incest is Best?
I had a FB Im convo early this morning with close female instigator (Ha!) asking my opinion on incest. It’s hard for me as I am an only child and never had a sister to drool after southern style….cousins yes but all good Catholics not a Southern Baptist in the bunch...I have been told to go fuck myself, but that isn’t quite incest now is it. Besides I tried it to no avail. I’ve had three gay guys at different times in my teen years try to get me in bed to have a go at it, one forcibly, but managed to use a string of garlic and a crucifix to ward them off. I wasn’t ready to become Lolita and suck on anyone’s Lollipop. My other fear is ending up at a rest area on a lonely stretch of I-70 at 10 P.M. and end up in the mens room at knife point with my pants down by my ankles. Truck stops are safer unless the big burly driver in the 18 wheeler from Wheeling, West Virginia is searing a Daisy Mae dress and says his name is Lil’ Abner…. Incest….OK, Jerry Lee Lewis married not only a cousin, but a 13 year old cousin at that. That is about as deep south as it gets. In the south and among certain religious cults the practice of incest is as normal as a priest whacking off in the confessional listening to some really hot sins by a Catholic cheerleader. Granted my girlfriends and wives too were all from ages ranging from 15 to 18, but at least we weren’t related. You don’t have to go to bars or the supermarket or get fixed up on a blind date to meet someone either. Hell, just go to a family BBQ in Louisiana and have that young niece of yours do a gyrate on you lap and loosen your coveralls, and let the banjo music carry you away to another dimension. Is it OK for second cousins? I don’t know. Then of course there is the old stand-by...the Oedipal Complex. Son and Mom and in reverse you hear about old dad and daughter...now I know what the kids book, “Hop on Pop” means. Brother and Sister? Twins maybe I can understand..they were kind of one at one time so would be like fucking yourself. What about a nephew and aunt? Would he be an aunt eater? Just because she might be his sister, should Billy Bob use a condom? This could make for an interesting Brady Bunch or Partridge Family Reunion. Marcia Marcia Marcia giving head to all her half brothers and Susan Dey doing Keith Partridge in a pear tree! Hansel and Gretl? Never mind the bread crumbs..I wanna see her breast feed him. Which brings me to Adam and Eve who had two sons….then what….Cain and Able...OK, Eve, put the damn serpent down and get ready for Garden of Inestuous Gang Bang…. Jack and Jill went up a hill to fetch a pail of water? Bullshit. They were looking for an empty hayloft in a barn to do each other while Jack is out playing with his beanstalk. Shirley Maclain and Warren Beatty? Depends on what she is reincarnated as. As an only child...all I can say is “Fuck Me!”
Tanks for the Memories
So, Mr. Trump wants a military parade complete with ICBM/s, tanks, troops and hoopla! Word has it he got the idea from reading, a “Child’s Garden of Mein Kampf” written by the Mother Goose stepper of the Fatherland. Strange for a guy who did as much as he could collecting deferments faster than a Yooper in Michigan can collect food stamps! He managed to avoid military service as did his many idols. John Wayne skipped wearing a uniform during the big one, WWII. The Duke also feared military service might end his career by dragging on so long he would be too old to be ‘an action-oriented leading man’. He used an old shoulder injury as an excuse although it had never impacted his movie work as a stuntman. Clint Eastwood ducked out of the Korean war. Yes, he was drafted into the Army during the war in Korea, and was sent to Ft. Ord in California for basic training. And became a lifeguard at Fort Ord and at night a bouncer at a NCO club! When she heard about plans for a military parade in Washington, she felt he was completely off his rocker and she went to the nearest Immigration office and begged to be deported to Slovenia!! This could be great timing for a military coup however, tanks surrounding the White House and leveling it. Speaking of tanks! (for real by the way - Dozens of protesters are planning to disrupt President Donald Trump’s planned military parade in Washington, D.C., vowing to lie in front of tanks to keep them from moving. “We now have nearly 50 Americans who have signed on to lay in front of the tanks of Trump brings out a military parade,” activist Arn Menconi wrote on Wednesday in a gesture he said was inspired by the Chinese pro-democracy protesters who made history during the 1989 demonstrations in Beijing’s Tiananmen Square. “We are not an empire drifting towards extinction,” added Menconi, a Colorado-based activist who founded a charity to provide activities for at-risk youth. If a coup does take place Melania has a back up plan if she can’t be deported to sing “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina” from the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. As a special surprise, I have learned many military vets will be marching as well down Pennsylvania Ave. Vets from Afghanistan, Iraq, Pakistan, Vietnam and Korea. As a practical joke Trump said he will send Sen. John McCain outside to march along with them every now and then yelling out “INCOMING!” to see who will run for cover or pull out a weapon and start firing at the marching band seeing only Viet Cong with tubas and drums and fifes! Sort of a PTSD half-time show. Gold Star parents are also invited, except the African American parents will have to march at the rear of the parade, while the white families will ride in a limo. After the parade the Daughters of the Confederacy will hold their bake sale to raise money for Trump’s dream “Robert E. Lee” Memorial wall on the border with Mexico. Neo-Nazis declined to march in the main parade have gained a permit to march at night holding tiki lamps to burn books at the Library of Congress, especially the Constitution and Declaration of Independence and any books written by Buddy Hackett famed underground author of “The Big Book of Jewish Humor” So stay tuned folks...in the immortal word
I wrote this piece to honor Sibyll Kalff....German bohemian, artist, poet, musician, >Sibyll Kalff: Bohemian Soul
my collaborator in artistic projects and fiance years ago who died last year from suicide after having been institutionalized in Berlin for schizophrenia. I met her years ago when she was in her twenties doing an art show in NYC. We hit off immediately after I made a little fun of her art...she came back with quips and insults that made me fall in love on the spot. We'd write, then email constantly and after visiting her in Germany (I went to Amsterdam and she met me there and we went to her place in Berlin from there, spent a week and that week we decided...we should be together...she had art shows and her band also had gigs to do and she was a world traveler...doing art shows for peace in Tibet and Iran ...amazing woman.....by the age of 38 she was hospitalized and not allowed out or to come to the states....we would communicate by skype when her sister would bring her computer for her to use....soon she wasn't making any sense...it was heart breaking...we did joke one time that between the two of us ...we made a lovely threesome...schizo joke ...she is long gone but her art lives on...it always will..she touched so many lives....the piece below this one is what I wrote based on how she described things to me.....and the photos are ones I took back in Germany.....
Bad Trip
Not all drug trips are real Timothy Leary Sgt. Pepper gonzo ganja extravaganzas and it depends what you happen to fuel yourself at the time. In Okinawa there was a veritable all you can eat salad bar of chemistry to feed an army...which in fact it was doing ...feeding the US Army so we could be all that we could be! Hell, I was an Army of One...One who rather use a bong than a bayonet. One week I went on a five day speed binge mixed with acid and weed. I unfortunately broke my own personal speed sound barrier with a sonic psycho ka- boom. Speed is the great communicator...especially when you have nothing of importance to say. I loaded up on dexies, bennies and any pill I could find that would fill my tank with high octane. I was now the chemical, version of TV Tommy Ivo ready for the quarter mile track. That was in Okinawa..but while in the Haight many of the white rabbits, (Yes they were everywhere along with fire breathing dragons!) wore flowing Marlon Brando when he got fat kaftans, fading flowers in their hair, face paintings and sitting yoga style inanely blowing bubbles in the park and saying things like Far Out and a whole lot of Wows in order the change the world. Nothing like a good bubble blower to bring about integration and of course, if you wanted to,end the war in Vietnam all you had to do was paint your face and recite “Howl” backwards standing on your head while fondling the person next to you. In Asia on my speed run I was involved in a five hour conversation with a guy also on speed who described how to make a guitar….not too bad you say? He started with chopping down the tree and the entire fucking process. As if I cared. Look, I am Jimmy Page when it comes to air guitar...but a real one? A Gibson or a Martin are to me a drink and bird. I kept talking for five days and forgot my own name at one point. By the fifth day I was on hands and knees weak crawling to the toilet, not a great image I know but could barely walk. After a few hours I was back in shape and a bunch of us took more speed and acid..hopped a bus and headed for the beach on the northeast of the island and one of us brought along a football. Believe me I’m not Joe Montana and when I tried to catch a bullet pass it hit my chest with the force of John Henry’s hammer and knocked me flat. Another time in Seattle when in the Army, me and a friend, Jim McCarthy went to the U District to score some acid on the street...we did...except it was some kind on animal tranquilizer that within minutes had the street undulating like a stripper on stage, the Space Needle became a lava lamp and I started sinking into the concrete sidewalk as I was sure it was quicksand! We had a little money between us and got a room a dive transient hotel downtown and spent the night watching old black and white Dracula movies...the only thing on at the time late at night...remember..pre-cable days? For the most part chemically altered states had been berry berry good go me, but it depends on another thing we had plenty of...Vibes...Good Vibes, Bad Vibes and No Vibes….and more importantly...not a vibraphonist for miles around…. So to Vibe or not to Vibe…..that is the question...right now I have to go blow some bubbles to see if I can neutralize North Korea...I may have bad vibes...but more worried about his bad hair!
She Flies Through Air with The Greatest of Ease
For some odd reason, perhaps the Ringling Brothers planets were out of whack wobbling through space uncontrolled, but there was a bizarre period in my life where I ended up dating a female circus clown, a female mime, and a one night stand with a female trapeze artist from a well known circus family. I’ve written about Mary Bungert, the female clown I met on the Sunset Strip and our relationship under the big top of sexuality. I had never made it with a clown before and quite honestly was waiting for a half dozen clowns to come roaring out from under her bed in a little Shriners car honking Clarabelle horns doing slapstick pratfalls ala the Three Stooges thereby killing whatever erection might present itself. Nothing like an orgasm while your partner is screaming Nyuk, Nyuk, Nyuk. Definite mood killer. On the somewhat perverse side, Mary would always after work remove her make-up, but I must have reverted into a Barnum and Bailey sideshow and managed to talk her one night in keeping it on, red nose and all, baggy pants, crimson shirt and scarf and little Chico Marx hat. Off course eventually removed, but at least during foreplay it was a Marx Brothers Night at the circus! I kept waiting for Clarabelle the clown to emerge from the Peanut Gallery with Howdy Doobie (yeah I know it’s Doody but we were smoking doobies and not doodies!) Hey Kids! What Time is it? Time for my Peanut Gallery to create havoc, Buffalo Bob! Another time when living in the Haight, mimes were everywhere infesting the neighborhood with Marcel Marceau Recon Units looking for a new home even Helen Keller would feel at home. This one was a solo act in Golden Gate Park and not part of a troupe of the Silent Majority of the Kingdom of Mime. At one time she was. Carrie showed me that a mime in the sack can is worth more than two jugglers and a ventriloquist for a foursome...a fivesome if you count the dummy. Let’s see, I’ll see your mime and raise you two fire eaters and a contortionist who does a fabulous pretzel act while standing on YOUR head! It would be hard to untie a contortionist and as for fucking a ventriloquist you don’t want to confuse a woody with a goody. “Hey, you had orgasm and I didn’t even see your lips move!” In Detroit when I was divorced (again!) I took my two kids to a circus with an on again off again girlfriend and must admit have always been fascinated by the trapeze artists costumes. I was mesmerized by one ot the girls flying through the air with the greatest of ease and wanted to meet her. Being in radio with my press pass I got backstage, having the kids remain with my date, saying I had some business to take care of. Went back, knocked on her dressing room door and there she was. We talked and hit it off and she was in town for couple of days and gave me her room number at the downtown hotel she was staying at. She was a member of a well known circus act so will not name her here. The next night I arrived at her room, knocked and when it opened I entered the world of sexual gymnastics. We spent the night together, and later in the year when I went to see her in New York were she lived I spent the weekend with her talking circus. This is when I also went to an art gallery showing of German female artist that won my heart named Sibyll Kalff..I went from the flying trapeze to a Berlin bunker of punk music and art..or as Sibyll called it Art n’ Roll…. I’ve searched for the lost chord for decades now...I wonder what would have happened if I met a clown on a trapeze who could throw her voice? Naw...don’t even want to think about it!!!
The New Girl in School, A Suicide Dive Bombing Mission and Rebirth of Charlie Mankus
Photos: Tresa Urbanski my first girlfriend In 7th Grade and Me in 7th grade from my Jr. High Year book In the vortex known as youth, the teen years of angst, raging hormones and rebellion, we all had at least one friend who kept his feet firmly on the ground and not on the magic carpet ride of teendom. I had such a friend...Charlie Mankus. He lived across the street from me when we were in Junior Highs School at Fairlane Jr. High. At that age I was a Brando wannabe with boots with cleats and peg pant jeans with rolled up cuffs. Charlie always wore white dress shirts, dress pants and hard what I used to call FBI shoes. I played pinball...he taught me chess. We had many misadventures such as garbage night. All the metal trash cans were in place in front of homes. Sentinels of refuse ready for the landfill with seagulls circling overhead. I had this idea to take twine and tie it to a can then cross the street loop it through another can, then back again. We would get about 12 cans so arranged then...we’d wait. Soon a car would come along unaware the trap was set until it went through the maze taking down a dozen cans spilling content into the street and cans rolling around with a crash, boom bang. We also used to toss crab apples against one neighbor’s metal garage door as he worked in there late at night at his little wood shop. A new kid, Doug Jenks moved into the neighborhood and wanted to be friends so we said you have to pass the initiation first and that was to pee on the garage door latch that lifts the door. No problem. The garage light was on and we knew the neighbor was in there. Doug took his place as we stood back on the driveway. He whips it out and begins the baptism. Once started we knew that was our cue to let lose a barrage of crab apples against the metal door making quite a racket. The neighbor emerged and Doug was now running full speed down the street baptising himself as he ran as he hadn’t quite finished. I was going with the new girl in school, Tresa Urbanski. Blonde, mohair sweaters and let me explore her virgin territory as if I was Lewis and Clark and she were the gateway to the west. She also had a girlfriend Charlie liked and was perfect for him. Quiet, shy and not too experienced. Charlie through me made a phone date to call her and ask her out to the dance coming up in a week. I was to guide him in convo to get him going. Girls scared the crap out of him. He dialed and I whispered words for him to repeat. “Would you like to go the dance with Mike and Tresa? Yes. How about a pizza afterwords? Sounds good. Then I couldn’t resist, I whispered and he repeated verbatim “Maybe we can have intercourse after we eat?” All I heard was screaming through the phone. I found out that he didn’t know what intercourse meant, but she certainly did. We’d also sneak over the school for wayward girls, Vista Maria and do our dating with them over the fence they would hop. Charlie again had no luck except once and that was a strange one. Me and my “date” were ready to disappear into the woods down by the Rouge River. A fave spot of mine. Charlie wanted to teach her to play chess!!! She was gang girl for gawd sakes who wanted to get felt up and screwed and he wanted to checkmate her with a Bishops to Queen move! Again another disaster. I eventually left home and did my years of travel. It wasn’t until my 30’s I ran into Charlie again after years and tried to catch up. He worked at a tool and die shop and now owned his own plane. A Cessna 150 or as he called it a Cesspool One Filthy and did I want to go flying that weekend up to Macinac Island then over to Beaver Island in Lake Michigan and buzz the bridge. Hell yeah I did. We met that Saturday afternoon at the Canton, Michigan airport and were ready to fly. As we took off he said he wanted to fly over his ex wife's house. Yep he was not only freshly divorced but heartbroken and I swore ,,,suicidal! I had a brief moment of panic. As we neared her house you could see flying low she was there in a bikini along with...oh shtit! Her new boyfriend! I glanced at Charlie, tears were forming and who knows what was going on in his mind! SUICIDE! Great I was going die as a Kamikaze pilot and burst into flames in a BBQ pit with burgers and hot dogs. Charlie circled the place a few times. His ex noticed the plane, knowing it was his and pointed it out to her new man. He stared and glared and gave Charlie the finger. All I was thinking, you asshole...you gave him the finger but you might get a Cessna suppository rammed up your ass, and dammit I don’t’ want to be part of the wreckage!!! We flew off and did head north, in fact he gave me the controls and damned if I didn’t fly across the Saginaw bay. Flying is easy...taking off and landing is the hard part. We did fly all over and flew back early evening when still light. We went and had a beer at the Rock and Roll Farm on Michigan Ave. and called it a night from there. Lesson learned….never, ever go flying with a person who may dive bomb an ex spouse or you may be caught in the wreckage yourself.
Motorcycles, Myrika and A Co-ed Named Carol
(Photos: Generic, Not Actual Myrika and Carol) The spring of '67 brought with it tornadic events in the Haight swirling about in beatific technicolor in St. Simon's Marxian below ground subterranean backlot. The sexual revolution was erect and erupting with the tensile strength of Erectile Promiscuous, a gift from the plethora of plentiful promiscuious promises of Prometheus. Sexual activity was a vaginal bus stop along the pubic boulevard and you could transfer at any station and enter any tunnel. One summer day, placidly and irrepressibly stoned in the Panhandle just south of Haight, I sat against a tall tree, smoking a joint, quietly when suddenly, the quietude was pleasantly interrupted by a girl on a smallish motor-sickle who stopped at the corner waiting for the light to change. She was blonde, she was tanned, she had a small cc motorcycle, she was...the Amazon Queen known as California. Her name was Carol. She waited the light out, as I offered the joint from a distance, a tribute to Aphrodite. She threw her head back and laughed as the light changed to green, damn! She made a right turn and disappeared from sight then re-emerged again around the corner. She was some forgotten female saint, rolling away the stone and ascending to heaven, but sexier, in a California true blonde way. She parked the bike a block away, and walked through the park to where I was, sat down next to me and grabbed the joint and damned if I didn't fall in love with gods and goddesses above for this gift of heavenly flesh that shared the planet with me. A damned miracle is what it was, a damned miracle. Lawsy Lawdy, Massah Tom, I is free! I is free! I can walk! I can see! See? Sea? C? She was as well groomed as a prized filly ready to be raced, and she smelled of flowers, not Haight Street stench, and her hair, a Fort Knox of yellow, and her shorts were short, revealing thighs of wonder, veritable bear traps. "You don't look like you're from the neighborhood," I said, or something similar, with a touch of sardonic inflection. "Nope," she said as she inhaled deep. "Sausalito, at least for now. I'm a dancer (re: Stripper) and an artist (a painter) both, but dancing in North Beach pays better than my paintings. Wanna ride?" How did she mean that? Not that it mattered, either way it was an invite to the furthest reaches inside the temple where she maintained her stock of boy slaves, and if I played his cards right I could be one of them. It's not like I had a job to report to in the morning, suit and tied, or anything I actually had to do at anytime anyway. I was living with two other girls at the time, Myrika and Olivia and would disappear at times for a few days. So I agreed and he hopped on the back of the bike, the happiest hipster in the Haight, grabbed around her waist for safety and with hopes of copping a feel of soft fleshy breast, and off we zoomed to the Golden Gate Bridge over to Marin County and into Sausalito with it's colony of artists and recluses. Her apartment was on the main drag downtown overlooking the bay and her apartment was the best that nude dancing could buy, or rent and I stayed there for a week roaming the streets of Sausalito at night while she worked in the city with tassels swinging suggestively powered by what could only be described as nuclear nipples, and by day after she got up we spent the day smoking dope, making love and making pasta. At the end of the week, she returned me to where she found me, in the Haight. She parked her bike and came up to the apartment where I introduced her to Myrika and Olivia, the girls in my life at that time. ..we all got high, joked, laughed and enjoyed the Haight as it should be enjoyed. By nightfall she was ready to go back to Sausalito, this time Myrika went with her and she too disappeared for three days, leaving me and Olivia the teen queen alone to pursue our own promiscuous path in private. I had to smile. I could tell they were attracted to each other from the start...two Nordic blondes. After three days she and Carol returned grinning from ear to ear. Carol became a part of our group from then on. I was now vastly, but happily outnumbered....at least Myrika and I had the same taste in women.....it worked out perfectly......
Olivia, The Teen Dream Queen of the Haight
The croaking San Francisco bus lumbered through the veins of the city past skyscrapers and Victorian neighborhoods. We were hypnotized by the colors of the window trim. Purple window trim and the door is the really nice green, dark green that I like. The color was the color of Olivia's eyes set into the olive coloring of her skin. Her eyes were two large green pools to stare into and drown in. I had met Olivia on the street and we hit it,off. I was 18 at the time and she had just turned 16 and was a bohemian at heart. We rode the bus from the Wharf where we had lunch and just enjoying the city. The city had a scent and an air about it, no doubt about it, and we were drinking it in like two kids on a hot day downing ice cold Kool-aid. The bus (The 10 North Judah route) made its many stops and when it came to the Haight, the driver announced the stop and we stepped off and entered the world beyond the looking glass, to lay our heads down on a surrealistic pillow. I was now a tour guide as we started to walk down the Ashbury Street hill a few blocks and could see Haight Street below as it had traffic going in both directions. We headed down Ashbury Street to it's junction as a needle going into a junkies arm at Haight. One of the first people we met on the street was literally literary, and I met him by walking smack into him. It was the writer Richard Brautigan. Tall and lanky, with funny hat, he loomed over the midwest human projectile and asked, "Are you ok?" with a whimsical smile on his face. Mike had seen him before on a book jacket and recognized him immediately. 'Yeah, sure. Wow, are you Mr. Brautigan? Man, I stole one of your books from a library once, "The Confederate General," I mean I read one of them from the library, I just forgot to return it is all. Wow, I can't believe it," Brautigan laughed and thanked him for his literary endeavors. "Now, you take care," Brautigan said as he bounced down the street, with a writers gait, a great writer, and a great gait, I thought to myself. "Wow, ain't that a bitch. Fuckin' Brautigan, right here on the street. I can't believe that. I always remembered Brautigan with elfen hat and bouncing gait and mentioned him numerous times in my own works, along with Doc Yucatan, another major influence in my life. Later on Oliva, Myrika and myself would see other "luminaries" on the street and meet some of them, but not all. John Lennon, Bob Dylan, Geaorge Harrison, Roger McGuinn, Eric Burdon, Ashiiegh Brilliant, along with the local bands playing at the Fillmore and in the park. The Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane and Big Brother, Country Joe, Santana and others. There was that curious bus that only went further and the Diggers who fed and clothed the neighborhood absolutely free of charge, utopian usurpers to the crown in mime makeup. Hells Angels and Motorcycle Ritchies, coyotes named Peter, magic men, mad men, and mayhem. Runaways, speed freaks, LSD, mescaline, grass, lava lamps, patchouli incense, the Psychedelic Shoppe, Tracy Donuts, 1090 Page Street, the Panhandle, Golden Gate Park, Park Station Cop Shop, mellow yellow, purple hazed and double dazed days dazed in a daze. There was free food, a free store, a free clinic, free sex, free love, free crash pads, and freedom period. The Family Dog was man's best friend, and Bill was no graham cracker. The park filled on Sunday's for music, bubbles, kites and drugs. Bare chested and bare breasted the young of the day were mere prey for vultures who would circle around on the periphery waiting to strike, but this was 1966. The crowds hadn't arrived yet, the so-called hippies as the newspapers called them. Just as the beats before the hipsters had to have their genus of species carved in newsprint before it was final. Categorization is humankind's frailty. If it's not labelled, it can't be trusted, or understood. Humankind has to remove all mystery and awe, before it can accept and consume an idea The street wasn't yet crowded with wannabe's and neverwillbe's as it ultimately would be in '67s. In 1966, the Haight was more communal and quiet with art mostly, and dope, lots of both. Musicians practiced in hidden Victorian apartments, artists painted and mimes acted out on the street. It was life as theater and theater as life, lines blurred pleasantly and the senses weren't yet under siege as they would be the following summer. The summer of love....love hurts. Sitting on the concrete like rows of ancient stone guardians ready to commit statuary rape on infidels, were field jacketed young faces, some fresh, some getting aged and stale begged for alms for the poor, a real Hunchback of Notre Dame scene, beggars and jesters, palms out, plaintive cries of "Spare change? Spare change?" It was the money mantra of the pedestrian panhandler in an excruciating effort to obtain a flow of income for food, rent, drugs, booze, sex, all of the above for the below legal aged blue eyed former innocents formerly from the midwest and points rectangular and black and white and in neat little square boxes stacked neatly in the garage on the shelf along with tools, toys and Turtle Wax cans. Me and Olivia were oblivious to all the politics swirling around us like a stew. The tumultuous times would soon catch up with both of us, albeit in different ways. Soon he vivid realities would take the shape of words and the Woodstock Nation of peace and love would degenerate into bloody Altamont and peaceful protest would end with a hail of National Guard bullets at Kent State leaving a generation in shock. Vietnam would end, but with 50,000 young Americans dead, and soon the social involvement of the Sixties would end with the birth of the digital age and the assault of cable, video games, internet, and cell phones, and the death of effective social activism. But...for for that Haight Street moment in time we went to my apartment and let our love flow....as permanent fixtures in each others hearts......it was timeless and ageless....both had no meaning....
Extra! Extra! Read All About It!
I’ve written a lot about my careers in live theater, photography, radio and TV, freelance writing and as an author. Not to mention my days in the Green Machine of the FTA Army and my life on the beach in Hawaii and the streets of Haight Ashbury. What’s missing is a humorous jaunt through the past where I was a rookie newspaper reporter that climbed the ladder to being Managing Editor of a newspaper and magazine chain in the Pac Northwest on the Left Coast…..so hold the presses ...it’s time for the Front Page Follies! I had always been fascinated by newspaper reporters, the kind of hard drinking hard living hard headed Studs Terkel of Chicago...and the milder, caustic wit of Mark Twain. Don’t forget those wonderful 1940’s films of “Citizen Kane”, “Front Page Challenge” and “His Girl Friday” with those wise cracking journalists ready to cover a killing at the docks at midnight to uncovering a Nazi spy ring in New York. Later it became Gonzo journalism thanks to HHT and the Hell’s Angels, that attracted me as fast as a hooker can sniff out a $500 dollar client. I had written a few pieces of makeshift journalism for the military underground papers during the Vietnam War and in my last full year of school in 7th grade I was on the school paper dong movie and music reviews. Not very challenging, but loved the smell of the Gestentner machines and the ink. Radio was going sterile and impotent what with companies like Clear Channel buying out whole markets and the advent of Satellite radio...radio was now homogenized and tightly formated. I never was a team player...so applied for a newspaper job with no experience at a small weekly in New Mexico. The owner liked me for some reason and gave me a chance. He was a pro and taught me things I never anticipated...soon I was getting front page stories with photos, small paper so also did my own photography. From there I graduated to a daily newspaper in New Mexico and in time became the lead feature writer, but also covered murder trials, gangs and did a five part feature story on a job placement program in the State Prison that snagged my first statewide journalism award. Turns out the owner of a chain of newspapers in Washington State’s wine country was on vacation in the area for the balloon festival and read some of my stuff and got in touch with me to come aboard as Editor of the one paper. I said I have no experience, but he countered with “You know how to write factually and entertain, the rest is not rocket science.” Besides the outgoing editor would train me in the system, contacts, etc. What the hell...I’m Game! So I moved to the Left Coast and began another aspect of my evolving career. I became editor within a month and hired one reporter. A young girl fresh out of college from Tacoma with a journalism degree. She was the Wonder Woman of Writing...a machine. She had my kind of sense of humor as well and when we got a story about the Washington State Police winning the national award for Best Dressed State Troopers...she titled it…”Highway Hotties!” That should give you an idea of how we went about together to make that paper grow and double it’s circulation. I did stories on the plight and awful living conditions of the wine country migrant farm workers by interviewing them as well as the regional United Farm Workers District Representative. (Another award winner…) Note: Every year newspapers submit articles to the state association for inclusion. I never sent my own but of those of my reporters. Jill my ace without me knowing about it sent mine in so when I won I was confused until she fessed up. Believe me she snagged many of her own. After a year, I was made Managing Editor of the small chain and hired a new editors to replace those who were moving on. All the papers started following our lead and began writing for “people” and not mere subscribers. We were serious too. One story involved illegal dumping of grape waste in pits that can heat up to 5,000 degrees on property instead of getting disposed of properly by a licensed company. A kid hunting quail on supposed open property fell into a pit that burned his entire body and melted his rifle. It was not a pleasant site. This article took two of us to work on and involved the EPA in Seattle, the State Attorney General and local authorities. The wine grower was known to hire crackheads to work the property and there were threats made to us. The Chief of Police was a friend of mine and he knew the guy and his white pick-up truck and as I always go to work at 5 am to get a jump start on the 8 AM day I was a sitting duck. Fortunately the cop shop was located across the alley from our building so made routine checks on all of us. We had murders, dead bodies floating in the Yakima River, a few gun fights by gangs in the county, and other fodder to feed the frenzy of the public. After another 6 months I was now also put in charge of the our ten annual wine and tourism magazines that involved covering features for Washington, Idaho and Oregon and our increased staff of reporters and freelancers, plus the newspapers. There are humorous newspaper stories which I will delve into later but wanted to give a little background as to how a highschool dropout had finally realized his Citizen Kane dream… Another footnote….I trained Jill, and my other star reporters as Editors and all went on to manage newspapers throughout the northwest. When I felt they were ready I helped them find the positions, called the managing editors myself to make the introductions...proud of them all...especially Jill...damned best journalist I ever met. She wrote me soon after leaving and said I taught her more about people and writing than journalism school ever did...I countered with...I had learned more from her about the actual craft of journalism thanks to her degree and attitude. We were one hell of a team...her last day before she left we both hugged and had tears...still miss her attitude….she is bi-racial and was worried how the ag area would take to her...they took her into their hearts...and she gave them heart and soul adn conviction in her writing...she was the award winner in my book….
She Flies Through Air with The Greatest of Ease
For some odd reason, perhaps the Ringling Brothers planets were out of whack wobbling through space uncontrolled, but there was a bizarre period in my life where I ended up dating a female circus clown, a female mime, and a one night stand with a female trapeze artist from a well known circus family.
I’ve written about Mary Bungert, the female clown I met on the Sunset Strip and our relationship under the big top of sexuality. I had never made it with a clown before and quite honestly was waiting for a half dozen clowns to come roaring out from under her bed in a little Shriners car honking Clarabelle horns doing slapstick pratfalls ala the Three Stooges thereby killing whatever erection might present itself. Nothing like an orgasm while your partner is screaming Nyuk, Nyuk, Nyuk. Definite mood killer.
On the somewhat perverse side, Mary would always after work remove her make-up, but I must have reverted into a Barnum and Bailey sideshow and managed to talk her one night in keeping it on, red nose and all, baggy pants, crimson shirt and scarf and little Chico Marx hat. Off course eventually removed, but at least during foreplay it was a Marx Brothers Night at the circus! I kept waiting for Clarabelle the clown to emerge from the Peanut Gallery with Howdy Doobie (yeah I know it’s Doody but we were smoking doobies and not doodies!) Hey Kids! What Time is it? Time for my Peanut Gallery to create havoc, Buffalo Bob!
Another time when living in the Haight, mimes were everywhere infesting the neighborhood with Marcel Marceau Recon Units looking for a new home even Helen Keller would feel at home. This one was a solo act in Golden Gate Park and not part of a troupe of the Silent Majority of the Kingdom of Mime. At one time she was. Carrie showed me that a mime in the sack can is worth more than two jugglers and a ventriloquist for a foursome...a fivesome if you count the dummy.
Let’s see, I’ll see your mime and raise you two fire eaters and a contortionist who does a fabulous pretzel act while standing on YOUR head! It would be hard to untie a contortionist and as for fucking a ventriloquist you don’t want to confuse a woody with a goody. “Hey, you had orgasm and I didn’t even see your lips move!”
In Detroit when I was divorced (again!) I took my two kids to a circus with an on again off again girlfriend and must admit have always been fascinated by the trapeze artists costumes. I was mesmerized by one ot the girls flying through the air with the greatest of ease and wanted to meet her. Being in radio with my press pass I got backstage, having the kids remain with my date, saying I had some business to take care of.
Went back, knocked on her dressing room door and there she was. We talked and hit it off and she was in town for couple of days and gave me her room number at the downtown hotel she was staying at. She was a member of a well known circus act so will not name her here.
The next night I arrived at her room, knocked and when it opened I entered the world of sexual gymnastics. We spent the night together, and later in the year when I went to see her in New York were she lived I spent the weekend with her talking circus. This is when I also went to an art gallery showing of German female artist that won my heart named Sibyll Kalff..I went from the flying trapeze to a Berlin bunker of punk music and art..or as Sibyll called it Art n’ Roll….
I’ve searched for the lost chord for decades now...I wonder what would have happened if I met a clown on a trapeze who could throw her voice? Naw...don’t even want to think about it!!!
Son of a Beach
OK, so how do you survive on the beach in Waikiki without a penny in your cutoffs, homeless and broke? If you saw the movie “Club Paradise” with Robin Williams and Peter O’Toole and Twiggy it’s simple...when the Peter O’toole character was asked if he was broke why did he live in an island paradise...his answer quite succinct…”It’s a wonderful place to be poor!”
When I was 15, I quit school and made my way to Honolulu via LA. I had some money save up from summer jobs and under the table jobs so my close to $500 would last me until I reached retirement age, or so the 15 year old immortal mind reasons incorrectly.
I had made my way to LA then Honolulu via student Stand By Fare, from LAX to Honolulu in those days, 1963, $50 and the seat was next to Morey Amsterdam who told schtick all the way across the wide Pacific on a Pan Am flight...you youngsters may not know Morey Amsterdam..thank gawd you have Google, eh? Look it up...no clues…
I had a studio apartment, month to month at first for a few months across from the Reef Hotel on Kalakaua Ave. When the money ran out I took what few clothes and possessions I had and stored them in a .25 cent a day public locker downtown.
I was now beach bummed and had run into a bunch of Hawaiian kids about my age and an older guy, mid-20’s name of Sam. Kind of the Fagin of the mall gang of Oliver Twists I was now a member of.
He taught us how to watch the tourists on the beach get settled on the mats and towels and those with sneakers and soft shoes would invariably place trinkets such as watches, rings, and other jewelry inside the toe of the Bank of America shoe vault. Then...they’d dash off to the surf and play sun god and goddess..leaving the shoe unattended.
Didn’t take long to grab the goods and hand them over to Sam who’d hock the stuff downtown and he was so meticulous he kept a notebook of who brought him what so he could divvy the pawn money keeping his broker fee of course which today I’m sure we were ripped off royally...no honor among thieves even if we were the treasured spawn of C, Dickens…
Another way to survive as I did was to have a local Hawaiian girlfriend which I did who was a waitress at a restaurant at the International Marketplace. She’d always bring a doggie bag of burgers and fries to sustain me. Florence Nightingale herself. She was also a dancer in the Kodak hula show on weekends.
One way to get by and eat like a king was to cruise the outdoor patios of the hotels on the beach….they were restaurants and usually had dancing and booze, so you lie in wait and soon a couple at a table by the beach within easy reach would get up to dance and get all tropical and Don Ho’d..leaving a table behind for a few slow dances. The table was a Templar Treasure of breadsticks, seafood, perhaps steak, dessert, salads, etc...so while, they danced and swooned under a Hawaiian moon you enjoy a filet mignon. Oh and don’t forget to down the beer or mixed drink...how else is a 15 year old to get drunk?
Some of the older kids were rougher and would roll drunks in the Hotel District downtown...that was not my style so avoided that like the plague, as well as hustling males for sex. Although when I had my apartment made friends with a Japanese tourist guy in his 20’s I met on the beach and helped with directions. He was friendly enough and I was green enough that one day in the apartment changing to show him the International Marketplace he tossed me on the bed in the small apartment and that is when I blew and tossed him off onto the floor yelling at him at the top of my lungs then kicked him hard and he headed for the door before the noise brought the landlord. To each his own...but not in my repertoire. Go fuck someone else...
Again not my style but on occasion an older woman on the make, usually American, Canadian or European on vacation would want a young boy for a night. That I did do and that was orchestrated by Sam, the Fagin and all round businessman….I guess I should complain and join the ME Too Movement...but honestly...I had no complaints….hell it paid and got me off the beach sleeping in vacant hotel catamarans and in the shade tree at the Reef.
The tourists at the Reef would have parties and sometimes toss beer down to us as though they were feeding the monkeys in the zoo...one night I was too drunk to make it up into the tree and slept on the beach only to be picked up by the beach patrol as underaged and ended up arrested and put in the Honolulu Home for Wayward Boys….it was now Paradise Lost………
But I survived goddamn if someone calls me a son of a bitch….I correct them...It’s Beach...BEACH..Son of a beach….thank you…..Aloha!
The Suicide Dive Bombing Mission and Rebirth of Charlie Mankus
In the vortex known as youth, the teen years of angst, raging hormones and rebellion, we all had at least one friend who kept his feet firmly on the ground and not on the magic carpet ride of teendom. I had such a friend...Charlie Mankus.
He lived across the street from me when we were in Junior Highs School at Fairlane Jr. High. At that age I was a Brando wannabe with boots with cleats and peg pant jeans with rolled up cuffs. Charlie always wore white dress shirts, dress pants and hard what I used to call FBI shoes. I played pinball...he taught me chess.
We had many misadventures such as garbage night. All the metal trash cans were in place in front of homes. Sentinels of refuse ready for the landfill with seagulls circling overhead. I had this idea to take twine and tie it to a can then cross the street loop it through another can, then back again. We would get about 12 cans so arranged then...we’d wait. Soon a car would come along unaware the trap was set until it went through the maze saking down a dozen cans spilling content into the street and cans rolling around with a crash, boom bang.
We also used to toss crab apples against one neighbor’s metal garage door as he worked in there late at night at his little wood shop shop. A new kid, Doug Jenks moved into the neighborhood and wanted to be friends so we said you have to pass the initiation first and that was to pee on the garage door latch that lifts the door. No problem.
The garage light was on and we knew the neighbor was in there. Doug took his place as we stoop back on the driveway. He whips it out and begins the baptism. Once started we knew that was our cue to let lose a barrage of crab apples against the metal door making quite a racket.
The neighbor emerged and Doug was now running full speed down the street baptising himself as he ran as he hadn’t quite finished.
I was going with the new girl in school, Tresa Urbanski. Blonde, mohair sweaters and let me explore her virgin territory as if I was Lewis and Clark and she were the gateway to the west. She also had a girlfriend Charlie liked and was perfect for him. Quiet, shy and not too experienced. Charlie through me made a phone date to call her and ask her out to the dance coming up in a week. I was to guide him in convo to get him going. Girls scared the crap out of him.
He dialed and I whispered words for him to repeat. “Would you like to go the dance with Mike and Tresa? Yes. How about a pizza afterwords? Sounds good. Then I couldn’t resist, I whispered and he repeated verbatim “Maybe we can have intercourse after we eat?” All I heard was screaming through the phone. I found out that he didn’t know what intercourse meant, but she certainly did.
We’d also sneak over the school for wayward girls, Vista Maria and dom our dating with them over the fence they would hop. Charlie again had no luck except once and that was a strange one. Me and my “date” were ready to disappear into the woods down by the Rough River. A fave spot of mine. Charlie wanted to teach her to play chess!!! She was gang girl for gawd sakes who wanted to get felt up and screwed and he wanted to checkmate her with a Bishops to Queen move! Again another disaster.
I eventually left home and did my years of travel. It wasn’t until my 30’s I ran into Charlie again after years and tried to catch up. He worked at a tool and die shop and now owned his own plane. A Cessna 150 or as he called it a Cesspool One Filthy and did I want to go flying that weekend up to Macinac Island then over to Beaver Island in Lake Michigan and buzz the bridge.
Hell yeah I did. We met that Saturday afternoon at the Canton, Michigan airport and get ready to fly. As we took off he said he wanted to fly over his ex wifes house. Yep he was not onl freshly divorced but heartbroken and I swore ,,,suicidal! I had a brief moment of panic.
As we neared her house you could see flying low she was there in a bikini along with...oh shtit! Her new boyfriend! I glanced at Charlie, tears were forming and who knows what was going on in his mind! SUICIDE! Great I was going die as a Kamikaze pilot and burst into flames in a BBQ pit with burgers and hot dogs.
Charlie circled the place a few times. His ex noticed the plane, knowing it was his and pointed it out to her new man. He stared and glared and gave Charlie the finger. All I was thinking, you asshole...you gave him the finger but you might get a Cessna suppository ramme up your ass, and dammit I don’t’ want to be part of the wreckage!!!
We flew off and did head north, in fact he gave me the controls and damned if I didn’t fly across the Saginaw bay. Flying is easy...taking off and landing is the hard part.
We did fly all over and flew back early evening when still light. We went and had a beer at the Rock and Roll Farm on Michigan Ave. and called it a night from there. Lesson learned….never, ever go flying with a person who may dive bomb an ex spouse or you may be caught in the wreckage yourself.
OK, another damned year in the dumpster of history and another on the lost horizon of future history waiting in the wings yo make its grand entrance. (Take a bow!) Tis’ the season for New Years Resolutions. You know the l”ets lose weight and quit smoking” self promises that end up being more torture than anything the Spanish Inquisition could dish out to the most notorious blasphemer in the village. Just let me finish this last pack...honest. Got one of those fancy exercise machines for Christmas. Hell it’s got 10 speeds, heart rate monitor, blood pressure gauge, curb feelers, a hula dashboard ornament and a suicide knob! By February, the damn thing will end up on some local radio station Swap Shop program along with used farm tractors, 20 year old bass boats and a set of bald tires for your pickup truck. I’ve decided this year to make my goals reasonable, attainable, doable and whole litany of -ables to help me reach the finish line of accomplishment. First...if arrested this year for protesting Penguin discrimination I will make sure this time around to have a brand new bar of soap on a rope for the morning cellblock shower extravaganza. Love that Pacino line “I like to be kissed first before I get fucked!” Next...I have written to Meghan Merkle and flat out told her it’s over,,finito! I know she only got engaged to Prince Harry the Ginger to make me jealous and told her in no uncertain terms I’d see her at the wedding as the guest of Pippa Middleton and the Buckingham Palace partner swapping festival dancing to Abba tunes naked. I’ve also resolve to not snort any more cocaine. Nasty habit! ‘I’ll inject instead. Snorting the shit gives an image off of a snow blower, so to speak. Sexual harassment. Bit “me too” issue this year. I resolve that if I am sexually abused by a woman, I promise not to squeal, unless that excites her. I prefer barking, but aim to please. I’m cheap and easy, sometimes cheezy. I resolve to be much kinder and gentler when driving the highways and by-ways to those who think driver ed was merely a list of suggestions. I will use the horn when at an intersection and a blind person is attempting to cross rather than yelling at them a string of profanities. Nor will I give them the finger as I realized, they can’t see it anyway so will save it for when it will do some good such as when doing 50 in a school zone when school gets out. I will be more patient in the supermarket and when a motorized cart blocks the aisle while some senior tries to reach the Exlax well out of reach on the top shelf I will no longer yell….”Move your butt or I’ll staple your ass to your face!” When going to the gas station, I’ve begun taking lessons in the Pakistani language so I can argue with them over the price of a pre-heated corn dog..remember the Korean grocer scene in “Falling Down”? I rest my case. Lastly, for now anyway I will stop singing the entire songbook of My Fair Lady in the shower. Seems to scare the neighbors. Oh and one more thing..when I see Jehovah Witnesses rings my bell I won’t ask them in to participate in a ritual killing in order to scare them off. Nope, kinder gentler remember I’ll tell them I’m an Amish lesbian and have one big ass buggy whip… I don’t know what your resolutions are but like mine..keep them reasonable or at least just say the hell with it and grab a beer...
Just Say “No!” to Nostradamus Mike Marino Predicts 2018 by Channelin the Amazing Criswell!
Move over Nostradamus….the Amazing Criswell has reappeared over the weekend and has given me first hand information on predictions with a predilection for world affairs from near and afar for 2018….
Nuclear War - A possibility. However, it can averted if the CIA can slip some megatonnage in the form of time released atomic suppositories into North Korea and into Kim Jong Un’s medicine cabinet. Insert of one of those puppies….and his ass will be radioactive. Let the countdown begin….Ten...Nine...Eight….watch out for the fallout...it’s Kim Jong Dung!
Donald Trump will be committed to a mental institution and Nancy Pelosi, the Nurse Ratchet of Congress will authorize a legal lobotomy to remove any memory of how to work a twitter account.
Melania Trump will move back to Slovenia to become its new Pornographic Priestess & President and lead a contingent of topless female tank infantry and NATO forces against any aggressive move on the part of Vlad the Impaler Putin. Daughter Ivanka will design all new uniforms for the Slovenian military to include stiletto heels and accessorized grenades and ordnance. Jared Kushner will continue his Mideast Peace Mission by moving the capital of Israel to Miami Beach while giving the Palestinians the land they’ve always wanted...Dearborn, Michigan.
China will continue to grow as a world power and dominate the Pacific Rim...I guess that is what they call a rim job, yes?
Sexual harassment will continue as more and more 30 something female teachers get involved with 16 and 17 year old male football players. Let’s face it we all had that one teacher that turned us on, eh? Yep...hot for teacher in 2018 will be a carnival of carnal pleasures. Three cheers for Feminism!
Males will still behave like horny Vikings on a pillage and plunder vacation at Victoria’s Secret. Priests will still want an altar boy for a trophy hood ornament. New this year? Nun’s want to cum too so if you have a girl scout troop...tell them not to try to sell any cookies within 100 yards of a Catholic church. To a nun on the run, S’Mores are the bait trap of choice. It’s a habit with them.
Congress will consult the best voodoo witch doctors in New Orleans to bring Strom Thurmond back to life who when alive was the only living cadaver to hold office. Term limits will become a reality in 2018 as armed citizens from the group, “Lee Harvey Oswald Brigade” show up at political rallies to cull the herd. I understand they have a point system all worked out. For every Republican bagged you get a tax break….for every Democrat tagged and bagged you get extra food stamps.
Hillary Clinton will finally divorce Bill and end up in a torrid affair with Monica Lewinsky. Bill will be charged with sexual harassment after making advances to Kevin Spacey and Barack Obama.
Marijuana will be legalized nationwide….in Poland.
More predictions on the horizon include the 2020 POTUS ...too close to call but Criswell says it will either be Nikki Haley, Haley Mills, Dwayne Johnson, or Kid Rock who will have the Lincoln Memorial removed and replace it with the Bob Seger Old Time Rock and Roll Memorial.
Prince Harry will give up the throne. Can’t blame him. He’s got Meghan Merkle...the choice to me is simple. Even Churchill would approve.
The White Supremacists and KKK will open a new luxury resort where you can spend a fun filled 7 days and six nights at the ornate Ruby Ridge Hilton with daily rifle range parties followed by old films at the Aryan Imax theater of Amos and Andy and a new slapstick comedy version of “Schindlers List.” For a special treat they also run “Gone With the Wind” in reverse so it has a happy ending just before the cross burning and obligatory lynching.
If you thought 2017 was rough….you ain’t seen nothing yet!
The Politically Correct Incorrect Christmas
The hell with this PC manure pile we are living in. It has permeated every level and layer of society to the point where we are afraid to offend...except me other degenerates. I could care less if I offend anyone or anything..after 30 years in the rock and roll industry who the hell worries about that.
Xmas...oh, damn, there ‘ve gone and done it...it’s not XMAS as if it were the X-Files. Nor is it Happy Holidays. Those are the new PC it’s OK terms. I’ll stick with Merry Christmas and when ordering a salad in a French restaurant then I’ll say and order some Happy Hollandaise.
The Jewish Hanukkah also falls around this time of the year and the PC police have had enough..it’s no longer a Menorah. Oh no. Now t is to be referred to as Womanorah. To be perfectly in alignment with the PC planets it should be gender neutral and be referred to as a Personorah.
The Christmas Tree itself is between a rock and a hard place. Buy a real tree and goddamn Greenpeace will be on your doorstep singing ‘We Are The World’ faster than a Jehovah Witness knocking on your door wanting to testify. “Depleting the forests, yadda, yadda, yadda….” Use a fake tree and they’ll bitch and moan that it won’t decompose properly in a landfill and will lie there as trash for the next 500 years...Look Christmas Tree Farms grow trees for that purpose and besides if you live near a lake, when you strip it of its ornaments toss the thing deep in some inland lake and create fish habitat...Fuck Greenpeace, at least you’ll make PETA happy.
Classic Christmas flicks are under attack as well. Old Bing Crosby sang his last “White Christmas”, remember Black Lives Christmas Matters too. Tiny Tim is no longer a cripple...he is now happily disabled and challenged. I’d like to see the PC version of “It’s a Wonderful Life In the Ghetto” With Jimmy Stewart as a reformed pimp and drug dealer shot by Mr. Potter in a drive by shooting.
Mistletoe once the symbol of seasonal romance has now been demoted and can be used as evidence in a sexual harassment lawsuit. If you are accused of misuse and abuse of Mistletoe hang it on the back of your belt ..now t says “Kiss my Ass!” The gift that keeps on giving.
It’s still OK to give Santa Cookies and Milk but can no longer fat shame him buy calling him a Jolly Fat Man. Today’s Santa is on a diet of Slim Fat and working out with Jenny Craig.
The Nativity scene is banned from government property of course, but that will change with the PC winds if the Baby Jesus is a DACA kid in government housing and the Three Wise Men are actually three gay hairdressers following a bright star to the Bethlehem Piano Bar and Leather Casino. The Virgin Mary as an unwed mother on food stamps seeking refuge in a woman’s shelter and Joseph the meth addict carpenter has a restraining order for domestic or manger violence in this case.
As for Santa’s reindeer with decidedly Aryan names reminiscent of the days of Auschwitz, they will be changed to more palatable multi-cultural acceptable monikers. On Mohammed, On Pedro, On Chan, on and on.
Christmas carols have to be purged as well. Oh Holy Night may offend non Christians so how about Oh Holy Shit, It’s Christmas! For the LGBT crowd….”It Came Upon a Midnight Queer”for recovering drug addicts, it’s “Frosty the Blow Man!” Mama kissing Santa Claus, my ass...she was doing the mail room guy in the Xerox room at the office party..
Christmas may offend some...bring joy to others….but please don’t put a Confederate flag atop your tree….or swastika’s on the rooftop….and screw Happy Holidays..damn it..Merry Christmas to all….Santa Claus is coming to town...and this time it’s personal!
Got Nukes?
We have two blowhards with bad hair upsetting the applecart leading dangerously close to nuclear annihilation of the planet. In a matchup...nuclear warheads...we have 4,000,,,,Russia has 4,500 according to Jane’s Military magazine...who the hell knows how many China has! (the rest of the combined nuke nations have a total of 1,500 between them) 10,000 Atomic Bombs ready to go at a moments miscalculation or if Trump and Un are having their period at that time of the month. China and Russia both do not want a U.S. Military on their borders which would happen if we invaded N. Korea and deposed the poser. We are outgunned from the start...second Trumpy spends as much time on Twitter alienating our allies….except for Poland...they still like us and they still have a cavalry to lead a charge against tanks.
Both North Korea’s Kim Jong Un or Suk Muc Dik as I refer to him, and the U.S. Disaster, Donald Trump have been engaging in rhetoric not becoming in a high school locker room, let alone nuclear powered nations. Is it penis envy or just constantly bad hair days for both?
Trump thinks of North Korea as merely a contestant on “The Apprentice” while Un looks at himself as the Egg Roll God of Thunder. Both belong in a rubber room at a mental institution in matching straight jackets and given huge doses of medication. To solve the problem, options do exist. Kim needs to change his name first and foremost. Kim sounds a tad girly. Maybe go by Butch or Tex or some ballsy sounding name. The hair? Oh gawd yes the hair...Goddamn it, Kim do you know what the hell you look like? You look like an aircraft carrier split in two. As for your clothing choices...tone down the grey working class hero look...not working, Amigo. You look like the janitor at my old jr. high school on his rare sober moments. Go for the Armani look in clothing and try the Man Bun thing. I think you could pull it off. If anyone says anything to the contrary...execute them.
Trump, needs to have his hair professionally styled by a Teamster. He looks rich and that’s a mistake. His hair does not scream “Solidarity, brothers and sisters!” instead it says, “I was a douchebag in school and guys would laugh at me in the shower after gym class then shove me into a locker.”
All North Korea wants really are to open up a chain of Kim Jong Un massage parlors in San Francisco and L.A. and appear as the cover boy in GQ just once. All Trump wants is the name of Kim’s tailor. “Love the peasant look” he said recently in an interview “He’s a real chick magnet and bet he can get any Korean girl he wants. I hear once you’ve had sex with a Korean girl or any Asian girl, you’ll never go back to a Slovenian again.”
South Korea wants us get their permission for any more THAAD inclusions, also doesn’t want to do military drills with us now as it may inflame the north...the best thing we can do to honor their wishes is to pull our troops out altogether...and in the true spirit of competition..let the best man win. Polandwill pick up the slack I’m sure….
The Politico-Sexual Christmas
Humbug you say? We never had rules for the ho ho ho season before, so why now? Have you seen the news lately...sexual misconduct running rampant, world leaders looking for nuclear balls, and a President who is about as popular as Hitler would have been at Auschwitz passing out gift wrapped Xyklon B canisters as party favors.
Office parties around the holiday season have always been a cornucopia of ribald drunken humor as fellow employees let their hair down after the spiked eggnog infuses them with courage, turning the shyest clerk into an perverted exhibitionist.
Mistletoe hanging over the desk can lead to some serious office faux pas. An innocent kiss between Miss Jones in Accounting and Mr. Daniels in Personnel could lead to the Yellow Brick Road of Office Orgasm in the nearest broom closet and a visit to Divorce Court.
Sitting on Santa’s lap has been one of the biggest quandry’s of the season. Is Santa just a kindly old gent from the retirement home who loves the sounds of kids laughter as it reminds him of days gone by when he was a youngster? Or is the store Santa a former carnival worker and chain gang fugitive from Parchman, Mississippi looking to get his merry go round wound up?
Animal rights people are up in arms over the treatment of trained bears in the Russian Steppes as well as the treatment of Santa’s eight tiny reindeer having to lug a fat man and tons of toys around at the crack of a whip.
Black Lives Matter is protesting that there are no black reindeer or black elves to be seen anywhere at the North Pole and all the reindeer have decidedly “white” names, some say downright Aryan Nation sounding...Blitzen for example is code according to conspiracy theorists for Blitzkreig at Ruby Ridge. Also refrain from using the triple H word...Ho, Ho,. Ho. as it has a different meaning in the inner city and could get you in hot water with the Civil Rights Commission. Not one reindeer is named Lavar or Roosevelt.
Not one female elf wears a burkah and not one reindeer is named Hymie or Schwartz. Even Santa’s attorney and accountant are named Bailey and Potter.
The handicapped community is coming out of the closet claiming that Rudolph the Red Nosed Handicapped Reindeer is forced to the front of the sleigh to face danger first...all this and they won’t even let him play any reindeer games such as “dodge the bullet here comes Ted Nugent with a hunting tag to fill”
Mistletoe Belt Buckles are all the rage this holiday season..but if your wearing one in public avoid the surveillance cameras and the eagle eye Wal Mart greeter.
It’s advisable to have an inflatable attorney with you at all times during the holiday season just in case you get caught with yours hands in someone’s bag of toys.
Merry Christmas to all….my attorney will contact you in the morning…...
Santa Claus as Brian Wilson Surfing with Charles Manson?
The big question on everyone’s mind this time of year is ...Where the hell is Santa??? Last seen he was on ‘Dancing with the Stars’ doing a flamenco with the National Enquirers Bat Boy!!! According to Mary Christmas, who was giving Santa a real 501 button fly Laplander lap dance at the North Pole Pole Dancing Club frequented by Polish mud wrestling maidens when he suddenly collapsed screaming in pain, “I am Brian Wilson! Honest!”
He was hauled away blathering in a morphine induced rant that he was also possessed by the evil spirits of Jan and Dean and wanted to see his attorney/exorcist, Freddie “Boom Boom” Cannon.
The glory dazed days of sun, sand, surf and Charles Manson were now behind him. All the penny loafers, Madras shirts and truck tire tread 18 wheeler sandals were a faded memory.
Surfboards were the ghost of a beach blanket bingo past were waxing your woody was a group project to see who could stroke the best.
He left the Beach Boys and became….Surfin’ Claus!!!
“I remember the Christmas album we produced with Charles Manson. “I’ll Be in Your Home for Christmas” that included the snow hit…”Here Comes the Manson Family, Right Down Sharon Tate Lane”
Interviewed in the psyche ward at the Hannibal Lecter Happy Holidays Hospital wearing a very festive brocade straight jacket Claus paused. A blank look came over his face as he muttered the name Hoffa. “I recorded with him just before he disappeared in Detroit. Strange fellow but a hell of a songwriter..I remember recording “Have Yourself a Merry Teamster Christmas” from the album..”Look For the Rudolph Union Label” A lot of radio stations banned it from their airwaves..it wasn’t so bad that it was about Labor Unions, but that damned Rudolph had a ’red’ nose and got that Senator Joe McCarthy fellow all worked up. Eight of the reindeer went to prison at Lewisburg while Rudolph the Red fled to Moscow.
They tried bringing in strikebreakers, scabs, you know the type. To them Tom Joad was Karl Marx! In the end..we won out. There is only one Santa..me..and I wear a Red Suit so I guess I am a commie pinko fag too. Not only that but White Tail deer flying over Michigan that time of the year? You gotta be kidding me...the poachers alone can fill the bed of a F150 in 10 minutes!
I also recorded an album for the folks on “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” called ‘It Came Upon a Midnight Queer’ They loved it and offered me a LGBT award. I thought it was a sandwich. A BLT with an extra ingredient. Looked like mayonaise...Go Figure!
I’ve kicked the milk and cookies habit by the way. Meeting in dark alleys trying to score a chocolate fix from Little Debbie the cookie hooker. She was a real cream filled treat by the way ...a female Twinkie!
This year, I’ve been in rehab and ready to go on tour once again...400 years in a row! Eat your heart out Keith Richards!
"Eve of Christmas Destruction" Barry McGuire Revisited
The Northern Pole... elves explodin', reindeer flarin', toys are loadin' You're old enough to play with trains but not for tokin' You don't believe in Santa , what's that list you're totin' And even the North Pole has elfin bodies floatin' But you tell me over and over and over again my friend Ah, you don't believe we're on the eve of Christmas! Don't you understand, what I'm trying to say? Black Friday gives me chills, you see the fear that I'm feeling today? If Santa gets a cocaine fix, there's no running away There'll be none for your nose and higher street value you'll pay Take a look around you, boy, it's bound to scare you, boy But you tell me over and over and over again my friend Ah, you don't believe we're on the eve of Christmas Yeah, my blood's so mad, feels like coagulatin' I'm sittin' here just contemplatin' I can't twist the truth, it knows no regulation Handful of toymakers don't pass legislation And white and black Barbies alone can't bring integration When Christmas respect is disintegratin' This whole crazy holiday season is just too frustratin' And you tell me over and over and over again my friend Ah, you don't believe we're on the eve of Christmas Think of all the hate there is for the label "Made in China" Then take a look around to casinos in Oklahoma Ah, you may leave here for four days on acid spaced But when you return, no flashbacks, it's the same old place The poundin' of the sugar plum drums, toy robots and disgrace You can toss away your old toys, but don't give the homeless a free lunch Hate your next door neighbors tree but don't forget to spike the punch And you tell me over and over and over and over again my friend Ah, you don't believe we're on the eve of Christmas.
The Santa Claus Candy Cane Cartel
“Christmas! It ain’t the same,” said S. Claus in a recent interview I had with him after locating him in the Witness Protection Program hiding out at a strip club in the red light district of the North Pole.
“I remember passing out sugar plums and candy canes for the kids. You know, peppermint red ones that looked like a barber’s pole . Now...shit, now they have to be rainbow colored to show support for gay marriage and pride, not to mention those blue collar mother fuckers from Detroit and the rest of the Great Lakes region want red plaid candy canes. Do you realize how hard it is to make candy canes in rainbow colors and plaid? It’s pain in the holiday ass I tell ya.”
Things have changed and Santa was not happy. He poured another glass of Wild Turkey for himself and continued.
“We used to bring presents down the chimney for the kids on Christmas Eve. Now we do that and the NSA arrests us as security threats and those goddamned frisk downs checking our documents and packages organized by the CIA. We were red suits so were placed recently on a presidential travel ban list that includes Muslim Countries and Elfin Territories. We just learned that the president wants to build a wall to keep illegal North Pole alien elves out as well, and he’s promised to get Canada to pay for it!”
Along with government interference they had union problems as well.
We had trouble with Jimmy “the elf” Hoffa and the Reindeer Teamsters Union. Sonofabitch called a strike and we was picketed by every card carrying fairy and elf from the Sugar Plum Fairy Local 296. We had to call in strike breakers from the Knights of Columbus...as Jack said in ‘The Departed’..”They’re readhead breakers!”
The biggest fear today?
“ I am nervous about flying over North Korea to be honest. That fat shit has already said he has a missile that can take out Donder and Blitzen as well as Guam. I’ve asked the Chinese to do something so they imposed sanctions on North Korea and they promised that they would send no more nuclear egg rolls or comfort girls!”
“The worst thing about today is that all the old gang is gone...the Tooth Fairy was arrested for being too “oral” and busted in the men’s room at a Tooth Fairy Bar one night in Greenwich Village soliciting sex in exchange for Rainbow Colored Fruit Loops like he’s high on a bisexual built for two! It’s embarrassing!”
In addition to lamenting the loss of the “old days” some traditional frictions still exist between rival factions. “We were until recently still fighting for dominance of the Holiday with the old Cheeses of Nazareth gang. Some of their soldiers left to form a rock group call Nazareth, but the hard core is still there and we’re still fighting! Damn it...Santa or Jesus...you can’t have both!”
The rivalry began a long time ago he explained while smoking a Cuban cigar Castro had sent him. “It all started years ago when I went to talk to the Jesus H. Corleone mob or “Cheeses” gang as the newspapers called them in big black headlines. He was top dog in the Christmas rackets at the time. We sat down with the Cheeses mob to form a truce as we were killing each other off! Bad for business all around so I says, ‘Look there’s plenty of biz for all of us Cheeses, You take the Hallmark Greeting cards and Midnight Masses at churches and we’ll take the reindeer and candy canes and presents, whadda ya say?”
A tense truce was formed and things were quiet ...for awhile until I fell in love with one of the Jesus Cheeses old ladies, Christmas Carol. “All she wanted was power and I was her patsy. She kept after me to whack her boss and take it all, we’d be rich she said and on Easy Street. So I arrange it and I become head of the mob. She steals all the money I got and runs off with Georgie the Grinch!”
I noticed a glint in his eye though as he wiggled his nose and tail. “I got back at her though. I was a frequent guest of Hugh Hefner at the Chicago Playboy Mansion on Sam Giancana Boulevard and took up with Gloria Steinem. Cute little ass...for a human that is, but she found feminism as a religion and that blew that all to hell!’
Today there is still friction but a quiet friction as the two sides have agreed once more on a solution. “The Cheeses gang has opened a deli in Jerusalem called “Cheeses of Nazareth” you know, wine and water, loaves and fishes and they even have He’brew beer!
He still does the virgin birth routine every Christmas and now he even does the Good Friday schtick of getting crucified...only now when they roll away the stone on Easter, he emerges alive...but if he sees his shadow, he goes back in for another six weeks. It’s an old vaudeville routine that still gets them laughing in Bethlehem.”
Today Santa is back at the North Pole...retired...aging...wiser. “It’s a young elfs game”, he said…”Fuck...plaid candy canes!”
Merry Christmas from the Pee Wee Herman POTUS Playhouse
The recent fuss over the the White House Christmas Tree decorations concocted by Melania Trump as well as the low turnout for the White House Christmas Tree lighting Ceremony hosted by the First Family has unleashed a furious flurry of holiday backlash.
Melania’s attempt at White House decor you’d think would be the look of an expensive designer, but instead came out kind of creepy and something from the Brothers Grimm playbook of dark and moody. All it was missing was Cujo eating eight tiny reindeer and Hannibal Lecter as Santa Claus feasting on Tiny Tim using his crutch as a toothpick.
When asked why the bizarre display she told our reporter, “ I had just seen the movie, ‘The Ring’ and wanted to scare da sheet out of the Democrats. To let them know if they don’t bomb North Korea, they will die in seven days.”
As for the Christmas Tree Lighting Ceremony at the White House I’ve seen bigger crowds at public executions in Irag. Many kept away from the ceremony for good reason, one member of Congress explained the reasons. “Well, now that North Korea has a missile that can reach Washington we decided it best to keep away in case one decided to come down the White House chimney that night. Another reason is that many Congressmen were busy sexually harassing Nancy Pelosi and Dianne Franken Feinstein who both were surprised (as am I!) filibustering during consensual congressional fellatio.
Roy Moore of Alabama, known pedophile was arrested at the ceremony hanging around the Nativity scene looking for an underage sheep he wanted to take to the mall to shop for skateboards by promising it a big bale of hay if it cooperated.
The real low point of the ceremony happened when Prez Trump called in the U.S. Border Patrol to remove the nativity statues of the three wise men and two shepherds who he claimed were undocumented middle eastern aliens stating, “This nativity set is not a Sanctuary City or an ISIS stronghold, and I don’t care if the baby Jesus statue is a DACA kid. He goes too! Even the goddamned statues were made in China!”
By the way the St. Joseph statue has been accused of statue-atory rape by The Virgin Mary statue. “He was all over me,” she said with tears in her eyes. “Pawing me and groping me. I couldn’t say anything at first as I was afraid of his power and money. He is a very rich man. He owns over 120 sheep so you don’t say no to a man like that without consequences!”
Events turned uglier when Kevin Spacey arrived dressed as Liberace asking for Corey Feldman who was disguised as the Baby Jesus in the manger. All the while the Joseph statue forced the Mary statue to re-enact the Mickey Rourke and Kim Basinger food scene from “9 and a Half Weeks” on the White House portico.
There were some bright spots though as Michigan Rep. John Conyers and California Rep Maxine Waters did there Ike and Tina Turner impersonation after General Michael Flynn sang the Russian National Anthem in a duet with Jared Kushner to the tune of “The Sounds of Silence” by the Chippendale Chipmunks Alvin, Theodore, Simon and Garfunkel.
At one point during the evening a Secret Service agent was caught having sex with a Christmas wreath and later fondling the bubble lights in an obscene manner. He was undercover dressed a Victoria Secrets model. Asked why, he said he heard a voice in his head telling him to and the voice claiming to be J. Edgar Hoover.
When it came to light the tree, we all expected Trump to through the switch but by accident grabbed the wrong classified case and almost launched nuclear missiles by mistake aimed at London. He was stopped just in time to avert a Dr. Strangelove nightmare scenario. Ivanka ran to her dad and yelled, “Daddy, Daddy. Stop, let Uncle Vladimir in Russia throw the master Christmas tree lighting switch, he has the codes you sent him last week.”
Merry Christmas from the Mike Marino News Network and the Pee Wee Herman POTUS Playhouse
Santa's Got a Brand New Sexual Harassment Bag
Seems like everyday someone in a position of power is getting nailed for sexual harassment and inappropriate behaviour. Well, I hate to burst your Christmas bubble, but even Jolly Old Saint Nick, yep you know him as Santa Claus has now gotten his ass and his jingle bells in a sling as the “Me Too” juggernaut rolls on placing his chestnuts in the open fire of transparency.
Word has leaked out to the Mike Marino News Network that accusers are coming out of the Christmas toy box claiming Santa has been caught with his red pants down playing with his north pole in an obscene manner around young, impressionable elfen colleagues and others.
He has been accused by numerous individuals of leaving Barbie Doll sex toys under the Christmas tree instead of Easy Bake Ovens at the homes of young people who should be playing with Barbies Pink Playhouse instead of looking for batteries. His attorney spoke at a press conference claiming they were meant for the moms on his route, but somehow got mixed up. You must realize he continued what going up and down a chimney can do to a man. The soot and smoke alone are enough to set off a sexual frenzy, not to mention the amount of marijuana brownies and milk he inhales around the world!”
On numerous occasions Santa was found fondling ladies underwear in dresser drawers while the family slept until one night in Peoria a husband woke up and beat him silly with a large candy cane. “I caught the fucker red handed sniffing underwear and came unglued. I have a license to carry a loaded candy cane so used it to protect my family!”
Two of Santa’s elfen helpers, Sleazy and Spacey have also been accused of placing children on Santa’s lap in an obscene position at Macy’s while he jiggles like a bowl full of jello. He’s also been tied into a porn group known as the Sugar Plum Fairies who recruit fans of the Village People at leather bars across the country who are the stockings Santa likes to stuff by the chimney with care.
One of Santa’s female elf co-workers was called into his office one day only to find him completely naked except for his big red bag which he kept referring to as Moby Dick, masturbating and yelling out at the crucial climax…”THAR SHE BLOWS!” In a written statement by the victim she stated, ‘I was afraid of him. His power, his money, and I didn’t want to lose my job as I have five crack addicted children by different husbands to care for this holiday season adn figured if I was naughty and not nice for Santa he’d bring me my Gilbert Chemistry Meth Lab Kit... besides I never saw a toy bag that big before. Once you’ve had sex with Santa...you’ll never do a reindeer again, except maybe Blitzen real who is a real Laplander stud. Rudolph is OK too if you don’t mind the glowing red nose routine, my neighbors see that and they think it’s a whore house in the red light toy district.”
Corey Feldman, the Lost Boy of L.A, in a written statement says, “The sonofabitch gave me a Kevin Spacey Model Pee Wee Herman Action Figure one year for Christmas and all it did was play with itself when Haim came into the room! I guess I was jealous more than anything else. It was my toy and it should have responded to my voice!” In a related, yet non sexual problem facing the Big Claus is newly discovered information that he has secretly been meeting with Kim Il-Sung, current rocket man president of North Korea, who was born in Suc Muk Dik, North Korea in the province of Long Wang. Santa has been supplying Kim against U.N sanctions, with enough nuclear material to speed up No. Korea’s nuclear program.
Although claims of having an ICBM capable of reaching the East Coast of the US are suspect, Santa has agreed that in the event of an attack by the US on N. Korea he will load his sleigh with enough nuclear warheads himself to invade and bombs away the Beltway. President Trump recently escalated his war of words by referring to Santa as “that fat fuck.”
Melania coming to Santa’s defense said, “When little goil in Slovenia Santa would leave me 50 dollars, US on the bed table. He told me it was for being nicely naughty. I no understand North Pole English so I nod and take shower with moose and squirrel”
Christmas 2017...Santa’s got a brand new bag, no not Hillary, and he has been fired. Christmas is still a few weeks off so there is time to salvage the season….Matt Lauer has already applied for the job...this is Today...on NBC. Now if he brings Savannah Gutherie with him, she can abuse me anytime...all I want for Christmas is my Meghan Markle blow up doll!
The Story of the Two and a Half Myrika’s
In the book, “Dark Side of the Sixties Moon” the character of Myrika is a composite of two and a half women, Two German’s and an American, who have left their mark on my life. The first one is actually named Myrika and was one my live in girlfriends in Haight Ashbury. Olivia, who was a 15 years old runaway and also a character in the new book was the other live in.
Myrika was a tall blond Nordic type, 5’ 10” to my 5’ 6” and was 23 years old to my 17. who was a poet/writer and photographer. Very protective and provocative in her writings and her personality. She was a student at UC San Francisco, theater arts. She was supportive of me who at the time was a directionless high school dropout while she was aceing college We traveled a lot on the west coast and a few back east which I have used as the setting for a few chapters of “The Dark Side of the Sixties Moon including our trips to Death Valley and the commune in New Mexico.
One trip we went cross country in a Metropolitan with another couple, which if you don’t know what what a Metropolitan is, imagine sardines in a can. We made it to New York and back on fumes for gas. We sold enough acid and weed in the Haight to finance part of the trip, the other couple were from Seattle and the girl had rich parents so they picked up the slack. Thank gawd for the rich ones! Dave, was the guy’s name and my best friend in the Haight. He eventually ended up in Chino for selling drugs and got busted in L.A. on one of his forays down there. His girlfriend was Mary who was another 15 year old runaway girl. Hell all of the Haight was a haven for runaways….
Olivia is also a character in the “Dark Side” book as well...Olivia, as the pregnant underage girlfriend of Joey another character. She was not pregnant in real life until much later as an adult. I kept in touch for years and still have her love letters written in the Haight on the back of H/A postcards of the Pscyhe Shop. It may sound strange to share two women, in effect, they were sharing me so in this age of “ME TOO” believe me I have no complaints...use me abuse me was me motto. The other half of the Myrika character is Sibyll Kalff a German artist and musician who I met at an art gallery in New York where she was the featured artist. One thing led to another, this was post Myrika and Olivia by the way…..Myrika was sent back to Germany being long overdue when her Visa had expired by 6 months….that event is also in the new book…
Back to Sibyll...we collaborated on projects, my words, her art that she had published in German as Kalff-Marino Little Books. She also used some of my word rambles and put music to them with her ban in Berlin called the Horsecock Kids, an industrial punk pop band, she was the bass player and engineer.
We were engaged at one point when she fell to schizophrenia and committed to a mental hospital in Munich by her parents when she traveled back there. We’d write every week and still made plans….she couldn’t leave Germany in her condition that gradually swallowed her whole...soon I was dealing with multiple personalities...but always Sibyll...she was a free spirit, we went on a few trips to the desert southwest when she was here... photographing and hiking and laughing...she called me the Blue Coyote as blue was her fave color and I’d howl like a coyote when on the trip...Hence the Blue Haiku project….
We resigned ourselves that we would never marry now...she was getting worse in the hospital. Although our plans to marry were many years ago both in our 30’s, she said I was always her Blue Coyote….last year I got word from her family….Sibyll died alone in her room......apparent overdose as life became too hard for her...I wrote as a tribute…”Night of the Berlin Schizophrenes”
So when you read the new book, these are the women who inspired the characters….life is funny at times and other times a real bitch…..Hooowwwwlllllll!
J. Edgar Hoover Barbie Doll
He’s Here Again! Years in the making…. He knows who’s naughty or nice. He knows if you’re sleeping in somebody’s bed, he even knows if you’re a dirty Red! Direct from the Mike Marino Toy Factory in Washington, AC/DC we are proud to present the perfect fishnet stocking stuffer collection of J. Edgar Hoover Barbies in the Deluxe Glen or Glenda Playset and home decor!
In addition to the J. Edgar Barbie Dolls, who (let’s see a show of hands!) hasn’t wanted a J. Edgar Hoover Inflatable Sex Doll all their own. Half of the guys in the Justice Department have one already, now you too can blow up the big guy with his playfully placed valve that is the unique design of the entire Fellatio Bureau of Investigation. Don’t blow this opportunity….J. Edgar Only Knocks Once, shoots and asks questions later.
Enhance your landscaping with a delightful Virgin Mary Hoover Madonna Lawn Statue with his own set of lawn balls. Their not very big balls, but make great jockstrap stocking stuffers for the trolling male hustler that stalks the neighborhood exposing himself.
Want action, the kids will get off on the official The J. Edgar Action Figure. Comes complete with recording equipment, a Gilbert Chemistry & Wiretap equipment (warrants sold separately) as well as the Martin Luther King and JFK action figures sold separately when you purchase the deluxe Martin Luther King/JFK Assassination Play Kit that comes complete with a Book Depository Dealey Plaza Erector Set and the Memphis Motel Lincoln Log signature set. Just for the hell of it you can add the Barbie Kennedy Doll that talks and takes a bullet in the hotel kitchen playset when you pull his string and he says, “Now, on to Chicago!”
The J. Edgar Pez Dispenser recently advertised in “Boys Life” magazine just screams OPEN WIDE! It holds 20 Pez tablets or ten .45 caliber bullets. Ideal to pack in your kids lunch box. Imagine the frenzy and fun in the lunchroom when your kid on Prozac yells…”INCOMING!” Fires up to 40 feet accurately.
The J. Edgar Hoover Take It Like A Man Dildo, batteries not included, have J. Edgars face on the head ready for your walk on the wild side with the Sugar Punk Fairy. Head for Head, this is hands down the ultimate electronic sex toy for men and women. Hint: It prefers men or old Queens.
New this season, Holiday Mistletoe patches for the seat of your pants. Now you too can be like J. Edgar. This holiday season say it with a patch...Kiss my Ass!
Don’t forget the optional J. Edgar Hoover Pink Prison Doll House where you can secure the Rosenberg bobble heads and the Abbie Hoffman talking yippee doll. The J. Edgar Doll comes with a variety of accessorized ladies wear designed by Victor Victoria's Secrets and Pink Police Car. Order yours today...and remember...J. Edgar knew who was naughty and who was nice......!!!~
The First Thanksgiving
Forget the friendly Pilgrims and helpful Native American “let’s bag a turkey and eat popcorn bullshit” we had crammed down our scholastic throats like so much stale fruitcake from last year’s transvestite ball. The truth is far more disturbing than you can imagine. It was more of a Michigan - Ohio State football game rivalry. The stakes were high for each touchdown in the Plymouth Bowl. When the visiting Jolly Olde England Pilgrims scored a touchdown, ten members of the Native American Wampanoags home team came down with syphilis and had to benched. When the Wampy’s scored, ten Pilgrims were roasted alive or as they called it Pole Dancing in a Johnny Cash Ring of Fire.
Coach Miles Standish of the Pilgrim Patriots had a good season up until the bowl game. Tickets were sold out...spirits on both teams were high...then..tragedy struck. Assistant Defensive Coach, Sir Charlie Rose Weinstein Spacey was accused of sexual harassment by a young native woman, Pocahontas who was only 14 at the time when he picked her up at the Jamestown Mall and groped her in the wigwam region.
“He told me he could make a star out of me and I was intimidated by his,power. I always wanted to do Kabuki theater at the Mayflower Casino, but I wasn’t Japanese. Charlie told me he could fix that by getting me an experimental operation in Denmark.”
Security was tight on game day. There had been threats by various terrorist groups that someone may drive a horse and buggy at high speed through the crowd tailgating outside in the stadium parking lot. Or worse, a rain of pellets from a crazed fully automatic musket owner who kept his powder dry at all times. The biggest threat came from the Pyong Yang Ping Pong Gang who we now know had developed an arsenal of deadly North Korean catapults capable of launching huge boulders that would completely devastate Plymouth Rock! (See? North Korea is older than you think!)
The other issues affecting gameday was the ongoing feud between the football league and Colonial Governor Sir Angus Trumpgrump over the fact that numerous Native American Players would take a knee during the tuba solos that began each game. By taking a knee I mean they would actually use a tomahawk and remove the kneecap of one of their opponents. (They also are blamed for “scalping” more than tickets!)
Counter protesters would show up in force including white supremacists from the Anglican Nation and the John Alden Society, a branch of the Kula, Klan and Ollie faction.
Threats also came from overseas by religious terrorists vowing to get even for the Crusades, but they hadn’t discovered how to travel over the ocean yet to carry out any meaningful death and injuries on North American soil and besides our Viking Navy Seal Coast Guards were ever vigilant.
Once the bowl game was over, it was time for both teams and fans to sit down to a shared feast of roasted penguin with puffin dressing, magic mushrooms and for dessert a mug of hard cider and peyote ala mode. One un-groped sexually harassed politically correct virgin was always selected for the official sacrifice by the Marquis de Spacey for the big Lebowski-Lewinski bonfire circle jerk kickoff.
It was that or watch football all day long, but they forgot to invent television.
Now you know the truth behind Thanksgiving...and why the Penguin should be our national bird!
Confessions of a Marriage Killer (Part Two)
I Married an Irish all Girl School Girl
Wife number three was as Irish Catholic and as brunette as they come. When we met I was a mere 32 years of debauched age and she was an 18 year old college student at Central Michigan University in, well, central Michigan appropriately enough. We met in downtown Detroit when another 18 year old I knew came downtown with her girlfriends including Kelly, wife number three. We all talked and I was quite taken with this Irish lass from Grosse Pointe, the rich area of auto titans and mafioso and mansions etc. I was as usual in my torn frayed jeans and t-shirt but somehow something sparked. OK, so she was a head taller than me. Size never mattered to me...most were taller than me but I guess my hair made up for it.
She gave me her phone number to call her and I waited three days. Nervous. Rich girl from an all girls Catholic school, tops on the tennis team and a swimmer. Athletic as hell. Around the fourth day I was walking to the bus stop downton to go home to the apartment on the eastside when a blue car pulled up to the curb on the one way street of Congress,and the passenger door flew open...yep..Kelly who had a look that could kill as she said “Get In!”
Being a gentleman and no fool I did. We both lived on the eastside to off we went on Jefferson Ave winging our way past the derelicts and no tell motels. She informed me it was her 19th birthday coming up and wanted me to go up the Central Michigan Campus for a party with her and her roommates and friends...hey… college party time? You betcha. I asked only that she wait until I got there before she got to drunk or stoned so I could catch up. No problemo.
I was gonna take a bus from Detroit. My car at the time was a beater so didn’t want to break down in a cornfield.
I boarded the magic bus of Greyhound for a three hour ride after stops in Ann Arbor etc etc. All the college towns. Open seats in front of me as I had one of the back row seats. Then two air force girls got on heading north to Wurtsmith airbase up north. We began talking and joking and when we stopped in Ann Arbor the one girl and I ran across the street to the liquor store to grab some Schnapps for the journey as it was a 15 minute layover.
Needless to say the next three hours were spent with two bottles of the happy juice plus the one girl and I smoked a joint I had when we were across the street. When we finally arrived at the campus Kelly was waiting at the bus stop parking area.
Remember I had asked her to not get stoned or too drunk before I got there to catch up…which didn’t go over too well as I stumbled and fell from the steps of the bus on my face as the two air force girls called out blowing kisses…”Goodbye Mikey” It was to say the least embarrassing and rightfully I should have been left lying in the gravel but fortunately Kelly was a forgiving sort and helped me to the car and to the apartment where I quickly caught up with these students of higher education.
Surprisingly we ended up getting married and having kids...one conceived after a Beach Boys Concert at Pine Knob outdoor venue. From then on she was our team marijuana procurer and I was the booze buyer which led to many evenings of me jumping on the kitchen table doing Rod Stewart imitations to Gasoline Alley album. After we separated (yes I had an affair with a married neighbor) and I went to pick up the kids for a visit I took my girlfriend along for the ride. A 23 year old African American giant, 5’11” this time. When my ex came out which I didn’t plan on she said, “First you had a Japanese American girlfriend (artist) then a girl from Turkey (student) and now a Black girl from Detroit (a car show model). This must be your United Nations period!”
I was merely being an ambassador of goodwill trying to promote peace one culture at a time. You know what they say...Make Love, Not War.,....
Confessions of a Serial Marriage Killer
There are serial killers among us. That roam freely in the dark shadows. Jack the Ripper found his victims in Whitehall in London. Charles Manson found his victims in a house in Hollywood. These are examples of the blood lust variety of the psychotic personality. The list goes on and on….Bundy, Dahmer, and other MVP’s of of the criminally insane who worship in secret at the Church of the Silence of the Lambs.
This discourse (first in a series) deals with the confessions of a serial marriage and relationship killer.) I’ve been asked over the year about my four marriages and numerous relationships, affairs both in and out of my own marriages and in and out of other people’s marriages. This does not delve into the hookers and strippers as live in girlfriends either, or the mother daughter-waitress team in Alpena, Michigan which is a category unto itself.
Not in any order, wife number two was a listener to my rock and roll radio show in Northern Michigan. I was 27 at the time, while she was a 17 year old student in high school in Mackinaw, Michigan and an avid listener although we never met in person until I was doing a remote live broadcast in Mackinaw City one summer afternoon.
I was in between my banter babble and enjoying the sunshine and influx of tourists coming buy the booth to score a t-shirt and other swag we foisted on the public. Then It happened….there it came before me...a vision of sexual beauty….my senses reeling..unable to speak….you guessed it...a mint condition metallic blue El Camino!!!
OK, it was sexy but the driver as a tanned blond behind the wheel and teh El Camino bed had a twelve pack of beer and some cans of Fosters Ale, my fave drink at the time her older girlfriend had bought for her.
She introduced herself as “that girl” with the Kathleen Turner voice (and I could see legs to match that could reach the very top of the Macinac Bridge. We flirt talked off and on until my broadcast was over. I drove the radio van back across the bridge to St. Ignace to drop off the cords, mic’s, mixer, amps and other implements of broadcast destruction, the El Camino hot on my tail. Damn, an El Camino with a souped up engine, Fosters Ale and a 17 year old blonde. There is a God I told myself.
We ended up going together and eventually planned on getting married after her prom. Yes, I went to the prom...I had too….I was the DJ playing the music. Her parents got to know me and when it came time to tell her dad of our plans, ask him permission actually I had to face him at the counter in his gun and knife store he owned near Pellston. The bad part...he was a rather large 6 footer whose wardrobe consisted of all things plaid, camo and hunter orange who hunts and shoots at anything resembling a trophy...or a pest!
We spoke for an hour and he already knew it was coming...she had told her mom who in turn told Leroy the dad. The age difference didn’t bother them..this was northern Michigan after all. I had been going casually with other girls up there including one who liked to sit under the turntable console in the radio station on the weekend when no one on staff was around. Don’t ask what she was doing down there while I was playing records and babbling on the air. There was also two sisters, 18 and 17 I was also involved with and have a pic somewhere in my files of the three of us at the radio station billboard in St. Ignace.
Now I was severing all ties with the others and planning a wedding to take place in Mackinaw City. My best man was a friend in Detroit who worked at a Peaches Record Store and had a fake hand due to an accident on the Lodge Freeway...for Christmas one year I gave him one glove for his good hand saying you don’t need two so that way I could save money and five the glove to another if I ever met another dude with only one hand. He was zen all the way...one hand clapping and all.
The rest of the wedding party guys were all from Detroit from my radio days including Mitch Ryder’s brother with whom I promoted concerts with. The night before the wedding the guys all got drunk at the Keyhole Bar, my watering hole in Mackinaw and after buying more beer and breaking out the weed we partied on the beach under the Macinac Bridge until dawn...wedding at 2 P.M. one in our tux’s hungover we hit the beach and pics taken as we imitated the Four Tops movements…
The reception was at a lodge bar in Levering, Michigan a few miles south of Mackinaw...drinking, food,dancing until someone yelled “Bear!” Damned black bear walked into the bar and we all scrambled. One of the good old boys ran to his pick up truck and grabbed a rifle from his rack...every pickup truck in Northern Michigan as a gun rack and beer can holder and a glove compartment filled with ammo and condoms!
He fired a few shots to scare the bear and yep...he ran like hell with all of us yelling and laughing.
We were finally married, and to be honest it cost me my first marriage as she took her place as number two. We moved back to Detroit where we both ended up in radio jobs and life was good...until I met wife number three on the horizon...only now I was 33 and number three was 18 and a student at Central Michigan College.
Fortunately I get along with all my ex wives and girlfriends. As wife number one reminded me by email the other day…..”You are a wonderful friend, but a lousy husband!” Considering before wife number two...Number one counted 33 affairs I had….I’m older now thankfully and have more restraint and willpower….I blame my past on radio...OK, I know that’s too easy...I confess…..
Jesus and Mary Barbie Dolls by Mattel
Our undercover agents broke into Mattel’s Research Center….learned that trick during Watergate, which is when I bought my first G. Gordon Liddy Ken Doll. Comes complete with a prison record. Plumbers tools sold separately along with a Pardon for the President Nixon Doll.
White Trash Barbie and Meth Head Ken have been around for some time and can be found complete with the White Trash Barbie Pink Double Wide Playhouse with accessories including a pickup truck on blocks for the front yard, washer and dryer for the front porch, a banjo, Ken’s pregnant sister from that time he caught her in the barn alone, and 3 additional pit bulls to guard the Gilbert microscope and meth lab.
Not to be left out is the all new ME TOO Barbie that claims the Harvey Weinstein Ken Doll exposed himself 10 years ago. If you remove Ken’s pants by the way...you’ll find he has no apparatus to expose! As for ME TOO Barbie yelling rape...remove her pants and voila...no point of entry can be found! Neither doll is equipped to screw.
Who says guys don’t play with dolls? The Kevin Spacey Barbie Doll is proof that they do! Watch Ken run like hell when his crotchless groin is groped. Watch the surprised look on the Spacey doll when it comes up empty handed!
Black Lives Matter Dolls can also be found on the toy store shelves right across the aisle from the White Supremacist Nazi Dolls. They try to keep them apart to avoid any confrontation. No motor vehicles allowed! General Robert E Lee Statue model kits sold separately in the collectors Stars and Bars Anniversary Kit this Christmas. Stuff their stockings with a little bit of history from Uncle Tom’s Slave Cabin to Mein Kampf Action Figures.
The Catholic will be in high mass heaven with the 2018 Virgin Mary Barbie Doll and the all new Jesus Ken Doll. Performs miracles simply by squeezing his head. The kids will have fun and learn too when you buy the Immaculate Conception Action Kit. See the glee on their little faces when Mary pops out a baby in a barn...farm set sold separately. As your child grows older you can upgrade to the Crucifixion Play Set!
Have a Merry Christmas...or should I say a Mary Barbie Christmas...
Redheads and The Clockwork Oranges
The Clock Work Oranges have roamed and Red Rovered among us since the early pagan days of Eric the Red of Viking fame and fortune, who appeared nightly at the Pillage and Plunder Casino of Greenland, to Mary Ann’s girl crush on Ginger while stranded on Gilligan’s Island.
Orange surrounds us historically….where the hell do you think Orange Crush soda pop came from? That’s right, from the secret underground laboratories located in Orange County, California developed by the evil female genius scientist, Anita Bryant...no relation to Alabama’s Bear Bryant.
It’s no secret that Stephen King was traumatized at an early age when Ronald MacDonald, the Fast Food Orangie gave him a balloon and told him they “float” then said ominously ”Don’t be Pennywise and quarter pounder foolish!” You know where that ended up.
Redheads and Murder? Yes, but only as victims! (For real!) The "Redhead Murders" are a series of unsolved homicides believed to have been committed by an unidentified serial killer in various parts of Tennessee, Arkansas, Kentucky, Mississippi and Pennsylvania.
The victims, usually had reddish hair and their bodies were abandoned along major highways in the United States. The theory is that they were hitchhiking or engaged in prostitution.
The murders happened, I believe in response to the infamous Red Headed League that was tracked down by Sherlock Holmes in London!
Today that nefarious cult has risen again with their belief that “Ginger” Lives Matter, a true believers mantra formulated by their current leader, Ginger Baker.
Like lemmings going over a cliff en masse, they are coming out of the closet in droves thanks to the LGBT Movement for Equality...Lesbian Ginger Bi Trans….They adhere to the teachings of Ginger Moses who demanded that the pharaoh “let my Gingers go!” Need proof….American King James Version Bible “And the first came out red, all over like an hairy garment; and they called his name Esau!” Later betty and Veronica the twin virgin maidens of King Jughead changed his name to Archie.
Today specialty hospitals exist strictly for the Clockwork Orangies called Ginger Ails. Other terms that have leaked into the lexicon involve romance between Gingers no referred to as an Orange Crush and foods such as Red Herring is served at Ginger Sushi Bars.
There is a movement afoot today to get Gingers more into the pop culture mainstream….more red headed superheroes for example. The trend began a few decades ago when Simply Red rose upon the music horizon to torture us with his inane whining…
Now we come to politics ...the Alt Gingers are becoming more vocal as the liberals demand the removal of all statues and flags paying tribute to Civil War Union General, William Tecumseh Sherman, the ginger who torched Atlanta along with statues of Red Skelton!
It was also the fear of fears during the Red Scare of the Cold War...people built bomb shelters and ducked and covered….it was an era when the Reds in Red Square were hell bent on our destruction while we raised the battle cry “BETTER DEAD THAN RED!”
This is a social issue that may not be resolved in our time. But through tolerance, understanding and education we can create a world, no, make that a village...I heard that somewhere...where Clockwork Oranges can marry outside their follicle background to create a “Rainbow” of Red, Blonde, Brunette Unity…we must eradicate Red and Orange headed Racism by never saying the politically incorrect word “Ginger” but rather to refer to it as the “G” Word.
Can’t we all get along? Hmm….
Sex Americana
You think America, and of course you automatically think fast food and an overabundance of predatory lawyers chasing ambulances and Pakistani cab drivers with bad air fresheners. Forgettabout it…..today it’s all about sex and tell. OK, some of the sex isn’t consensual, but hopefully at least it’s sensual.
The Harvey Weinstein School of Sexual Arts is now taking applications for its Group Grope Sessions. The one you’ve been waiting for guys. This is an accredited course in Power and Money in Hollywood Equals a Career. Diplomas available in the field of Penis Psychology and Casting Couch Advancement. Now you can be a Hollywood Producer and plunder, pillage and rape starlets….they won’t even talk about it for 20 years after their own careers are rock solid so have a ball so to speak. In 20 years that’s a lot of debutantes. You too can be Summa Cum Loudly!)
Be careful guys...there is also the all new Kevin “Soap on a Rope” Spacey Under the Rainbow College of Sexual Harassment offering credits in the field of “I Don’t Remember That Incident, I was Drunk at the Time.” Don’t forget to purchase his new book on his life on a cattle ranch, “A Little Cowpoke Goes a Long Way”
The Corey Feldman Factor is trying to shed new light on an age old problem of young male child stars being assaulted by Hollywood types. “Why do you think they called the show “Leave it to Beaver,” he said recently. “My Three Sons and the Hardy Boys, both were signals to come feed from the Pee Wee Herman Society.”
Both colleges pay tribute to the glory days of Bill Clinton (Author of the “Oral” History of The Lewinsky Factor) JFK (the Prophet of Sex who came from the wilderness of the Vegas showgirl desert to preach the Gospel of Power and Why Pussy Surrenders to It!)
George Bush the First is now offering a crash course in crudeness with his new book, “How To Grab Ass from a Senior Citizen Wheelchair: My Silver Bullet Years”
Helen Keller at one time was accused of being a lesbian when she accidently fondled Annie’s breasts. It runs out in court documents she thought she was learning to knead dough so she could make some Girl Scout Cookies.
Female teachers are now getting into the mosh pit of sex by dating 16 year old male students and some even getting preggo by them...looks like the ladies are catching up to the men and Equal Rights...I’m sure NOW applauds the advancement they are making.
We’ve all had to some degree or other sexual harassment happen, or maybe not. In my case I’ve have three female stalkers in California and Michigan , and four close encounters of the male pedo kind in Los Angeles and Honolulu and San Francisco.
One in LA when I was 16 and naive was when a male star of a popular TV action show at the time picked me hitchhiking on Sunset Strip and being star struck I went invited stupidly to his apartment. I managed to abort luckily and the next time similar event happened was also when picked up on the Strip and taken to an apartment and asked if I wanted to take a shower shower… and offered a massage if I was nude.....I was out the front door as soon as I had a chance...in Honolulu I was 15 and met a 20 something Japanese guy on the beach who became friendly and being stupid not seeing the signs we went to my apartment when I had one to take a break from the sun and beach. At one point he threw me on the bed, started to get on top of me and is when I blew, tossed him off and used a chair to hit him all the way out the door….
As for my female stalkers they would show up everywhere I would be, one left packages in my car, follow me home and bang on the door to get in. It was real “Play Misty for Me” scenario by one of them. Scared me a bit and had to put my foot down when she got physically violent with me with a knife after she broke into my apartment unless I told her I loved her. NOT! That one in Michigan was so violent I decided to seek work in California, hence why I left Michigan...
In California it was even more intense but that is another story. I moved in with the Michigan radio station female Sales Manager I had worked with who was then living in San Fran and invited me to move in with her...she turned out to be one of those Dominant types from the School of Marquis de Sade..I went from the frying pan into the fire...I shook free of that one but was the most tense relationship of all considering she also had a girlfriend with submissive tendencies tossed into the volatile mix of the relationship.
Did I feel abused through all these incidents and a few more….hell no! Life to me is a rush no matter what it throws at you...and besides….I’d have no experiences to write about if they never happened. I didn’t report any to authorities...didn’t go on Oprah or a ME TOO website...no complaints. Hell…..It was kind of flattering in a weird kind of way….
Sex makes the world go round….I just go with the flow even it it’s a Sexual River of No Return..
Cereal Offenders by
Cereal racism recently has caused a furor, as opposed to a furher in the world of breakfast serials which has prompted the Mike Marino News Network to investigate other instances of Cereal Racism...the results are astounding shocking!!!! By the way....beware of the Harvey Weinstein and George Bush, Sr. combo cereal packages....Gropes of Wrath!
We in America have reached a point of no return in the arena of what offends and what doesn’t offend. The Mike Marino News Network had been looking into the dark, hidden world of racist and sexist cereal manufacturers.
Recently according to a social media website “ Kellogg’s has apologized after its design was branded racially insensitive.The famous food brand was called out on Twitter by Hugo Awards-nominated author Saladin Ahmed, who noticed a concerning aspect of the Corn Pops cereal box design while having breakfast with his son.
“hey @KelloggsUS why is literally the only brown corn pop on the whole cereal box the janitor? this is teaching kids racism,” Ahmed, 42, tweeted on Tuesday morning.
Based on this and further research by our drug addled investigative reporters we have found other examples, equally promoting racism and sexism. For example, the LGBT community has taken to the streets to protest the name of the cereal Fruit Loops which they say is derogatory. They much prefer the new Cheerio’s that come in a “rainbow” of colors and the fiber content is to die for.
Even the street corner hooker has a complaint regarding Trix cereal. We spoke to one recently in the Lincoln Bedroom at the White House who told us emphatically, “Honey, Trix aint for kids...when we pull tricksit’s for adults only!”
Even the US Navy is bitching. Lt. Cmdr, Wrong Way Mattis told us, “Look we have enough trouble navigating without banging into other ships at the sea, we sure as hell don’t need Capn. Crunch making us look more foolish than we already are. You’d think he was in charge of Pearl Harbor in 1941! What’s worse is now they’re coming out with Cap’n Trump Cereal with a free draft deferment in every box.
The Irish got their collective dander up? You Betcha. Brian Michael Liam Sean O’Casey O’Toole O’Brien slurred his displeasure over Lucky Charms in a rainbow of colors. “Makes Darby O’Gill look like he runs a piano bar for leprechauns and fairies! I tell ya, This tells the wee lads, "You scurvy marshmallow mateys done gone and spoonered me tootie fruities!"
On the other hand, when we questioned members of the black community we found that the Black Lives Matter movement think Count Chocula and Cocoa Puffs Lives matter too. While the Asian community in British Columbia are hailing the growth in sales of Rice Crispies.
Across the deep south they are removing Confederate Flags, Monuments and plaques..well in retaliation the Steve Bannon Breakfast Club has produced the all new General Lee Cheerios with toy Confederate Money as a bonus in the bottom of the box...collect enough and send them along with ten proof of purchase box tops and receive a complete “Gone With the Wind Plantation Playset”
Native Americans have begun making their own cereal brand and the runaway best seller is the all new “Custer’s Last Bran Flakes” available at Casino Truck Stops across America...they do not accept Andrew Jackson $20 bills nor Indian Head pennies or Buffalo nickels.
The Eye-talian community has come out with breakfast cereal campaign with the introduction of Christopher Columbus Crispies and Sinatra, Crackle, Pop. When asked if this might offend others, they responded with…”Forgettabout it!”
The fact that there are no cereals celebrating the rich Latino culture here in America they have in retaliation been distributing the all new “Low Rider Fiber” cereal with a bounce in every ounce.
Polio Boy: The Mystery of The Hardy Boys Orgy and Bess Bash Book
Volume #1
Once again Polio Boy has cracked the Nancy Drew Columbian crack cocaine cartel. Polio Boy has a new weapon in his asshole arsenal boys and girls. Tom Swift, his Special Ed friend from down the street has designed a special wheelchair outfitted with NRA approved fully automatic machine guns and tear gas rockets. Now Polio Boy is locked and loaded and ready to bust the Party Hearty Hardy Boys and their sex crazed gun moll, Nancy “Scarface” Drew.
In this exciting libido laden children’s story Nancy “Scarface” Drew runs a white slave dope and prostitution ring where she kidnaps Little Orphan Annie and has her working the streets pulling tricks for every Big Daddy Warbucks that can hum “Tomorrow, Tomorrow” while being driven in a Harvey Weinstein Limited Edition Lincoln with fold out bed.
The story takes a sinister turn when Polio Boy stumbles on a lead about an upcoming drug and sex orgy at the home of Blondie and Dagwood, notorious wife swappers who were caught red handed with their hand deep into Brenda Starrs cookie jar while Lil’ Abner (nicknamed Lil’ because of an erectile dysfunction problem discovered while in the boys shower after gym class one day after a dodgeball tournament).
Present upstairs at orgy central, the bi-sexual Jughead was getting it on with Archie while Betty and Veronica were doing a double dildo dance with Maryann and Ginger for a three hour orgasm tour while the Skipper was playing with his Little Buddy (that’s what he called it anyway!) Meanwhile Dobie Gillis was in the basement snorting coke helping Maynard G. Krebs OD on a heroin hot shot..while hot, hot, hot Thalia Meningitis pole danced with Jack’s Beanstalk.
The Orgy was officially called the Annual Orgy and Bess Saturday Funnies Frolic. Believe me, why do you think they called them “comic strips”? The Jetsons were regular robot swappers and Judy and Elroy may have been brother and sister but insisted on incest, Southern Style. George and Rosie the Robot had the bot hots for each other while while Jane Jetson got her booster rocket goosed getting Flintstoned with Wilma and Betty.
When questioned by the vice squad. Wilma Flintstoned smiled and admitted….”that Jetson woman has one hell of a lift off! I always thought Betty was an up and comer, so to speak, but when you countdown with Jetson you can really get your moon rocks off.
Just before the Dragon Lady Transvestite Midnight Show with the Snow White takes on the Seven Dwarfs in a Sexual Endurance Bondage Tag Team Grudge Match...the doors burst open and Polio Boy let loose a barrage of lead from his wheelchair! The Hardy Boys flee the scene and later found hiding out at the D Bar Eh Canadian Ranch run by Spin and Marty,
The Drug and Sex Ring is destroyed. Polio Boy is hailed as a hero in a wheelchair...just like his grandpa, FDR Boy! A chip off the old block.
Fun with Dick and Jane Books: Banned in Boston!
The 1950’s were the literary sanctuary of those of us of the manly species who inhaled “Hardy Boys” Mysteries with the fervor and excitement of the weird kid down the street who spent his waking hours sniffing glue in a brown paper bag. Not to be outdone or left behind the gender eight ball, the girls absorbed “Nancy Drew” mysteries to guide them their first period.
The one transgender read both boys and girls shared in common were Dick and Jane! Who could forget the fun loving Dick and Jane Books? Typical 1950’s young reader fare during the madcap Eisenhower years. The main characters were Dick and Jane, a little boy and girl with a supporting cast of characters that included Baby Sally, a typical 1950’s mother, a typical 1950’s father, Puff the Cat (Puff the Magic Dragon came later in the Sixties) Tim the Teddy Bear and of course, the alter ego of Cujo...Spot the Dog!!!
We had a steady diet of this pulp foisted upon us by our parents while they were busy reading “Lady Chatterly’s Lover” while downing martini’s at happy hour. The school librarian handed us volume after volume of Dick and Janes while Miss Minkow, the head librarian would hide unseen lurking in the middle of her Dewey Decimal System amusing her dewy libido secretly behind a big desk salivating over the next chapter of Marquis de Sade.
Well, Dick and Jane the Secret Manuscripts, have recently been uncovered by the Mike Marino Investigative Team tucked away for decades on the 6th floor of the Lee Harvey Oswald Memorial Texas Book Depository Building in Dallas. Texas.
These were the banned books that never made it to the classroom.
The original title of the series was “See Spot Dick Jane” The subject matter as you may or may not imagine was a bit much for the times except in the deep south. Today, PETA is trying to preserve these tomes of dog bones! Animals have rights too!
All the kids in the series were goody two shoes, athletic and obedient little brats. We found one friend they never mentioned in one of the stories. “Polio Boy at the Races!” The premise was simple, Polio Boys vaccine is stolen and he goes in search of it being led by little Helen Keller who is first introduced in the series target shooting with a high powered rifle on a Texas University Campus clock tower during lunch hour. Believe me it was hit and miss. In fact Polio Boy is racing across the quad in his wheelchair as shots ring out. He manages to outrun the killing field only to be hit by a Good Humor Ice Cream truck. Turns out he was also deaf and couldn’t hear the bells or the horn. He did survive and managed to have an affair with Helen. Later in an interview Polio Boy stated, “Helen could read braille and her hands were so good at it when it came to sex, she could read me like a book!”
It was never brought out in the released series, but Dick and Jane were actually brother and sister, but told they were in reality adopted Chinese babies, even though they looked Occidental, not Oriental, as the whole thing was accidental.
Another in the banned series that explains this whole sordid aspect was called, “Dick and Jane: The Wonder Years!” They tried in vain to get Jane preggo during lunch hours at school in the janitor’s closet but too often in the dark she kept grabbing for the mop handles instead.
In yet another twist of drama. Dick falls in with the wrong crowd and gets addicted to heroin and has an affair with Nancy Drew transmitting a social disease to her in the fun adventure of “Dick and Jane: Junk, Jazz and Jism!”
The series came to a crashing crescendo in the final books. Spot contracts rabies in “Dick and Jane: The Day Cujo Came Home” and the one that ended the series where Dick and Jane have an orgy with the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew in “Dick and Jane: All Aboard!!”
Spot was tossed out of the series after numerous female canines, including Lassie, accused him of unwanted sexual advances during a Harvey Weinstein party held at the Bill Cosby Happy Haven Kennels in Burbank. “He was an animal,” Lassie said wagging her tail happily during the interview I conducted. “He was all over me. He threatened to ruin my career if I told anyone. I was despondent, started using drugs and that is when I pushed Timmy in front of the lumber truck on the highway!”
Spot is now in rehab at the Betty Ford Reservoir Dogs Clinic.
Dick found his career over as well when he was caught in bed with Spin and Marty by Walt Disney himself. “He was very un-Mouseketeer!” Walt said as he adjusted Annette Funicello’s bikini, “More cleavage, more cleavage, more cowbell, more cowbell,” Walt kept yelling while dancing and exposing himself to Haley Mills.
As for Jane...well...things not much better. She ended up as an aging alcoholic pole dancing stripper at the Dr. Seuss Carousel Club in Harlem. “I miss Spot,” she said. “But I have plenty of Dick…”
When the Cherry Bomb Girl Scouts Just Wanna Have Fun Attack
The walls of the sanctuary of Manly Men Clubs has been breached yet once again! The Girls Scouts are coming! The Girl Scouts are coming!
The Boy Scouts will admit that it is time for the puppy dog tails gender to be compromised with the addition of the Sugar and Spice girls! Merit badges for Pole dancing and Mud Wrestling will be as common as teenage pregnancy is in Detroit. “Be prepared” to a Boy Scout meant you could start a fire in the wilds using only sticks. Now it will mean”Be Prepared” with condoms should he light her fire with his stick alone. Girl Scouts will become Eagle Scouts at an age where the coveted Monica Lewinsky Merit Badge is highly prized.
The Boy Scouts once were schooled in the art of animal tracking, blazing forest paths and other such Last of the Mohican endeavors. Now they will learn to identify a training bra with falsies, a Tampon from a Maxi Pad and learn that you don’t inhale Pristeen to get wasted. Eagle scouts will learn the art of copping a subtle feel in the back seat of the Camp Wahoo Scout bus while the Female Eagle Scout will be able to tell the difference between ribbed and regular Trojans with her eyes closed as one of the events at the annual international Scout Fellatio. Menstruation and Duct Tape Jamboree.
Singing around the campfire, male bonding, used to mean a rousing male version of John Henry or Maxwell Silver Hammer….beware men..soon you’ll be sitting around the old fire wearing an old strippers torn fishnets raising your voice high singing Broadway show tunes, while the Girl Scout next to you does a full frontal lap dance while listening to Donna Summer orgasming to “Love to Love You, Baby”
They say it won’t be a co-ed merging of the sexes, but where’s the fun in that? When I was a scout and did our “piss on the campfire” outings at Scout Camp in Metamora, Michigan we wanted to have a go at the Girl Scout camp nearby. A busy hormone is a happy hormone.
As for Girls Scouts learning Boy Scout projects, hell, I had two girlfriends who could tie a guy up in knots that even Houdini couldn’t escape from..ah..but that is another story and also involves handcuffs, a riding crop, barking like a dog and a porn movie. Also Boy Scouts are reminded that sexual harassment will not be tolerated, so while sitting around the campfire staring up a skirt glowing in the light of the silvery moon and she asks you to pass her a weenie don’t get excited and tell her yours plumps when you cook it! That goes for Cub Scouts as well who are trying to get an early start with Brownies!
Girls Scout cookies? Get ready guys...hope you know how to make your dough rise...and I’m not talking about the ball of dough in your Fruit of the Looms, We’re talking chocolate chips and peppermint goodies, not “is that S’mores in your pants or are you just happy to see me sweet treats. As for the Female Scouts, Just be careful of a yeast infectio.
Of course Girl Scout Cookies will take on a whole new dimension of sight and sound with Special Brownies made by the Alice B. Toklas Scouts.
Our investigative team has dug deep into stolen whistle blowing memo’s at the Boy Scouts International main office and we found there is yet even more change on the hormonal horizon….involving Bi-Sexual Bi-Scouts and exciting one on one Lesbi-Scouts action.
It’s a new dawn...or sunset depending on your outlook. As for me when I was a Boy Scout I always remember having the hots for some Girl Scouts and their Den Mothers...so change is good...Be prepared!!!
The Lumbersexual Murders at Logger, Mt., Oregon
As all lumbersexual corn on macabre tales of axe murders begin...it was a cold, damp, dark, dreary, dread that penetrated and fornicated with the underage autumn evening in the small Amityville setting of the small one car wash, one bar, one pair of television rabbit ears, three station no cable, three hooker hamlet of Shakespeare, Oregon. Fog was as thick as a the make-up on an aging Portland stripper who’s had one too many Canadian beers, and one too many Canadian customers. Loonies do not a fortune make.
There in the forest of firs dwelled and/or dwelt, whichever is correct, a deranged logger writer, who we will call Frank Gutch, Jr. to protect his identity, who spent his days reviewing chainsaw massacres in Texas while nights were spent in private revelry digesting vinyl records and carving totem poles in tribute to the vanished tribes of uninvited dwarfs that once inhabited the inhospitable inhibited hobbit hovels that dotted the landscape until the lumberjacks came from the north to rape and pillage the softwoods with their mighty hardwoods.
The writer somehow managed to escape the forest carnage dragging his logger ass fast lest he be next with a totem token of an alien probe. He ran back into the fray to grab his Ex-Lax just in case...good preventative measure if you ask me.
In the dense canopy of Douglas firs he met a magician, or so he says, a mighty Merlinesque character without portfolio from Portland but had a really cool blue frock with stars and shit on it and one hell of a white beard that resembled a squirrels nest, which in fact it turns out was a nest for rodents and one Spotted Owl.
Merlin Montana as he was called, but everyone knew him as Nancy at the Astoria Cabaret on Saturday ladies night happy hour promised to grant the logger three wishes.
The logger writer thought about it and asked for wish Numero Uno….” I want to have the biggest, sexiest ax handle in Oregon. You know what the trees say...once you’ve been felled by a big ax you’ll never go back to chainsaws again!”
Merlin granted his wish and said. “Is that an ax handle in our pants or are you just happy to see Vancouver Strippers?”
Next after adjusting his rather obscene handle he asked for wish number two. “I wish to be a Canadian that way I can hit on the waitresses at Tim Hornys!”
Merlin interjected, “It’s Tim Hortons, you loggerhead. Horton was not a Who!”
Poof!! His wish was granted and he was a Canadian complete with a compulsion to smoke maple leafs and to get pucked on a regular basis.
“For my third wish. I wish to be a real drummer so I can perform “Toad” live at the VFW in Boise, Idaho with Mark Lindsey singing vocals.”
“Granted!” but a mistake became a female drummer on the streets of Taiwan going by the name of Aqua Velva Velveeta Cheese.
The logger was mortified!! He returned to Oregon a broken drummer and instead opened a pastry shop he named Ginger’s Bakery. That was when he snapped … he was no longer a reviewer of power pop implements of mass tree destruction, grew a five o’clock shadow, wore a man bun and dressed in plaid rompers and became ...gasp! Lumbersexual the Killer , the terror of Colorado Boulevard in Eugene...where disguised as Sheena the Punk Rocking Big Foot he stalked his victims mercilessly…
To this day..all murders are unsolved...but now you know the truth...and because you do he will have to hunt you down and do the dastardly deed of using his chainsaw to shorten you by at least a head….they keep for months in the refrigerator next to the Poutine frozen dinners, just heat and serve!
The Polling Place by Mike Marino
It’s time to radically change where we vote. Recently Latinos had the right idea in Nevada. They lined up for hours at a place called Cadena’s Supermarket designated an official polling place to cast early voter ballots. I like it. You can cast your vote and in the true fashion of Democracy, pick up a six pack of beer and some Nacho chips. It made me think….why not open polling places at locations voters actually frequent!
For example. Catholics can vote in a confessional booth. Go in, get pious and hand the priest your ballot. If he doesn’t like your candidate he can dispense a bunch of Our Fathers and Hail Mary’s as penance. If he agrees...badda bing badda boom...SPECIAL DISPENSATION which to a Cathoholic is similar to getting a pardon from prison and a room in a half-way house.
Down South? Turn every outhouse into a polling booth. “Ya’ll done voting in there? Save some ballots on the roll for the next person!” Then you simply drop your ballot into the abyss below...Democracy and Hygiene working together. Call it Poll-A-Potty. “Hey, hurry up in there I need to cast an early vote now!!!!
Fast food drive-throughs are the perfect place to vote. Drive up to the squawk box and yell your candidate’s name into it. “I’d like to vote Democrat/Republican and could I get an order of fries with my vote?” The person with the paper hat will then give you instructions ‘to drive around to the next window. That will be $13.95 and 10 Electoral Votes please.”
Voting in a bordello? Why Not? The customer can cast a vote for their choice by the girl they choose. “I’d like a homely brunette Democrat in a pantsuit and a whip wearing high heeled boots or how about a blond Republican with wild hair and a mouth that never stops. It’s oral I want not oratory!”
Vote at a 7/11...they are open 24 hours and you can get a stale corn dog on a stick if you vote Democrat and a Kiwi Slurpee if you go Republican. Don’t forget to gas up and grab a bag of Cheetos!
Rich white Americans can vote at the nearest Members Only Restricted Country Club while Black Lives Matter groups can cast a ballot while rioting and looting a department store. Every TV stolen is a vote for Democrats and Stereo’s are worth a Republican vote.
The Ku Klux Klan can vote at the next cross burning but it won’t count. They always vote for Jefferson Davis anyway and they also think Strom Thurmond is still alive and well.
The Skinhead Nazi contingent can vote in Argentina if they promise to stay there and not return. As for the various armed camo wearing gun toting militias they can participate , but not on Federal property or wildlife sanctuaries as they cast their ammo backed ballots for Ted Nugent.
Communists don’t vote and are still in mourning over the death of the most holy St. Gus Hall, but the Socialists can still write in Bernie Sanders for what it’s worth. He’s pretty much out of it and has accepted a new job as the new Col. Sanders and will be pushing buckets of chicken shit. The meal buckets will be free to you. They guy in line behind you will pay for it.
Democracy in Action….Vote Early...Vote Often...and don’t forget the Happy Meals!
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Beach Blanket Bingo Bikini Waxed 50 Foot Melania from the Long Wang Chinese Opium Den of the Outer Space Lagoon!
Thrills! Chills! Orgasms!! The Film You’ve Been Waiting For!! Extreme Violence...Foul Language and Mutant Sex Scenes...the kids will love it!!! Starring Melania Trump, Frankiestein Avalon and Anesthesia Funicello!
Melania Trump makes her film debut starring in her first blood curdling horror film (at least since her wedding videos) It’s the 50 Foot Melania who attacks a rock and roll west coast beach party while they dance and boogie nd frug and swim and twist to Freddie “Boom Boom” Cannon music! It’s Palisades Park meets Deep Throat and yep...It truly is where the action is!!!
The 50 Foot Melania’s super sized Maxi Pad threatens to absorb the entire Santa Cruz Boardwalk!!! But, wait! There is hope at last!! Local scientist and pervert, Dr. Pee Wee Herman Goering who is busy devoting devious attention with a hideous experimental cloning project by mating seven dwarfs with midget strippers is called into action. His chesty nurses, Snow White & her twin sister, Blow White, known cocaine addicts spring into action. They know the only way to thwart the horror is to build a wall with Kim Kardasian’s ass as a Fortress.
The 50 Foot Melania smokes a special blend of Vietnamese opium and grows faster than a Chia pet before our very eyes to an astoundingly fantasy fetching size where her breasts ballooned equally to amazing proportions exploding on the silver screen into a giant pair of huge huggable fun filled, milk filled, fantasy filled masses resembling two hot-air balloons over Albuquerque making mere mortal men penis putty in her hands. That's what you call a 50 foot hand job! There is a euphemism in here somewhere for Jack and his Beanstalk. How Freudian is that. While Jack was whacking off his beanstalk he dreamed of a giant and a goose!
The drive-in silver screen fills with B-Movie screams as Doctor Pee Wee Hermans teenage midget minions (remember, teenagers always save the town from Blobs, giant spiders from Mars, and Politicians….) Hold onto your seat and fasten your seatbelt and imagine traveling in another dimension, where a midget can stand up and give a blowjob without having to resort to knee pads.
Is this some black and white George Romero/Ed Wood/Rod Serling opening for a sex filled journey into the libidinous Twilight Zone? Wrong! Besides a stand up blowjob? No such thing...I don't believe it...it's impossible you say? Don't bet on it. Welcome to the sexual yin and yang located at the crosshairs of the the sexual crossroads where Twilight Zone Boulevard and the Yellow Brick Road meet! Toss in some oversexed fairies and licentious leprechauns and Tinkerbell is hot to trot! She is a fairy with an attitude!
Frankiestein Avalon and Anesthesia Funicello team up with mutant Motorcyle Mommas from Outer Space, one female mummy and assorted nympho's from the planet Necrophilia. Not quite dead, but the Voodoo Queens of Old New Orleans had a certain charm along with sexual spells and passion inducing potions that promote promiscuity and palate pleasing libidinous feasting to treat the hot, humid senses of sultry sex of the deep penetrating south.
It borrows heavily, in fact, it steals openly from "The Invasion of the Body Snatchers” making Pod people wet dream sexy once again...or at last..or at least. The pods themselves were disposable like a used rubber so the pods could be prophylactic in nature and like Woody Allen’s Sex Orb could have been a weird vaginal driven vehicle for genital gratification and vagina victory!!!
Look to the skies....the constellations of consternation...there is Genital Gemini and Vaginal Virgo...so what's your sign? It doesn't matter...the Body Snatch Maxi-Pad of the 50 Foot Melanie is coming to get YOU!!
To Jane Eyre is Human, To Forgive Divine
(Chick Lit Exposed!)
I was asked recently how much “chick lit” I’ve read in my life. You know...Little Women, Jane Eyre, Little House Series. Frankly, not much...I started out on Hardy Boys Mysteries, Mark Twain and T.E.Lawrence of Arabia, and now it’s more Reservoir Dogs meets Norman Mailer.
I discovered, through introspection that I don’t have an aversion to chick lit or romance novels, provided they stop with the buffed Fabio as swashbuckler photo on the cover, but would enjoy them if they had a flash more pizzazz. My idea of chick lit is Mary Shelley. At least she gave us a walking dead monster. Sort of like the last election in this country, Hell, the monster even had a walking dead wife they whipped up in the lab. Strange hair yes, but what can you expect with discount body parts from Amazon.com
“Gone With The Wind” by Margaret Mitchell, is bi-lit...part chick lit part war lit, but frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn. Today, protesters want to remove Confederate statues from parks and public places. Sherman torched Atlanta. Now THAT my friends is protest!
The book would have held my attention more if it included some form of walking dead zombie Rebels who rose from the graves due to some voodoo hocus pocus. Sort of a Night of the Living Dead Meets Gettysburg, with Lincoln the vampire as a zombie hunter. At the end, John Wilkes Van Helsing Booth drives a stake through his heart while attending the musical, “Little Shop of Horrors” at Ford Theater. Mary Todd Lincoln then runs off with Booth and gives birth to an alien baby.
“Jane Eyre” by Charlotte Bronte would have piqued my curiosity first by changing her name from Charlotte Bronte to Charles Bronson. As for Jane’s girl school years, there could have been more Terese and Isabell lesbian action in the showers. A good shower scene always sells. I did watch a Hallmark version with George C. Scott, and it was passable, but possibly would have been more palpable if he launched into his Patton speech. Kind of, Jane, come here, I have something to say that won’t make sense in the confines of this film, but I am George. C. Patton-Scott after all ..”Now, I want you to remember that no bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor dumb bastard die for his country.” Jane runs for her life just as the full moon comes into view and George turns into a werewolf.
Little Women by Louisa May Alcott takes place during the Civil War where the March sisters begin a search for self …. Without yoga mind you. All this soul searching gets me weary. I think the plot would have moved along at a much better, brisker male acceptable pace if the March sisters were a midget tag team of feminist wrestlers dropped into Nazi Germany, behind the lines to wreck the Reich! Explosions, intrigue, mayhem…..The March Sisters….The Dirty Dozen Charlies Angels Little Women!
Now we come to Nancy Drew Mysteries or The Hardy Boys in drag. She began as a demure young woman, but evolved over the years as women’s roles in society changed. She went from Zero to Feminist in under 60 seconds, She would have grabbed the male audience by the balls if she had a Xena kind of warrior attitude, along with breastplates and a sword, or could spin around in circles like a dervish and become Wonder Woman...star spangled hot pants and all.
I was also asked about reading, quote, “the classics” such as Chaucer and Dickens. I admit I was alone with that deer in the literary headlights look. Chaucer and his Canterbury Tales was hard to read. It was in English. Not American bastardize English, mind you, but that Beefeater Big Ben Queen Mum kind of English that puzzle we colonists to no end. The kind of English that is really Australian with punctuation.
Charles Dickens. “David Copperfield” and the “Tale of Two Cities.” I tried Copperfield, but laid it aside in disgust. I was expecting magic tricks and Las Vegas show girls as they have on television, but instead it’s about a guy who becomes a proctor! I don’t want to read about a guy who examines colons. The only part I enjoyed was the character Uriah Heep. I kept waiting for “The Magician’s Birthday” lyrics to blast from the page while a hunchback named Victor Hugo Quasimodo Mr. Moto rang a bell in a tower yelling…”More Cowbell Esmerelda! More Cowbell!!
It’s bad enough I had to sit through squirming and watch “Sleepless in Starbuck’s Seattle” but I’ll be damned if I will ever accept Fabio as Ernest Hemingway!
Marilyn Monroe & The Manson Family Dead Kennedy Brothers!
(Those Wild & Crazy Guys!)
The morbid death of the sexy silver screen and pop goes the culture icon Marilyn Monroe, (not to be confused with Marilyn Manson - No relation) is a potent political hot potato conspiracy theory laden murder mystery that envelops her in a Horror of Hollywood and Hyannis Port Kennedy compound shroud of deadly deception, deceit, death, sex, secrecy and drugs. Murder or Suicide? Paper or Plastic? To Be or Not To Be?
Another Kennedy flavored mystery is that of Mary Jo Kopechne and the drowning accident at Chappaquiddick which is yet another mind fuck involving another one of the crowned heads of America’s royal King Joseph “Bootlegger” Kennedy Family, Ted Kennedy.
Ok, so never mind the mysteries for a second, we’ll get to those in a moment...but, first what’s even more difficult than solving these tangled webs of fishing line lore and speculation is trying to spell Kopechne and Chappaquiddick. It’s worse than trying to spell the names of all the Detroit Red Wings Eastern Bloc hockey players or the spelling of the head of the former Addams Family of Romania, Nicolae Ceausescu!
First on the mayhem and misfit menu is none other than Marilyn Monroe..Norma Jean Baker..the Blonde Bombshell. She was a sexy knockout adorning the centerfold of Playboy Magazine, sizzled the silver screen and was JFK’s bedroom hood ornament. She was the Heisman Trophy of Hymen Touchdowns. She was the MVP to Chicago mob boss, Sam Giancana; Bobby and JFK (the Siegfried and Roy of the Beltway); Old Blue Eyes himself and even...gasp!! Bugs Bunny, and those Disney bad boys….Mickey “Scarface” Mouse and Donald “Machine Gun” Duck.
All in all...she was the Hollywood version of Silly Putty when it came to sexual dalliances on bouncing bedsprings in bedrooms from the Lincoln Bedroom in the White House (as Johnny Depp said recently, “When’s the last time an actor assassinated a President?) to the Bugsy Siegel Avenue of Vice on the Vegas Strip to casting couch Hollywood. She was a hurricane force of sexuality. She could out Boop Boop de Boop Hollywood madam to the cartoon stars, Betty “The Bod” Boop.
In point of fact, she originally was one of Betty’s prime hookers walking the comic strip streets on dark and stormy nights with Little Orphan Annie who was pimped out by Big Daddy Warbucks to cartoon and comic book celebs. I hear that Dagwood and Blondie got divorced over the fact that Dagwoods Hollywood woody couldn’t keep away from Marilyn. He explained in court that he was a religious cartoon man and was drawn to her burning bush and only wanted to part her sea with his own Staff of Moses. (Moses was the MC at a strip club on La Cienega Blvd. and Pico called the Bagel Burlesque and Lox Box Club whose own staff was the inspiration for the Washington Monument.)
Marilyn could shake her moneymaker faster than a loan shark collecting a debt, so as a result she moved up in the ranks to get off the streets and take her place as a high priced highly prized call girl for the notorious Bugs Bunny Mob in Anaheim where her bed became the hap, hap, happiest place on earth. She also had Walt Disney by the shorthairs and was queen of the condom and consort extraordinaire turning tricks for the likes of Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck.
Later in a Maxim Mouse magazine article she stated that “Mickey was a domineering personality. He kept telling me he was the leader of the band and he could have any Mouseketeer at anytime when he snapped his fingers. Annette backed up the story of how she too was involved in a foursome with Marilyn, Mickey Mouse and Jimmy Dodd. “Fucking Jimmy was lousy in bed and could only get it up when he wore the Mouse Club ears! I felt I was having sex with a perverted human rodent!”
Donald Duck was another story. According to Marilyn, “It was that stupid fuck of a duck who introduced me to Frank Sinatra and John Kennedy. He always walked around without any pants on with a dick that looked more like a feather duster than anything else. Hell, you couldn’t even understand a word he said due to his speech impediment that was more of a garbled sputter you couldn’t understand unless you were loaded on tranqs and downers!”
She did have words about JFK as well. “He talked funny too, some weird ass East Coast accent and kept showing me his bank statements before I said, Ok, let’s have a romp under the sheets. I didn’t know Bobby wearing a bra yelling “On to Chicago!!” over and over again would be there too along with Teddy and Mary Jo. I was hoping Jackie would show up dressed in all leather as Catwoman to shake it up a bit.
“Frank was different. He kept calling me “Pal” which really made me feel like one of the boys. Sexually he only wanted to do it “his way” which by the way was while hanging upside down on a trapeze while Joey Bishop told Jewish jokes and Sammy Davis did some tap dancing while Dean Martin disguised as J. Edgar Hoover sang “That’s Amore, Eh?” which is the Canadian version of course.
Bugs Bunny, Old Blue Eyes of the Chicago Playboy Club said sadly, “Marilyn’s death? It was all Fudd’s doing. He felt she knew too much about the Cuban Bay of Porky Pigs fiasco, so Bobby and Jack had her taken out to keep her quiet and to stop singing that inane “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” song over and over.
It was ruled a suicide….
Mary Jo Kopechne’s death? Accident? Ted Kennedy gave a statement to police saying, “She wasn’t a very good swimmer now was she?” Ted swam ashore leaving Mary Jo trapped in the car as it sank deeper and deeper. He told reporters he was heartbroken and sad, “My wife won’t understand this whole thing, but what the hell...I am a Kennedy afterall and let’s face it...It’s good to be the king!”
As for Mary Jo Kopecne….she and Stephanie Powers were invited to go sailing in Ted Kennedy’s vehicle. Ms. Powers told reporters “I never heard of boating by car before, but Mary Jo was already horny, hot and tanked and I was tranq’d..I whispered to Mary Jo, “make sure he has floatation life jackets in the trunk. He is a Kennedy you know and this ain’t PT 109 with Jack at the helm!”
In a strange twist of fate, Powers admitted “I was gonna go along, but Natalie Wood invited me to go boating too,” said Powers. “Soon Natalie was missing, so I asked her husband where she was? He replied..”Freshening up, she hates to take a shower so she’s washing up on shore.”
Force....Counter Force
Forces bent on stopping Nazi’s and curbing the Klan have been taking it to the streets with street fighting men and women on both sides. The cry for removal of Confederate statues and Swastika flags has become as loud and proud on the side of counter protesters as the skinhead & klan fanatical screams of “blood & soil” on the flip side of the free speech coin.
It’s time to remove all symbols, statues and reminders of lynchings and crematoriums. To begin with, the General Lee car from the Duke’s of Hazzard has already been banned from the toy shelves. I propose we burn all sexy posters of Daisy Duke as well. We don’t know for certain that she’s not related to David Duke and probably is a second cousin twice removed from a double wide trailer. Which reminds me, check the toy store shelves and destroy all the Camp Auschwitz playsets you can find along with the Lionel train sets complete with plastic German soldiers
Another car to banned...the Volkswagen! Remember Hitler himself supposedly came up with the design in 1933 as a “people’s car” so the next time you see Herbie the Love Bug cruising down your city streets or nation’s highway think...what would General Patton do?
The Nazi’s are a devious bunch. What little girl hasn’t played with a Barbie doll? Probably named after Klaus Barbie (in drag) and escaped from the bunker in Berlin to take over American toy shelves at Aryans R Us across the nation.
Nazi’s loved a good torchlight parade to scare the masses and goosestep there way down the Yellow Brick Strasse. Add a little maniacal martial marching music and who’s the leader of the band? Hermann Goering singing German showtunes with a Death’s Head chorus line of Hitler youth.
So, I say we invade Hawaii...again and demand the destruction of all tiki torches used at luau’s. If you watched the Charlottesville footage the Nazi’s carried tiki torches they must have purchased at the local BBQ store, not those garish gestapo like Roman Empire do dads they had fired up at the Reichstag during Family Purity Night in the Park.
The Big Boy Restaurant statue bears a striking resemblance to Wayne Newton, that purveyor of song who made his mark singing “Danke Shoen.” This also brings up a sore point...we must ban Octoberfest. Nazi’s loved a good old keg of Bavarian beer getting tanked up before smashing store windows and burning books while dancing in the streets to “Roll Out the Barrel” mein kampf polkas.
The Klan. I remember they had hidden messages in a popular kids puppet show in the 50’s….Kukla, Klan and Ollie. Propaganda geared towards children to buy Master Race Decoder Rings and Berlin Bunker Action Figures.
Stars and bars flags...yes...tear them down….Plantation Slavery under the Stars & Bars was the cruel law of the south...for 4 years under the flag. Slavery under the Stars and Stripes (all men are created equal...except Black Americans, Native Americans and... the keywords here are “all men are created equal” so women weren’t in the equation either) however slavery lasted over a hundred, so burn those too. Let’s face it..the Founding Fathers were real Motherfuckers when you think about it!
We also have to take our Canadian neighbors into account and their feelings. How would you like to live in Windsor, Ontario across the river from Detroit and have a big black fist of Joe Louis aimed at you. There is a message there Canada. Tread lightly, eh? Detroit may only be a suburb of Windsor, but we don’t smoke maple leafs to get high. We prefer good old fashioned crack cocaine!
Lastly, to decimate the ranks of hatred...let’s infiltrate the Nazi’s and Klan with undercover “undesirables” that they hate. Homosexuals, Jews, Blacks, Catholics, Journalists, Gypsies, Mimes, Commies, Munchkins, Lions, Tigers and Bears, Oy Vay! That way we can destroy them from within.
We also have to take a stand against laundry detergents that brag about “whiter whites” for sheets and hoods. The Klan after all is full of sheet.
The ultimate symbol of White Supremacy….The White House. How blatant can we get.
Time to right the wrongs and rename the fucker. I know Chancellor Trump wants to rename it the Reichstag, (Steve Bannon’s idea by the way) but we need something a tad more PC. For example, The Peanut Gallery or the House on Haunted Hill.
The next time you see a Nazi salute….salute back with one finger. Catch the Klan burning a cross on a lawn...piss on the fire...and if you get invited to a fun filled militia weekend at the Ruby Ridge Time Share Development bring along that conceal and carry permit and Fire At Will...or Adolph...or Himmler….or Klaus. Remember, never take hate speech to man or woman holding a gun.
Penguins & The Church Of Burgess Meredith
Penguins have been celebrated as well as venomously vilified in folklore & fantastic fantasy since the first Ice Age. Waddling, paddling and mating in a flightless frenzy with wild abandon causing many to suffer from “Penguin Envy”
In the Arctic, their true magnetic great white north, they have managed to carve out an existence, rising above the challenges imposed in the urban glacial ghettos and has produced icons and heroes among the polar masses.
In the deep South southern NASCAR penguin kingdom of Antarctica they have banjos, monster trucks while they date and mate their own kinfolk at family reunions.
Penguins, as do their human counterparts, have a polar bear sized libido and engage in penguin prostitution and frequent gay penguin bars where bisexual bi-polar bears and screaming seals mix and mingle at these delightful glacial watering holes.
Penguins are banned in Anaheim as penguins are high on the Disney watch list as undesirables. Not once does a penguin make an appearance in a Disney film doing a flamenco with dancing mops & brooms or sing “Hi Ho, Hi Ho it’s off to Greenpeace we go!”
Penguins have played heroes and antiheroes on the silver screen from “The Lone Penguin Ranger” to “Chilly Willy” (before being LGBT was cool, Chilly Willy’s career was ruined when the tabloids accused him of having an illicit affair with Perry the Platypus.
In the Penguin James Bond Series, we were treated to the acting skills of the Sean Connery of the ice floe, dapper, dashing, urbane penguin chick magnet, Tennessee Tuxedo.
Of course we all are familiar with academy award winner, Pacino Penguin and his face full of snow in “Scarface Goes to the North Pole”
In the world of Penguin porn, it beats anything you’ve ever seen from the centerfold of Penguin Playboy magazine to sizzling raunchy 16 mm films including “Flipper Does Penguins” and the X rated version of “Penguins of the Caribbean”
Today there is Penguin Phobia due to the formation of the cult of Burgess Meredith years ago. Originally a place of worship for peaceful Penguin Peace, has since become a center for radical Penguin indoctrination. President Trump has now included all countries with large penguin populations from entering the United States. This includes Argentina where many high ranking Nazi goose stepping SS penguins escaped to after the Second World War. Trump is also asking Canada to pay for a gigantic Penguin Wall to stem the flow of illegal Peng-aliens from crossing over, some hiding crammed in refrigerated Good Humor trucks.
Recent investigations are digging deep into accusations that Putin’s Penguins have meddled in the elections, not to mention the fact that Kim Un Peng Quin in Pyongyang has tested new ICBMs capable of reaching American Penguinariums as far as the Poughkeepsie Zoo.
Recently, the Mike Marino History Channel has found evidence that visiting Space Alien Penguins visited Earth centuries ago building myriads of Penguin Pyramids while Mayans worshipped the god, Peng-Quinn the Eskimo who ultimately destroyed their culture overnight. I guess they didn’t see that coming, eh?
The trouble today is the fact that groups of Peng Happy gangs are under the influence of the narcotic, Sardine Morphine and follow the holy war path set by Burgess Meredith in the 60’s when he turned from a kindly old boxing manager to evil cane twirling scoundrel.
Penguins today are still in a Civil Rights fight for their rights, remember, Penguin Lives Matter! There has been a rash of “white” polar bear police fatally shooting “black” penguins during mating season and traffic stops.
The carnage has to abate. Penguins are part of the American fabric now. Igloo Mosques and Igloo Churches stand side by side with Igloo Temples and Palestinian Penguin shrines. Many are peaceful...but beware the followers of the Church of Burgess Meredith!
Where the hell is Quinn the Eskimo when we need him!
Ras-Putin Puttin’ on the Show Biz Ritz
The Mike Marino Bullshit News Network, where the truth hits the fan, has recently come into possession of emails sent to us by noted psychic and web hacker Slovenia Stan of Wiki I Gotta Take a Leak regarding Vlad the Mad Putin. Turns out, Vlad the Mad is related to the Mad Monk, Ras-putin and will be taking his new nuclear Ras-Putin Putin on the Ritz vaudeville show on the road!
Yes, The Ras-putin Follies are coming along the Hey, Hey, We’re the Mad Monkees featuring Tsar Peter the Tork, Davidovich Jones, Mikhail Romanoff Nesmith and Mickey KGB Dolenz. Vlad will perform his famous “Ventriloquism on the Volga” routine with his wooden dummy marionettes Ivanka and Twitter Trump. Watch Vlad putin’ words in Twitter’s mouth and pull his strings! Marvel as Ivanka makes waves in a designer bikini made entirely of Saran Wrap and Silly Putin Pubic Putty and speaks at the same time!
(Available at Red Square bread lines everywhere, please allow 5 months for delivery by MiG jet.)
Good old fashioned entertainment comes your way with a special performance of the Pyong Yang Poontang Ping Pong Nuclear Dancers as part of Vlads traveling Moscow minstrel and medicine show where their bikini waxed Demilitarized Zone Thongs and Nuclear Tipped Tassels could detonate at any moment at the push of a libido button! A real crowd pleaser in South Korea!!
Cheer the Assad Chippendale Dancers where you get more thrills than a chemical gas attack in Aleppo. This show was Standing room only at the new Syrian Holiday Inn where they danced to the Qatar Air Guitar Band fresh from a gig with the ISIS Ice Follies Show in beautiful bombed out Bagdad.
Vlad Ras-Putin does an amazing act annexing Melania Trump, dressed in a stunning burlap bag designed by Prada of Pravda as she performs arias from the “Moose and Squirrel” opera written by Claudio Moscow Monteverdi, including the eternal “The Barber of Siberia” and “Madman Butterfly”
Mimes abound as political prisoners perform “I Confess!” with closed captive captioning for the enemies of the state in solitary confinement, with backup vocals by the Lenin Sisters and lead singer, Helen “Killer” Keller, the Bard of Braille.
Clowns from the Crimea will put on their red Boris Yeltzin noses and snort vodka and cocaine up their nose to entertain the little comrades.
This is a must see show!!! In the words of Vlad Ras-Putin to Twitter Trump the wooden dummy….”You’re Fired!”
Cold War: The Musical
Duck & Cover, It’s Showtime!!!
Review By Monty Debauchery
This production with the original cast from the standing room only cabaret live theater production in Berlin is a must see for all ages. It has rousing musical numbers, flamboyant dance choreography, and outrageously fabulous costumes! It’s ‘Boys in the Band’ Meets ‘The Berlin Wall’!!
In its run at the Joe Stalin Lubyanka Memorial Prison the Putin crowd got a big Bolshevik bang out of a performance of the the song and dance number ‘Lenin on Ice.’ His cadaver is already well preserved. So they merely put a pair of skates on him, stood him up, gave him a little shove so he could get towed by a Zamboni ice making machine while blasting “Back in the USSR” and damn...it was A Winter Wonderland in Siberia moment.
Hard labor with show tunes!
Forget Rogers and Hammerstein...this is a Hammer and Sickle race for theatrical space.
Thrill to the Cuban Missile Crisis and sing along to “Inna Gadda Da Blockade” featuring Mitch Ryder and the Moscow Wheels.
The Berlin Wall is an extravagant Soviet song dance number where “Break On Through the Other Side” with Igor Morrison of the Defecting Doors on lead vocals brings the utopian crowd to their feet, while the Bolshevik Beach Boys belt out in perfect harmony “Ukraine Surfin’ USSR”
“Don’t Cry for me Czechoslovakia” will bring tears to eyes. Hell, just trying to spell Czechoslovakia made my head rotate in a 360 degree demonic possession spin.
Vietnam is in the spotlight once again when the stage fills with motor scooters and massage parlors and the entire ensemble belts out a gong filled delight of “Gimme an F” by a Jane Fonda female impersonator whereby Saigon “My Fair Lady” Susie replies “I’ve Got Your F...Right Here!”
It’s the Tet Offensive all over again, only this time with plaintive ballads instead of Soviet and Chinese bullets. Relive those fun filled Col Kurtz days of Agent Orange and Napalm Nights under the palms.
Paradise with cluster bombs and body bags made in the USA by Americans...for Americans!
Remember Chicago ‘68 and later Kent State? Both come alive on the big stage when Harry Connick, Jr. does his best Mayor Richard Daley impression singing….”Chicago is My Kind of Town & It’s Good To Be the King!” Kent State is the masterpiece that introduced the song…”When you go to Kent State, you’re a student all the way from your first protest march to your last dying day” of course sung to the West Side Story tune, “When You’re A Jet You’re a Jet All the Way.”
It’s duck & cover showbiz, kids. It’s the Eagle & the Bear… get your tickets today and relive the nostalgia of the Red Scare and nuclear annihilation. Now those were fun days….but the nights could have been Eves of Destruction!
Religion is the Opium of the Altered State Saints
Catholicism is the ultimate gateway drug to the colorful world of altered states of grace. What other church offers its parishioners, in addition to a chance to confess to breaking the Ten Commandments, but also a chance to celebrate a “high mass”?
It’s a dogmatic drug every bit as addicting to the die hard Cathoholic as a can of warm sterno to a wino on Skid Row sleeping on a heating grate in a Detroit back alley when the salvation mission cots are filled to the max after the evening meal and prayer service that they tolerate until the next drink and they fall off the wagon into God’s gutter.
The Church is the Vatican’s local drug pusher and street hustler where priests prowl for souls and nuns in habits became soul saving street walkers finding the lost as Holy Hookers,for the Holy Ghost.
They also had a rogues gallery of saints. The grateful dead who could find lost items, protect travelers and perhaps even raise the dead whether they wanted raising or not.
They say Opium dens can have tiny altars dedicated to St. Dorothy of Oz who was no stranger to fields of opium poppies. She was so loaded she saw flying fucking monkeys. Actually the flying monkeys weren’t fucking, but in her mind they could have been, or so she told Auntie Enema after she came down, down, down after shoplifting a pair of ruby red slippers at The Emerald City Shopping Mall at Macy’s. After all she ended up on a yellow hashish brick road to Afghanistan thinking there was a wizard who could fix a talking tin man who was actually a rather large dildo she found. No wonder the Munchkins told her to hit the road. “Keep her away from the morphine and the kids!”
Ah yes, morphine. The church can do much to help addicts by proclaiming St. William Burroughs as a patron saint for morphies. Hell, if anyone knows addiction it’s good old Willie. Let’s face it...he put Pharma Karma into pop goes the culture.
As for male street hustlers, St. Andy Warhol had a stable full, so why not make him a sanctified being to walk on water on the wild side of redemption at the Church of Leather Bars.
Hookers, fear not, for ye are the angels of mercy...merci! Let’s face it ...when it comes to hookers...the Lord works in mysterious ways on our search for salvation...and satisfaction!
Cereal Killers and Others!!
If athletes can make it to the breakfast big time on a box of Wheaties for steroid use, then by gawd, the deprived, depraved and debauched should also have a cardboard box of fame. Runaway kids get to be superstars on milk cartons until the bodies are found...now we adults of all persuasions, perversions and diversions have our own line of diverse and sometimes perverse breakfast Hall of Fame brands!
Imagine your delight when you dive into a bowl of Children of the Corn Corn Flakes….or Silence of the Lambs Sugar Grahams with a free Hannibal Lecter action figure in the bottom of every box. Ted Bundy Bran Flakes are a real rock star choice when it comes to Serial Cereal Killers, not to mention Apple Jacks the Ripper Shredded Wheat.
In addition to Cereal Killers, Proctology and Gamble has now introduced a line of Skid Row flavors including Fruity Pebbles Flintstone who is now turning Trix for her pimp, the naughty nautical Cap’n Crunch. X Rated Honey Comb Hookers cereal is a real snap, crackle, pop dad will love, while your favorite down and out uncle will drown delightly in a bowl of milk and Wino Wheaties. For the junkie in your life how about the family sized big box of Cocaine Cheerios? One fix in the morning will last longer than a shot of Morphine & Methamphetamine Malt O’ Meal. (Until it wears off then you’ll go coo coo for Cocoa Puffs!) For the down and out it’s new Welfare Chex and Minimum Wage Mini Wheats.
The LGBT Crowd can now boast a line of breakfast ball buster bowls of the all new Fruity Queerio’s for that special man in leather and lace at the local piano bar….Get Lucky Charms Rainbow Lesbian Cereal for that ladies breakfast club romp...and of course for all you boisterous bi-guys and dolls I don’t care who I fuck or who fucks me, it’s the new club sized Bisexual Banana Nut Crunch Bunch….perfect for two-some or three-somes.
The political arena has not been forgotten by Mad Ave. No sir. Dive into a big near empty box of Democrat Dinky Donuts featuring little crunchy Hillary Clinton Animal Crackers...from Ben and Jerry’s it’s Bernie Sanders Socialist Sugar Pops...and for the Trump crowd...try a bowl of Made in Moscow “Frosted Trumps” or “Melania’s Moose & Squirrel Crispies”
From Russia with love, comes Kremlin Gremlins and from North Korea...make it Pyongyang Fruit Loop.
Breakfast is now diverse...but I still fear the day the grocery store stocks Deliverance Squeal Like A Pig Banjo Honey Smacks!
Apocalypse Now: The Musical
(Col. Kurtz Meets Broadway!)
Lock n’ Load a ‘Full Metal Jacket’ with the cast of ‘Platoon’, toss in a crazed Marlon ‘Mekong Delta; Brando and a righteously whacked out Dennis ‘Hoo Ha’ Hopper singing and dancing with a backup chorus line of West Side Stories hot, humid, hot, (did I say that already?) Puerto Rican girls led by Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn and you have the Broadway Musical ‘My Fair Lady Does Saigon’
I have to admit, when I was asked to review this play I was excited. No, not as excited as walking through a booby trapped jungle of claymore mines. I was expecting an inbred version of the Tet Offensive and The Rain in Spain, Falls Mainly on the Plain. I was pleasantly surprised. It was boffo!!!
The musical co-written by Oliver ‘Olivier’ Stone and Francis Ford ‘Cop a Feel’ Coppola is a daring, whimsical jaunt through the Vietnam War. The dance numbers were a choreographed delight. R. Lee Ermy in khaki leotards belting out Leonard Berstein’s memorable “I Feel Pretty” while mincing about in the latrine as well as the unforgettable West Side feeling “When Your A Vet, Your A Vet All The Way, From Your First Confirmed Kill to To A Wheel Chair in VA”
Meanwhile, Tom Berenger and Charlie Sheen do a duet as they enter the small village of My Lai leading a platoon in full voice singing “Something’s Coming” and “It Won’t Be Loverly”
Paris “Hanoi” Hilton makes a camo cameo appearance singing “Get Me to the Compound On Time” and “Why Can’t the French Learn to Speak?”
As Martin Sheen enters the camp of Col. Kurtz, he finds Dennis “Flamenco” Hopper camping it up as a female impersonator dancing with Marlon “Last Tango in Da Nang” Brando as they do a dynamite duet of “I Could Have Danced All Night”(It brought the house down! Not a dry eye in the theater)
My particular favorite musical numbers were Tom “I Am Reality” Berenger and Willem “Defoliate” Defoe “I’m Getting Napalmed in the Morning” and “Hi Ho, Hi, Ho, It’s To The The Ho Chi Minh Trail We Go”...Willem Defoe never sang better, and Berenger’s version of “Why Can’t A Woman, Kill Like A Man?” is to die for!
This film is a must see for lovers of the music of Broadway music and the show tunes of the Vietnam War. The war played to sellout crowds in body bags for years and was held over until 1973 when disco empresario Henry “Seig Heil” Kissinger brought it to life on the Broadway stage! Sounding much like Elmer Fudd. Listen to him speak...I keep waiting for him to tell Nixon, “It’s dat cwazy wabbit” “It vill be smash hit in the Agent Orange Ward of das VA Hospitals!”
Don’t miss this Ethel Merman extravaganza...It’s “All That Jazz” and “Cats” on steroids...as we say in the theater “it’s the roar of the crowd...and the smell of the Napalm greasepaint in the Morning”
Enjoy...and as we say backstage...Break a Leg!!
Is That A Canadian Loonie in Your Pants?
Coinage tensions between the realm of the Great White North of Canada and its neighbor south of the border, the land of Yellow Submarine Sandwich shops and Walmarts has now reached a dangerous level.
First, the damned Canadian one dollar loonie has 11 sides!!! Impossible to insert into a condom machine in the men’s room at truck stops anywhere along the vast expanse of the American interstate system that criss crosses the continent back and forth, to and fro as if it were a speed freak on viagra looking for it’s next victim with it’s pants down around his ankles in the lonely bathroom at some dark Deliverance rest area in Georgia at midnight. American coins feature, if at all a majestic eagle...proud and regal...the loonie has a bird as well, a damn Loon. Loons belong in Minnesota not Manitoba! (Which originally was a province of music known as Manituba)
To out do it’s American Cousin..(Insert Lincoln assassination scene here) It’s Gold color outwitted the American Susan B. Anthony dollar coin leaving her in the dust and eventually replaced by the Sacagawea dollar which matched the Canadian Loonie in hue. Never take a knife to an atomic bomb fight...and gold kicks silvers ass everytime. Besides American’s thought it was a quarter because of size and still wouldn’t fit in a gumball machine or jukebox at a Jack in the Box.
The British Empire, that gave as the Magna Carta and Benny Hill have multi-sided coinage as well. A twenty pence piece (pence the coin, not Pence the American VP) has seven sides. Why? I’m not sure why Canada gets to have 11 while the Queen keeps “mum” about it. Probably some ancient Templar thing to tease the Templar Challenged. I guess I can use the “T” word here, yes?
Then it came to pass...the Royal Canadian Mint was hooked like a junkie on crack. Seems the one dollar loonie is the gateway coin drug...soon Canadians were doing two dollar loonies called toonies! Pockets everywhere were soon crazed on coins! The habit spread, soon school yards at recess were full of kids pitching loonies and gambling away their parents hard earned packets of pocket coins.
Now...beware...Canada has now unleashed a psychedelic coin...the Glow in the Dark Toonie!!! It’s a lava lamp and light show rolled into one . It’s the Tommy Chong coin that lights up brighter than Broadway…(oh shit, I just remembered, speaking of Broadway….Tommy Tune by the way is now Tommy Toonie!)
Beware of the Canadian $3 dollar coin with the Queen on one side and some moose and beaver on the other….there is talk of a new $3 dollar American coin coming out that will feature a portrait of Heidi Fleiss on one side and a road killed automotively processed armadillo on the other...and they think America has no class!
Mexico is expected to jump into the coin frenzy by introducing the Pinata Peso. It will come in different shapes and called a Puny. Russia will come out with the Putin Penny and the Barney Rubble Ruble to honor the legendary Comrade of Flintstones Cartoons. Japan will jump in with the Tom Cruise Last Samurai Dollar and China will flood the global market with counterfeit currency featuring a North Korean missile launch!
A word of proper decorum...when visiting Canada and your pockets are weighted down with glow in the dark loonies don’t be surprised if a Canadian says to you…”Is that a dayglo loonie in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?”
OK, your response? “I’ll show you my loonie, if you show me yours!”
Alien Probes, Grassy Knolls, Kennedy's and Kryptonite
Practical proctology?
We humans send rovers to Mars and the Moon looking for signs of life forms...water...rocks...One small step, one giant leap kind of shit. You know, “First man on the moon buys the drinks.” First one to drop his or her space drawers at a lunar rest area gets the PROBE!
I don’t which is worse...an anal probe by Johnny Jupiter or a JFK bullet traveling faster than a speeding suppository from a book depository. Real textbook guns and ammo lock & load lore from the pages of the most recent Soldier of Fortune magazine alongside ads for Navy Seal blow up sex toys in the shape of atomic submarines...dive, dive, dive!
Bobby Kennedy whacked in a hotel kitchen in L.A. A Mystery? He probably pissed off his waiter, Sirloin Sirhan and just forget to leave a decent tip. The dollar bills he did leave had pictures of J Edgar Hoover in a ballerina tutu and not Ben Franklin cavorting with a gay Redcoat with big musket! (I’ll show my musket, if you’ll show me yours!)
Ted Kennedy and the whole Chappaquiddick soaker. After driving of a bridge into the brine he left his passenger Mary Jo Kopechne to fend for herself to know avail and received a suspended sentence. Mystery? Not really. He’s a fucking Kennedy. Kryptonite can’t bring them down. Bullets do...he did make amends later, guilt no doubt had him push for legislation that required mandatory Floatation Devices and Life Preservers be available in all cars driven by Congressmen who were engaging in extramarital sex with secretaries and interns. Turn around...don’t drown!
The Jimmy Hoffa disappearance is one of those Detroit mysteries that amaze and delight Detroiters more than a Catholic priest at Cub Scout camp. Is he buried in the Meadowlands thanks to Provenzano? Did Tony Jack Giacalone have him melted in a smelter on Michigan Ave and West Grand Blvd and is now part of a bumper on a cocaine financed gull winged DeLorean?
The answer is no to both above. I have proof! I used to work in radio in downtown Detroit and would hang at the bars in the Ren Cen (built at the time Hoffa went up in smoke). I’d go to the Mezzanine level, past the indoor pool and walk around the outside area that face Windsor...on the west side of the area is a large concrete slab with a giant “H” on it. Most people think it’s a helicopter pad...I guess the surrounding windsocks fool them..I know better...H is for Hoffa! Hiding the body in plain sight...brilliant!
I’ll have more conspiracy and mystery marvels later...right now Bigfoot and Nessie the Loch Ness Monster have invited me aboard a UFO for an abduction party BBQ and ….damn...the PROBE!!! Oh well...you know what the say “When in Rome”or Uranus….go with the alien probe flow!!!
The Blues & Early Morning Sax
The blues blasted fire and heat from a smoke choke filled juke joint volcano somewhere down in the cotton Delta when the the Wolf was Howlin’ and the Waters turned Muddy moving slowly downstream with Little Walter doing a fast boogie trying to outrun hurricanes at midnight while riding an old raft marking twain as he floated on the huckleberry river to see Koko Taylors wang dang doodle shake and rattle and roll at Robert Johnson’s joint at the devil’s own personal crossroads as John Lee and a junkie Hooker shake their moneymaker while drinking themselves to delta death on the killing floor with one bourbon a scotch and a beer watching some ole talking three legged hound dog found limp in the swamp that sat up and spoke as swampdogs will do when cornered and said he’d rather sit alone with Etta James screaming ‘I’d rather go blind’ but he was intervened by Detroit Jr. saying to anyone who could hear him over the noise “this is the first time I met the blues” exceptin’ when he fell into a vat of jism and love with that girl singer Memphis Minnie with her beaded dress and an invisible ju-ju bag of soul that contained a voice of pure blues belting out feelings of broken hearts, dreams, futures dead past that had now long passed into the night her tears lamenting all those who had been spit out spun out spent out on Harlem junk in the corner of a juke joint
until early morning, dark clouds rolling in you know the kind, the dark black-thick clouds like the dark in an grave six feet under or the dank cigarette stale beer interior of some joint with a juke box with hustlers and pimps and faded hookers and lost dreams standing by the Wurlitzer lonely in the wee small hours of the morning corner, promising three plays for a quarter, a cheap junkie to say the least at that price, the kind with needle tracks up and down his or her arm, greenish hue with bruises begging for a shot of whiskey with a syphilis chaser and together, they are hollow eyed waiting for a funeral hearse while still trying to get behind or in front of the heroin eight ball to do a fast boogie trying to outrun the monkey riding the hypodermic horse on their backs as blues from the alley go straight to the soul like a junkie jamming needle for a quick fix while trying to mellow down easy on the Big Easy now flowing backwards upwards towards Butterfield Chicago the windiest city where there are so many trains to derail, Upton Sinclair socialist stockyards, Texas cowboy steers ready for the killing sledge hammers of the slaughterhouse, and so many boulevards and roads lined with so many dives filled with honky tonk tonky honk pianos and sweaty soaked dancers doing jive dancing so many dead then with so many alive now remembering where and when they walked behind the mule in cotton fields and rivers with hungry alligators are all but distant memories now kept under lock and key by my buddy, Guy and King Albert playing a game of chess with the brothers Chess waiting for the canned heat to cook up just right while the guitars were having sex with recording machines at 78rpm and the radio stations infused the night with hot sheets and excitement while awaiting the arrival of the dawn and some lonely early morning sax…...
Lee Harvey Oswald Band Interview
(Not being a music reviewer as are some of my more revered friends, I did have the chance to interview Lee Harvey Oswald of the Jack Ruby Magic Silver Bullet Band of Dallas, Texas. We talked in depth about the bands triumphants, heartbreaks, gigs at dives and finally their success at landing a contract with the Zapruder Record Label.)
LHO: I used to be in a band out of Detroit, the Dead Zeppelins. until lead guitarist Jimmy Page Hoffa disappeared after a gig in the Motor City at the Houses of the Holy strip club.
We were at a loss at this point so we added a new female lead guitarist, Amelia Earhart Clapton and a female lead singer, Dorothy Gale from a band in Oz, Illinois called the Flying Monkeys. “
MM: She was underage at the time if memory serves me, and weren’t you arrested for crossing state lines with a minor?
LHO: It was all bullshit. She came willingly believe me. She would take to the stage in a gingham mini skirt, no underwear, hot red high heels and fishnets singing “Cherry Bomb” and goddamn midgets from Kansas to Canada wanted to pop her cherry. Man, the stories we heard from her manager and part time dildo, Steely Dan the Tin Man would make your hair curl.
MM: I had heard these stories about her. You beat the rap finally.
LHO: She was also a junkie and had an affair with a groupie, Wonderland Alice who had some righteous ‘shrooms. She’d follow us from gig to gig with this fucking cat that kept smiling a shit eating grin. Drove us nuts! One night while our bus was heading to Waco, Texas on the Yellow Brick Road for a Janet Reno stadium one nighter, the tour bus was hit head on by a Baptist Church Bus driven by Timothy McVeigh full of senior citizens in wheelchairs heading for a Holy Roller tent revival and Meat Loaf concert at a Cracker Barrel parking lot in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. It wouldn’t have been too bad except there were so many oxygen tanks on board and one ton of fertilizer.
MM: I saw the news footage of the Waco gig. Man what happened?
LHO: We like to have a lot of flames to close the show with you know. Pyrotechnics. You’ve seen our act. Something went wrong and the Branch Davidian bleacher section just blew up!
MM: Your worst moment was in Memphis, yes?
LHO: Shit, we were touring, doing the opening act gig for the Martin Luther King & TIna Turner Review in Memphis. Man, all hell broke loose when drummer Jimmy Earl Ray snapped during the Dueling Banjo’s Duet. A real crowd pleaser normally, Jimmy Earl was inbred you know so the damn banjo’s set him off and instead of rimshots...we heard a gun shot. We all scrambled and Tina has these rather long legs so we took cover under her skirt until the smoke cleared. Hell I wanted to rent space there and live.
MM: You also love playing in the PAC NW yes?
LHO: Oh hell yeah...we like to fuck with the skinheads and loggers. ”Hitler wore plaid” we’d yell from our bus bunker. “Aryans are Arseholes!” That kind of shit. Really piss them off and get their swastika’s in a bunch. We were asked to play the Ruby Ridge Arena with a group called Race War featuring the Sonny and Cher of The Gestapo Stompers, Adolf and Eva, but declined.
Now the band has reformed at The Lee Harvey Oswald & Jack Ruby Magic Bullet Band! We had our first number one hit with a bullet about 1963 and we’re bigger and badder than ever...the man who taught George Harrison how to wow the crowds with guitar licks is back...yep...lead guitar player Jack "Bang Bang" Ruby. We have a new tour and our opening act for this world tour will be the Dead Kennedy's. We’ll do some new stuff and you’ll hear all the hits from our classic album..Conspiracy Theory: Hit Me With Your Best Shot..recorded live in the Grassy Knoll & Book Depository Room at at the Dealey Plaza Hotel and Casino available now as a special edition from Zapruder Records on Vinyl, Cassette and Reel to Reel Tapes, Eight Tracks and 8 mm Film.
MM: Rock on and thanks for sharing these moments with us.
Coffin Envy!
I think when choosing a coffin it should be fun. Like shopping for a new car, but then of course you’d have to deal with commission hungry piranha sales types in checkered golf pants named Bart with more jewelry than a Kardashian trying to devour your wallet.
“Welcome to Coffin City. We have economy models, sporty coupes and and our all new custom woody suitable for burial or surfing. Easy down payments, low interest and a full service plan good up to six feet under!”
“I’d like to see a convertible if you don’t mind for that open casket feel.”
Hell they can come equipped with radio so you can not only be ‘Dust in the Wind’, but hear it sung by Kansas at the same time as you lie in repose ready to decompose. Forget a simple pine box unless you miss your K Car, go for the Rolls Royce complete with hood ornament of Winston Churchill. (Some models come with free Wi-Fi!!)
Coffins can also come in a variety of psychedelic colors….Day Glo when you go! These are relatively inexpensive and available at your local Spare Change Funeral Home where cremations are performed in the Up In Smoke chamber. Urns provided at extra charge, batteries not included….or needed.
Imported coffins from Canada, called Canuck Coffins R Us, Eh? are lined with moose hide sides and beaver pelt pillows shaped like hockey pucks. The handles for the pall bearers are used hockey sticks smuggled from Toronto to distribute the weight as they lower you into the ground or the cheap seats as we like to say before shoveling dirt on you.
Children today, the future generation can have fun with a series of Funeral Home Playsets and Action Figures. All sets come complete with a toy Strom Thurmond corpse and a bottle of formaldehyde for hours of embalming fun!
Drive in funeral parlors are all the rage today. Just pull up to the window and speak into the Dead Box. ‘We’re here for the Marino open casket viewing, and we’d like some McNuggets and fries for the kids”
“Please go to the next window. That will be 10 dollars and 10 Hail Mary’s..please pay Father Ronald McDonald. He’s the clown with a frockin’ collar...Next!”
Want a burial at sea but can’t afford it. Call the Dearly Departed Travel Agency and book your coffin for a burial in New Orleans and wait for the next hurricane and flood when a levee breaks...before you know it you’ll be drifting down the Latin Quarter during Mardi Gras before heading out into the Gulf heading for Cuba!
It’s not easy choosing a coffin...you know..,.peer pressure…”My coffins bigger than your coffin” or “Is it true what they say about Black coffins?” It’s called...Coffin Envy. It’s replaced the four wheel drive pick-up truck.
Speaking of pick ups...a dead guy meets a dead girl in a graveyard bar and she says…”Is that rigor mortis in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?”
Plan ahead….before you’re dead...and avoid being buried in a Pet Semetery.
Eat Those Words
Restaurant Row offers a palate pleasing plethora of gastronomical diversity from fancy French to ethnic Ethiopian to tantalizing Thai and everything in between Chinese and Italian. Fast food franchises dish out Whoppers and Tacos faster than a speeding bullet of cholesterol, and All You Can Eat emporiums await the arrival of the obese beasts to graze like cattle on the open range of Kansas. One such temple of tempting taste however has been sorely overlooked. The Restaurant of Pop Culture and Literature.
The waitstaff will dress as whimsical characters of popular fiction from Tom Sawyer to
Becky Thatcher. All meals will be cooked safely according the Department of Health Regulations at 451 Fahrenheit with Pride, without Prejudice. All meat USDA approved without a speck of On The Roadkill filler. Served with your choice of Cervantes Cerveza or a Charlotte Bronte Burgundy. After dining, test your singing talent by participating in our Brothers Karamazov Karaoke Kontest
The main menu absolutely filled to the brim with gut busting Nabokovian Nutrition
Edgar Allen Poe-tatoes
Edgar Allen’s Corn on Macabre
The Call of the Wild Rice Edith Pilaf
The Crepes of Wrath
Peter Pancakes
Hail Ceasar Salad
Et Tu Brutus Brownies
Charles Dickens Fried Chicken
The Adventures of Huckleberry Pie
The Old Man and The Sea
Joyce Carol Oatesmeal
Agatha Christie Crispies
Of Rice and Men
Inspector Poirot Pot Pie
Tolstoy Tofu
Mary Shelley Shell Fish
Uncle Toms Cabernet
The Womderful world of Ouzo
For Whom the Bell Tollshouse Cookies
X-Files Filet Mignon
The Maltese Falcon Pheasant Under Glass
Catholic Strip Clubs
The Mike Marino News Network is digging deep on an expose' of what really goes on behind the scenes at the Catholic Strip Clubs....Lap Dancing in Latin...Papal Pole Dancing for Penance....Wet Habit Contests...Viagra use at the Vatican and the All Cardinal Chippendale Dancers scandal and a peek inside the Bordello of Bishops at the Mother Superior Mustang Ranch!
First stop on my investigative quest took me to the incense filled Papal Pussy Cat Club where near naked nuns gyrated on a stage with flashing lights to the music of Norman Greenbaum’s ‘Spirit in the Sky’ wearing only a habit and papal pasties along with a glow in the dark rosary G-string from Victoria’s Crucifixion Lingerie Secrets giving a gentle glow to the light up her Burning Bush.
Enjoy a holy rubdown in the Mortal Sin Massage Parlor where the healing hands of nuns probe and poke looking to raise your Lazarus from the dead to experience the Immaculate Erection.
The Mother Superior S&M private club room is a must for the Sado Masochist to enjoy a classroom setting in a Catholic school and getting cracked on the knuckles with a ruler for chewing gum in class. (Whippings by giant flesh eating rosaries cost extra!)
How about a Liturgical Lap dance in Latin? They are available in the Dominus Vobiscum Room and is pure joy as Eve’s ample backside apple meets your willing serpent in a deadly battle of wills in the Garden of Eden.
Papal Pole Dancing is one of those standing room only forays into the hidden world of fleshpot nunnery for funnery where phallic frolics go for the pole position with the gusto of the gospel of St. Estros patron saint of Holy Hard-ons. Remember what they say “Your bird in your hand is not as good as one in a ‘bush’!”
Friday Nights is Wet Habit Night where novitiate soon to be nuns prance and dance showing off their stuff soaking wet in holy water to the tune of “Thanks For the Mammaries” while they shimmy shimmy ko ko bop in the Mary Magdalene Mud Pit for the pious patrons who will seek absolute absolution after a cold shower.
The Celebrate Celibacy Fantasy Booths are for the first time sinners who are virgins of the ways of the vagina and prefer a plexiglass experience before they actually dive into the sexual sacrificial baptismal waters of a Roman Catholic romp under the covers bringing down the chastity walls of Jericho with a blow of the horn...a Eucharistic Euphemism if you please.
Ladies Night will find the stage loaded with the Chippendale Cardinal Review where red cloaks and Jughead beanie caps are tossed aside to reveal the secrets of the Vatican unleashed in a most monastic manner. Swinging and swaying in complete synch to “One Toke Over the Line Sweet Jesus”
In the Bordello of the Bishop’s men and women have their choice of pro’s from plaid skirted schoolgirl or altar boy impersonators not to mention having a go with the Holy Father look-a-like in a room designed as St.Peter’s Basilica or the Virgin Mary complete in a barn setting with rubber sheep and cows…(her name is not really Mary nor is she a virgin, but you get what you pay for!)
For your next Sacramental Sexual night out...Go Catholic...it’s more fun than confession!
Move over Maple Leaf there’s a new kid coming to town!
If our information on “Canada Watch” is accurate, Canada may soon become the Cannabis & Curling capital of the world. Justin (THC) Trudeau’s Liberal government has announced its long-awaited legislation to make recreational marijuana legal. According to Global News “A new Ipsos poll, conducted exclusively for Global News, found that 61 per cent of Canadians surveyed said they believe pot should be legalized for recreational use, with that number rising to 73 per cent among millennials (ages 18-34).”
Will herds of looney Americans take the ‘Eh’ Train and flock across the border, pockets full of loonies, eyes dialated to score a bong, blunt and brownies in Banff and make Canada their new home sweet stoned while the scour Manitoba for munchies? Getting Fucked Up in Furness? Stoned in Saskatchewan?
Will Winnepeg Wowser Weed be sold at Tim ’Hookah’ Hortons nationwide? The Toronto Marijuana Leafs? Has possibilities. I can also see the Toronto Blue Joints taking on the Nanaimo Narcs.
How about getting loaded in Labrador or medicated in Manitoba or high in Halifax?
Will Quebec want rolling papers in French and English? Will there be a new Yukon Gold Rush….forget Acapulco….Marijuana has just discovered it’s own New Foundland for recreation use.
The best part is a dime bag will be bigger, if you consider the Canadian Imperial Gallon versus the smaller American gallon. I would like to know the potency...there may be regulations such as “not too strong stoners” for the novice all the way to “Far Oot and Aboot, eh?” for the more experienced.
Festivals..hell yes, the campy Cheech and Chong in Calgary Fest is just one of many planned and film festivals featuring Humphrey “Don’t Bogart That Joint My Friend” Bogart along with championship Cannabis Curling in slow motion in whacked out Windsor.
When I interviewed Justin Trudeau, before he passed out cold, he said, “Like, wow...this is so awesome. It’s far oot and aboot man. While you Americans are super bombing we’ll be rolling super bombs and having one hell of a Hookah Happy Holiday. We’ll also be changing our National anthem to ‘Oh Wow, Canada’ , changing our flag and Parliament Funkadelic will be sending a peace offering of Poutine to Putin in case he has any intentions of invading British Columbia with an army of Eskimo rebels. We will be the Hipsters of High!”
Get ready, set, go! Run for the border American Stoners! Cannabis Canada is ready to greet you.,,..oh yeah...BYOB...Bring Your Own Bong!
Plaid & Proud
Being of an alien species, from the Great Lakes of the Midwest, we take much pride in our love affair for all things Plaid & Proud. The fall season rolls around and damned if we don’t roll out the red plaid flannel shirts as though we were Vikings ready to pillage and plunder the region with broadswords and Black & Decker chainsaws. No tree is safe from being transformed from a leafy lofty stoic sentinel of the forest to ending up in somebody’s Northern Michigan yard as a bear or totem pole!
Plaid season usually hits just prior to Hunter Orange season on November 15, which in Michigan is the Normandy Invasion of the woods to blitzkreig some 90 point Boone & Crockett buck.
I’ve also noticed in my journeys from California to Maine some states differ...in the east, except for red flannel Maine, but especially in West Virginia, blue plaid flannel shirts make the libido flow full tilt knotty pine. Wisconsin, prefers an almost sickly light yellow green for some reason. Probably all the cheese binding them up.
In California...red or blue, depending on which street gang you belong to while in San Francisco I have seen males sporting pink flannel with matching accessories. Of course those were in North Beach in certain bars where plaid competes with leather.
I’ve seen the Plaid Prophecy expand and for a time there was the Plaid Gremlin car with bucket seats in an array of colors. My news director in the UP had one and it was embarrassing going to bars should anyone see the thing and force us to flee for our fashion statement lives!
Now it seems there is a plaid plethora of plaid badass things that go bump in the night but I’ve never seen a major league baseball team take to the field plaid ready, but would buy season tickets for that. Cheerleaders should wear plaid...Catholic school girls do and when I was growing up and going to Catholic school those skirts were the reason I went to confession on an almost hourly basis. Plaid skirt skirmishes were mere venial sins. No big deal. A few Hail Mary’s and you were off the penance hook.
There are plaid bra’s and underwear, socks and gloves, probably someone is sporting a plaid thong acting like a Scottish Chippendale and don’t be surprised if there are plaid dildos for the ultimate personal plaid moment. Plaid batteries not included. Plaid flavored condoms. I have no idea what plaid tastes like so use your imagination. I am.
Today plaid is everywhere….people wear plaid yoga pants to Walmart which is as low as plaid can go.
Other than manly men of the woods, the leader of the plaid empire had to be Rowdy Roddy Piper. He made plaid a household word, and should be in the plaid Hall of Fame. Gandhi would be there too if only his loom would spin out a decent plaid loin cloth!
So….if you love plaid, it’s OK. You can come out of the fashion closet, head held high, and tell the world...I’m Plaid, and I’m Proud!
...And the winner is!!
I was asked for my opinion on the Academy Awards show which got me thinking about all these shows. First I loved that they had the senior citizen version of Geritol Bonnie and Centrum Silver Clyde from la la land to announce the award for La La Land. Whoops...wrong!!! Michael J. Pollard must have switched the envelopes after getting a tweet from Trump…(Gotta blame everything on the White House these days...besides I hear that Putin had hacked the Price Waterhouse computers!)
There was a show of diversity this year with African Americans taking home the coveted little bald gold guy that looks like an artifact from an Indiana Jones movie. Last year Will Smith and his bride of Frankenstein stirred the racial pot to overflowing. I always liked what Andy Garcia said in an interview about being a “talented Hispanic actor” his reply…”Don’t ghettoize me, I want to be a talented ACTOR period.” Andy has class.
We also saw the first Muslim, Mahershala Ali to receive an Academy Award. He was probably picked up by Homeland Security backstage and deported this morning. Remember just recently Muhammed Ali II was detained at an airport and questioned for two hours. If that’s not racial profiling then I’m as overrated as Meryl Streep.
Blue Ribbons were in evidence as politicalization ran rampant on the red carpet. I kept waiting for the ghost of the bulk of Marlon Brando to appear riding a white buffalo to come charging onto the stage mumbling about Al Pacino. I saw the Blue Ribbons and immediately my non political brain saw mental commercials for Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer and I thought man that’s a lot of cheap drunks in $8,000 dollar dresses
The Salesman won the best foreign film award and was boycotted by Asghar Farhadi who sent an Iranian astronaut Anousheh Ansari to accept the award. Next year it will be accepted by a member of the Jamaican Space and Bobsled team. I hear they want to make a musical out of Mein Kampf next year for foreign film entry. Sort of Shindler’s List Goes to La La Land.
KImmel was about as funny as cancer treatment with his Matt Damon digs, Trump dumping , etc. Next year I say...get Monte Rock the III and give Oscar a sex change…
Still waiting for the first transsexual to win a golden statuette. Robert DiNiro tried coming in drag as Joe Peschi’s sister but Gary Busey tried to cop a feel and all hell broke loose.
Women’s fashion s always a highlight of this pompous assemblage of ego’s but the guys don’t stand a chance at getting the same attention. I mean, tuxedo and bow tie, black shoes and pants. “Here comes Ryan Gosling ladies and gentlemen (huge applause and gasps!) He is sporting the latest in funeral parlor fashion. Should he keel over at any moment he’s already dressed for viewing in an open casket! Oh look it’s George Clooney wearing a hand me down dress from Hillary Clinton, now that is stylin’!!”
A guy should come on with a camo tux, combat boots and a M-16. Mr. Blackwell wouldn’t approve perhaps but if you’re gonna make a fashion statement..dammit..lock and load!
The only film I cared about was ‘Lion’ one of the finest films in a long time..nominations galore but needed, warranted, deserved BEST FILM in it’s category...or any category.
The Oscars...The Emmy’s….The Tonys….I’d rather watch Steve Buscemi on Sesame Street...with Michael J. Pollard as the drug addicted priest and parish pimp!
Hair Apparent
Ask a guy about his hair and it’s importance to his psyche and you’ll get a myriad of answers. Hair was the centerpiece to Sam Malone on ‘Cheers’ and to quote the great Malone “Education will open doors, a great head of hair will blow them off their hinges!”
Tony Manero in “Saturday Night Fever” threatened everyone with the battle cry…”Don’t touch to hair!”
Hell, a whole musical was devoted to follicle fashion complete with a chorus by hair heavy Broadway show tunes belters…’Gimme a head with hair, long beautiful hair…’ Even Mad Ave is mad about Hair Club for Men. Sure the bald look Aryan nation look is high fashion for the current (I hate the term ‘millennial) Millennial Metrosexual No Zen Gen Male but who really wants who to look like a drug cartel gangsta.
I admit to being a member of Hairaholics Anonymous..alway have ...always will...but...mens hairstyles throughout the ages have not always been what I would deem Hair Happy Heaven starting with the Prince Valiant piano and fern bar hairdresser on cocaine look sported about at jousts and floggings during the reign of the heady hair days of those madcap off with their heads days of yore...bad hair? To the guillotine you go….just a trim please...leave it long on top but lose the head.
The Wild West is noted for wilder hair. Unkempt, unwashed, smelling like a bad week in a barn that even a dash of scented oil won’t cure. Plaster it down with bear grease and voila...Camptown Lady Chick Magnet who looks good in a rustic way but still smells like an old spittoon.
In the 20th Century you had the 23 Skiddoo parted in the middle like Alfalfa college sis boom bah hair that screamed…”Boola Boola, I’m a fucking dork but I have a Stutz Bearcat!
Blame it on F. Scott Fitzgerald…
By the atomic age 1950’s….buzz cuts and flat tops were all the rage among those lovable rebels without a cause. The Mohawk flat top look made every kid look like an aircraft carrier but then again, it was the Cold War and a little intimidation went a long way.
The juvenile delinquent age was upon us and with it came cascading waterfalls of greased leather jacketed hair with the telltale Brian Setzer duck ass duck tail combed in back to absolute perfection. It was rockabilly time! Then it happened...the King of Rock and Roll Hair, Elvis was inducted into Uncle Sam’s army and the hair fell to the floor faster than the Twin Towers….Remember Bye Bye Birdie the musical...we love you Conrad...oh yes we do...yep...Faux Elvis shorn as sure as Sampson was..
The biggest event in hair history has been likened to what is referred to as the Hair Holocaust when the Wet Head Dago Greaser Brylcream (‘a little dab will do ya!’) battalions went to the dry side and the bushy bushy blonde surfs up dude look. Brylcream and Butch Wax was out….waxing your woody was now hip.
Then our hair got fab and gear as four mop tops set a new men’s hair fashion trend that made us all wish we were Paul McCartney...hell he’d hit a high note, shake his head screaming yeah, yeah, yeah and there wasn’t a girl who wouldn’t say, Yes, Yes, Yes!
The 80’s brought us the world of rock and roll hair bands...Poison, etc. Massive amounts of hair of mass destruction making perfectly coiffed hair almost manly….ALMOST! The only hair of the era that looked natural was Robert Plants!
The 90’s Country Music scene raised a hair monster called...we still live in fear of it...The Mullet!! Thank you Billy Ray Cyrus for this remnant of days on the River Deliverance! They can still be spotted in Downriver Detroit area were redneck hair habits die hard.
Today it’s pansy ponytails and horrendous man buns! Next will be the Princess Leah look with a man bun on each side of the male head.
And whats with the 5 o’clock shadow facial hair metrosexuals are so fond of? Good Gawd...no..don’t tell me the Richard Nixon Look is back..where the hell is Kennedy’s head of hair when we need it…
Now we have a president sporting hair that could be the dead body of the Scarecrow in the wizard of Oz and Wayne Newton is really the reincarnation of the Big Boy Restaurant statue!!
Inner-View of an Outer-Mind Series- Part One
Mike Marino Interview
By Arthur S. Burns
Editor of The Sal Mimeo-graph Back Alley Writers Magazine
Soho, London, Offices also Berlin, San Francisco, Tokyo
This is the first in a series of sit down, kif smoking interviews with opiated writer Mike Marino who hates interviews, but relented when we offered to pay all his expenses including a supply of hallucinogens and alcohol to meet us here in a run down Spanish firecracker vine cover villa on the sun drenched coast of Spain. He was late in arriving and was visibly under the influence when at last he did arrive.
AB: Glad you could finally make it Mr. Marino. We have been looking forward to this chat and will also have questions for you that our readers have sent in.
MM: (Mumbles something about illiteracy and reaches in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and pours a drink from the wine bottle next to him on the table.) I prefer to drink from a Dixie Cup but cut glass with a sharp tone will do. Your magazine must do very well by the spread you laid out here.
AB: Please, if you don’t mind, I’d like to begin the interview.
MM: Start your tape and let’s go then.
AB: When was the last time you were in Spain?
MM: I don’t see how that is important but if you must know it was during one of my reincarnations. I fought against Franco and told Picasso to paint some pictures of the civil war and taught Hemingway how to duck and cover.
AB: Seriously, you were here in Seventies and had to leave the country in a hurry. Why was that, the facts are murky.
MM: I was having an affair with Princess Sofia, Presidente Juan Carlos wife. The first lady of Spain. Mick Jagger and I had a bet on of who could bag the most international first ladies in a year. Neither of us wanted Pat Nixon so we looked around and bang boom! We couldn’t even imagine Pat doing it with Dick...Nixon that is who was a dick.
AB: How much has changed since the Sixties. Is there still a revolution going on?
MM: Revolution as political evolution is always going on. It’s as perpetual as the atomic clock and varies in intensity. We had the war in Vietnam, fears of nuclear destruction of the entire planet and our worst nightmare emerged in the 70’s….Disco, although I wouldn’t have minded a tumble with Grace Jones. Dig a babe with a drill sergeant flat top you could land a drone on. Yes, there is discourse, a better word, Trump Not My President, Hillary The Angel of Death, a nasty pipeline on rez land...terrorism, immigration, hell yes there’s a revolution as yet unresolved but at least there is enough juice to keep activism alive and well….
AB: Have you ever been abducted by UFO’s?
MM: Ah, I saw that one coming. You’ve been talking to editor Cheryl again.
She by the way is an illegal alien from Boston. All Bostonians are illegal and from Mars.
I could be honest and admit to it, so yes. I have been. In fact I was aboard the same craft as Gene Roddenberry years ago. We were in our guest quarters and I said to him over a bottle of Anduluvian wine…”this could make for a great TV show...that night drunk, we wrote a rough draft of a pilot called “Star Trek Keeps on Truckin’” It would have Jerry Garcia as a spaceman landing in Haight Ashbury where everyone was stoned and would believe it...we were gonna film it on location and even got Allen Ginsberg to sign on as a poem howling robot who falls in love with Mr Spock played by William Burroughs.
(MM jumps up and dashes to the radio and turns it on but doesn’t tune it in and sits back down)
MM: I need radio static in the background. It relaxes me. Like a good massage or an even better blow job in Thailand.
(We decided to go out and grab something to eat as MM is always animated and can’t sit still so I turned off the recorder and we agreed to resume later that night and the next day.)
AB: I have a lot of reader questions regarding writing methods etc. Are you going to be up to those?
MM: It’s your magazine and will be happy too...as long as you keep footing the bill… I need a hooker tonight ...are you willing to pay for that too...I mean an expensive one who can create magic and speaks no English?
AB: Off the record yes.
MM: Call it a dinner expense, you know room service...I ate the maid for dessert!
Inner-View of an Outer-Mind Series- Part Two
The China Girl and Typing with Egg-Rolls
Mike Marino Interview
By Arthur S. Burns
Editor of The Sal Mimeo-graph Back Alley Writers Magazine
Soho, London, Offices also Berlin, San Francisco, Tokyo…
(This segment of the interview took place in a Chinese opium den and Celestial bordello in Paris that used to be the playground of Stanley Kubrick and author, Terry Southern and includes questions posed by readers)
AB: (Mike fires up another bowl of black, thick opium before he is ready to talk)
Are you ready to continue?
MM: How much am I being paid for this? At least pick up the tab on the drugs and the China girl over in the corner and I’ll answer any and all you toss at me.
AB: (We did pick up the tab by the way!)
From one of our readers, How do you store your work, how do you write, do you use typewriters?
MM: Wow! Fully automatic...bap bap bap. As to the first part, I store all my work in a condom. I blow one up so each page will fit in and not cause a pregnancy. No, OK, I store my work on a thumb drive as well as keep typewritten hard copies. I believe in paper, I don’t trust the digital realm all that much, I like a typewriter because you can feel the words lock and load on the page. How do I write? I prefer swinging on a trapeze naked, but it scares the neighbors who have threatened me with straight jackets and tranquilizers, so I sit near a window so I can look outside, for escape if need be and always have music on..Ramones, Tim Buckley, Traffic, something to fit my mood and the piece, but never a polka. Makes me want to get up and do a Polish folk dance when I should be writing.
AB: Another question. When is it that you decide what to reveal that is personal and what to keep under wraps? some of your things appear to be personal but are completely fictitious....when they are taken as truth how do you respond?
MM: This person must work for the CIA. They follow me everywhere since I killed Kennedy in Dallas. Let’s see I never keep nor kept anything under wraps of a personal nature. I’ve written about my drug use, sexual diversity, growing up as a Cathoholic, my days as a young thief, high school dropout, my problem with stuttering and my four marriages that floundered and crashed on the shore leaving seaweed and debris in it’s wake. I do write about them sprinkling auto bio clues in my writing from a third person standpoint but mostly first person. I add elements of fiction to them, just as I add elements of my auto past to my fiction, my new books for example. I helps me deal with fact, and the fiction without fucking me up, and leaves a trail of breadcrumbs for the reader to follow and step through my looking glass.
AB: (Mike then started speaking in Japanese to the Chinese girl then switched to a bad Cajun accent asking her if she would have sex in exchange for a bowl of alligator gumbo telling her he was a heterosexual Truman Capote and had written books about China disguised as Pearl Buck..She had a blank look stamped on her face, as did I. She of course smiled and said “Yes” not fully knowing what she was getting into or rather letting in!)
AB: When you do reveal something of a personal nature and it is received in whatever manner....i.e. good or bad....how do you deal with it?
MM: Mostly I get positive reaction. If I do get a negative reaction I feel it’s their problem, not mine. Write your own books and see what happens.
AB: When your words are taken in a direction you never intended what is your method for dealing with the issue?
MM: I go along for the ride just to see where it takes me, more fun that way, No net, no direction, no literary compass.
AB: Ever think of writing your auto bio?
MM: I do it in pieces every day...I’ve been working my auto bio for 4 years now and believe in ‘term limits’ so someday will get to it.
AB: Any advice for young writers just starting out?
MM: Keep at it or go work at McDonalds. It’s a solitary craft and you need a dungeon mentality mostly but I can write while talking on the phone, listening to a ball game or even sitting here bullshitting with you. Also diversify..don’t limit yourself to one subject arena or you’ll burn out and crash.
AB: I take that as a compliment.
MM: Don’t! Now pass that bowl over here..you’ve hogged it long enough. Don’t forget to pay these people. Now if you’ll excuse me. I need sex with an egg roll and China girl there.
AB: (He disappeared upstairs with his China Girl a ball of opium and I’m sure he found an eggroll somewhere in the establishment!)
Next Segment: Cancer, Comedians and Conjugal Visits in the E-Books Madhouse
Inner-View of an Outer-Mind Series- Part Three
Mike Marino Interview By Arthur S. Burns
(This segment was conducted at the Bohemian Hotel in Amsterdam)
AB: So, it comes down to this …….sex and drugs and the written word.
MM: You brought it up….to me if reading a good book doesn’t give you a mental orgasm it needs more work. Words can be a dildo in the reader’s mind...libido on alert and all that, you know. An exclamation point is merely punctuation with an erection.
AB: I want to get back to writing...spoken word performances which you’ve given and writers groups. Are you a joiner?
MM: Joiner? No. I hate writers groups, let me explain, writers who whine about not being able to write, or rely on others writers for tips, ideas, to me they aren’t writers. They’re posers. I do belong to two groups however...20 Dissidents (writers group of Neo-Beat writers in NYC) and the Outlaw Poets Society (also in NYC)
I’ve done a few spoken word performances, but mainly when I’m at one end of the country, say California, someone in New York wants to have my works read...so I send it to them and ask them to find a college student in a drama class to do it..their interpretation as opposed to mine...in other words….real theatrical stuff. I was asked to read my Latino Zoot Suit piece to a group of Young Latino Socialists in LA but had it read by one of them after they translated it in Espanol...I was proud and honored by it.
AB: Why is sex so important to us as humans?
MM: here are certain things in life that are beyond mere benchmark moments, but point of fact are defining moments that bend us, shape us, and mold us like clay sculptures making us a homogeneous mixture of perceptions as we intake and process events the propel us on our personal paths as homo sapiens acting internally and at times infernally as real crowd pleasers balancing on the unbalanced scales of personal illumination such as THE first fuck we ever experienced with that limber trapeze artist Next to fucking, reading is sexy to me, writing even sexier, almost ejaculatory in fact as orgasm is reached when the last period takes a bow and places itself on the page, end of the performance, SRO, applause applause.
(He reaches for a pack of Zig Zags and proceeds to roll what he calls an Ethel Merman, one hell of a fat joint that is the length of two papers and as round as three...Moroccan he thinks, bought it from a Tunisian street vendor in the Red Light district)
MM: Fire this up and I’ll interview you and those thugs the publishers sent.
AB: Ah, no, tape is running you know. Drugs figure prominently in your life. Opium, marijuana, LSD, Etc.
MM: For a minute I thought you were going to say I’ve snorted or shot up LDS, Church of the Latter Day Saints. Believe me I’ve never once inhaled a Mormon or got psychedelic with a polygamous prophet When I began writing a I was hopped up on speed and weed and LSD. The weed and LSD created the images I clearly wanted to plaster to the blank pages of my writing journal, spray can graffiti on an alley wall, while the high octane speed created an amphetamine anthology that to his day I cannot understand. In effect, I was speaking in tongues. I was a a comfortably numb mime!
Later, I had matured to opium, morphine and cocaine to the volatile confusion of psychedelic fusion ...I increased the intake of pills and anything else I could get my hands on, uppers, downers, (Darvon a favorite) mescaline, LSD, marijuana, opium, morphine, and strangely, no booze.
AB: Being here in Amsterdam has be a feeling akin to Brer Rabbit being in the briar patch for you, yes?
MM: I’ve never heard anyone say ‘akin’ in my life except in the deep south. ‘Yep, that poor toothless bastard talking to himself is ‘a kin’ to me. Cousin I thinks, but he is kin folk. Been in a home recently..too much mercury in the creek or is it crick? Anyway he slurs his words and plays banjo 18 hours a day
AB: Amsterdam?
MM: Yep, it’s ‘akin’ to Alice’s Restaurant where you can get anything you want and there’s even a marijuana hall of fame. Seriously! The first inductee was the Godfather of Ganja, Bob Marley. Subsequent inductees include beatniks Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, William Burroughs, Neal Cassady, along with peaceniks Bob Dylan, and Joan Baez. Then, to really jazz it up one year, they inducted the one and only...Louis Armstrong into the hallowed halls of mellow. Hello, Doobie!
AB: The sex here in the city is pretty ‘anything goes’ I know that must also be an attraction for you.
MM: Yes, most definitely. Prostitution is legal and the Red Light District is a fertile ground for the sexual imagination. Walk down the streets and the windows attractively display flesh and fantasy in equal amounts. You can find everything from a ménage a trois to a giddyup session with a ponygirl. Shops sell everything from bottom-pleasing riding crops to bridles and saddles to harness that pony girl in training, as well as forced maid costuming and a dazzling array of bondage and discipline—and they are everywhere.
AB: Part of your payment for agreeing to these interviews...you asked for gift certificates for $250 each for Absolute Danny’s and the Condomerie. These aren’t exactly Sears or Wal-Mart.
MM: No in fact they are more ‘akin’, I’m starting to like that word now, to Lord and Taylor or Tiffany’s for degenerates. Absolute Danny is positively orgasmic. It's the Fort Knox of vaginal weaponry and includes the atomic bomb of self-gratification, the amazing Tarzan Dildo. Condomerie, one of the oldest and largest erection emporiums in town has every conceivable size, shape and style of penis wear finery to be found in Europe. They have an explosive rainbow selection of colors and hues, and when it comes to varieties of condom flavors it's the Baskin Robbins of Latex. The artsy fartsy crowd can also get their rocks off as they stare in amazement at a concrete example of erectus eroticus art in the form and shape of a giant penis fountain with spinning balls and all, and a water flow to qualify it as Viagra Falls!
(Next - Final Segment Politics, The President, The Draft and Women, and Why The Human Body is a Malfunctioning Machine that should be recalled)
Canada and USA Go Loonie Toonie President Donald Trump met with Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau yesterday, and the Mike Marino News Network was on hand to catch the gaffes and goofs. By introducing the PM as “my good Canuck friend” shocked the assembled journalists who were further taken aback when Trump said, “Don’t take and wooden Loonies from this guy, remember his mom had an affair with Mick Jagger and is his illegitimate son, not Keith Richards as so many think!”
The PM, looking PO’d then entered into private talks where we had a hidden microphone inside Ivanka Trump’s designer bra and managed to pick up most of the conversations when it wasn’t muffled by breast interference. Trump wants Canada to pay for the Mexican Wall stating, “they don’t have a peso or a pot to piss in, so I need your people to fork over some of that funny money or when we deport our illegals we will do so in Alberta! In exchange you can deport all your Eskimos here where they came from! That way they will be Canada’s EX-kimos! We promise to return Michal J. Fox and Martin Short who have been held along with other Canadian celebrities in Guantanamo. You get Whoopie Goldberg and Robert DiNiro and we’ll toss in Madonna.
Which led to a heated exchange about Canadian currency. “Your damned quarters won’t fit in our vending machines and no Korean grocer in any American ghetto will accept them as legal tender for a pack a pack of breath mints. Worse yet, no Pakistani owner of a 7/11 (aside to an aide “Was that when the Twin Towers fell?”) will give a guy a giant Slurpee or day old corn dog for that shit!” Trudeau was visibly shaken and you could hear the jingle of $500 dollars worth of Loonies in his pocket nervously crashing about.
Trump continued his in your face tirade..“What about this "eh" thing? It means so many things to so many people, Canadians, but perplexing to the rest of the English speaking world. Don't forget "oot" and "aboot" we can help set up an American literacy program to help correct this insane situation!”
Which brings up another aspect. Canadian cuisine. Trump added “Usually in a conversation when deciding where to dine during the evening it's usually discussed and decided by choosing a Chinese restaurant, or for the Yuppie wannabe, "Let's do Thai" or "Have you tried that new French restaurant?" Search your soul and be absolutely honest with us and yourself...how many times have you ever heard anyone suggest to another..."Lets try that new Canadian restaurant that opened last week. I hear the waitresses wear plaid skirts and Elmer Fudd hunting hats and the cook carries a shotgun at all times." Well...have you, eh?
Cross tourism was discussed and to help promote Canada Melania Trump came up with some catchy slogans such as “I hear Manitoba rocks!" and "Saskatchewan is sexy!" or "Ontario is Orgasmic!"
In another surprise agreement, Trudeau signed an agreement that would allow a Tower De Trump to be open in Quebec in exchange for the US allowing for a Canadian themed amusement park to be opened in Orlando called “Canuckland” a happy place to shell out hard earned Loonies and any paper money with the Queen’s portrait. All signage for example will be in English and French just in case there is a French Canadien influx to the Mad Hatter Montreal Exhibit. Exit signs will not say "Exit" or "Out" but instead will say "Oot and Aboot" when patrons want to egress the Kingdom of Beaverland.
Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck will not be featured in the park, but famous Canucksters such as Dudley Do-Right, Klondike Kat , Captain Copyright, and Captain Canuck come to life to amaze, delight and frighten some children. Captain Canuck himself will fight evil from South of the Border...the Canadian Border that is while doing battle with American Automatons who surge across the border in droves illegally to share in the Canadian dream...whatever that is. The right to drink real beer and warm ale..to be able to say the word "beaver" without some thinking it’s part of a fur laden section of below the belt anatomy...anatomy autonomy..power to the Beaver..as the Beaver is all powerful..just ask any male. Remember...when in doubt...leave it to beaver!
The John Candy roller coaster ride is another thrill packed extravaganza when you load up into a Candymobile and race down the track at an astounding ....I don't know how fast..it's in kilometers dammit and I only know miles per hour..but it's fast..for Canada.
There is a tram/train that you can board for free to get to one part of the park and the other...it's called the Duke Ellington "Eh Train" that also serves a buffet of all you can eat Canadian Cuisine...whatever that is. Fried beaver tail without the glands, snails for a fancy gastronomical French tickler and potatoes..always potatoes with them!
PM Trudeau will take to the stage every night after the fireworks with comedy sketches from his Not Ready For Prime Time Prime Minisiter Players. He's a laugh a minute and cruises along at ...damn it..the kilometer thing again...anyway..Trudeau is proof...Ottawans Rock..and you thought Saskatooners were funny..forgettabout it. The show ends when the Dudley Do Right Dancers do the Dudley Voo Do-Right chant where Captain Canuck and his girlfriend Fuck A. Canuck (from the Northwest Territories) blend their voices in song with a medley of Neil Young folk songs from his days with Crosby, Stills, Innuit and Young.
Cali-Canada Eh?M
Once again America extends the hand of freedom in an effort to mate our Pacific Left Coast as an appendage to Canada, via British Columbia. In case you missed it, the Larry, Moe and Curly of Pacific States, California, Oregon and Washington are passing petitions like a fat man with gas to secede from the Union and become a part of….yep...Canada!
I have no problem with this. Canada has been trying unsuccessfully for years to effect the return of P.O.W.s Michael J. Fox, Martin Short and Alex Trebeck to the Motherland, but the entire tri state area joining the Commonwealth? Has anyone bothered to ask Canada if they even want these people?
It’s good for the states, hell Canada can shell out for free medical care for them and border security between Mexico and California would now be a cost borne by Ottawa as it would now be THEIR border.
Tim Horton restaurants will now be Taco Bell lunch trucks called Hola, Eh? For California with its preponderance of violent gang members, you will now have access to that lucrative Saskatoon market craving crack cocaine and drive by shootings will now be done on snowmobiles. Vicious murderers...rejoice...NO DEATH PENALTY!
The former states can keep their current jobs but will now get paid in Canadian Currency...not valued as much but damn….the paper money is pretty as hell, and don’t think of spending any Canadian coins in the US, unless you visit Detroit, a suburb of Windsor the only place that will take Loonies as payment for food stamps.
You’ll enjoy Curling championships for high energy excitement, and former US citizens will enjoy showing their new Canadian bro’s how to properly carjack a Jaguar. Cultural exchange let’s call it.
All those Hollywood celebs who promised to leave if Trump was elected? Problem now solved. See you at the Yellowknife Film Festival, which is a lot like the Oscars but much colder and no red carpet...it’s plaid.
Canada may not want you. If not look westward across the Pacific. Australia used to be a penal colony. It could be again. Or look to Mexico, and tear down that border Mr. Gorbechev!
I wish you well, but no matter who takes you in...take damned Idaho and those nazi skinheads with you!!!
POTUS
Two words, rather one word, one acronym have been fascinating me lately. The first is Aleppo. The city in Syria known for battles and bullets. When I first heard the name months ago I thought Aleppo was the forgotten Marx Brother. Groucho, Chico, Harpo, Zeppo and obviously Aleppo Marx. Never could figure which film he was in than it all came together….A Night At The Civil War!
The acronym of interest is POTUS, President of the United States. I thought at first it was geared to us dope smoking old hippies...Pot For Us! Wrong. It’s a word that can not only replace words but have multiple meaning such as Putin was putzin’ with his potus again mama! Nothing like a little potus envy eh? “Is that a POTUS in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?”
Or it could be a new car model….Ladies and Gentlemen...I give you the 2017 Potus!!! “Is it a hybrid?” “No son, it’s made in the south...so it’s an inbred!”
Over the weekend of course the whole tangled up mess at airports of persons barred from entry from 7 countries determined by the Obama Administration and Congress to be potential breeders of terrorism. POTUS Trump may through another Executive Order add Iceland and New Jersey for the hell of it.
PM Justin Trudeau of Canada said he and Canada would welcome these refugees and immigrants barred entry into the US. (Every third person in Canada is named Trudeau by the way) This is a win win situation. First it will be easier to learn to speak Canadian versus English as they have only four primary words...EH, Sorry, Oot & Aboot! They have said he is the son of former PM Pierre Trudeau and wife Margaret...remember she did have an affair with Mick Jagger so I dispute what the Canadians claim.
If a refugee really has a need to enter the US (Remember, American citizens visiting in Canada need a passport...to return to the US!) it’s easy...just cross over anywhere in Montana. The only border guard on duty and our line of defense is one guy with a lawn mower.
If there is a terrorist in the group, and there may be one that got slipped into the deck, they can exercise their stock in trade in the Great White North by joining the Separatist Movement in Quebec.
Iraq has countered by barring American Tourists to its country. Who in hell will want to spend a vacation in a battle zone. “Vacation this year?” “Yep, just bought a cottage and some automatic weapons..we’re going fishing near Camp Yippee Ki Ya. The kids love it there...last year they learned archery, how to swim in sand and make vest bombs.”
So much for this weekend…..it’s Monday get ready to rumble with the news….
The Inaugural Ballroom Blitz - Part One
Before I begin my actual commentary on the culmination of a most excellent adventure in democracy gone berserk, a real Clockwork Orange of an election campaign, I feel I should explain my own political background, as it is a rock and roll strewn road of….dare I utter the “L” word? Liberalism, you know the one with more side effects than most medications that at times can cause an erection to last more than 16 hours. That would be embarrassing while wearing kilts and having your bagpipe blow out a rousing rendition of “Hold On, I’m Coming”
I’ve categorized myself rightly or wrongly as a Tom Joad Leftist for years. Remember that great Henry Fonda speech in Grapes of Wrath. Yeah, that Tom Joad.
My parents were die hard (no pun intended) Kennedy liberals with more folk music on black vinyl that I’m surprised the despised Sen. Joe McCarthy never called them to testify. They donated to every social cause that came panhandling at societies door.
In the Sixties I was loving it up in a double dome purple haze in Haight Ashbury, marched for civil rights, and then while in the Army worked writing for the Ally military underground newspaper against the war and led a moratorium march in uniform which got me arrested. Hung out with Jane Fonda for an evening, George Carlin for another evening...voted for Gus Hall and Angela Davis in the 80’s and spent a day acting as her tour guide in Detroit when they held their convention there..the red bear and the black panther. When the war in Iraq broke out I wrote an anti-war piece on it that got published on Michael Moore's website.
I did an article for the Ally newspaper exposing a racist incident on Okinawa while stationed there...the brass sent me to a disciplinary barracks, for going over their heas (Ever seen the movie “Cadence”?) then they were gonna ship me to Vietnam as punishment as a tunnel rat with only a short time to go before my ETS....I beat them by contacting Sen. Philip Hart of Michigan (Hart Plaza is named after him by the way) He tied them up with so much red tape it looked like Christmas. (He sent copies of all his to them, and then to him correspondence to me which I saved) My daughter still has all the correspondence in storage..I won that one.
I formed a left leaning theater group in Detroit in the early 70’s after I got out of the army...we were sightly affiliated with the White Panther Party and the MC5. We made the hit parade of the Detroit Police Red Squad as subversives...photographed, etc.
I successfully fought the fed government who wanted to prosecute me for certain activities deemed dangerous to them ,,,not attending Reserve Meetings! I already did three years active duty and didn’t see the need for more of my superpowers to protect America from perceived evil....one of my attorneys to help me beat the case was noted Detroit civil rights attorney Ken Cockrell.
I was a member of the Human Rights Party in Michigan that got our members on the City Council in the People’s Republic of Ann Arbor, which made marijuana possession a misdemeanor... and yes I was then and am now member of NORML.
Meeting politicos began early for me. I was 4 or 5 when Eisenhower was campaigning in Detroit. My grandpa took me downtown to join the crowd...he had me sitting on his shoulders when Ike came by pressing the flesh. He stopped...started smiling and shook my hand and said…”Don’t forget to vote!” I vaguely remember this, but the story was told to me years later by him and my grandma who was also there.
Other politicians I had met by chance or through interviews were Jimmy Carter, an absolutely wonderful man, Bill Clinton who had a great sense of humor. I used to do a phone interview with one of Democratic Senators of Michigan on my Michigan radio show once a week...I’d have a Republican on as well alternating weeks...this week was Dem week and it turns out he was coming back to Michigan from DC and flying with Clinton on Air Force One...the office secretary came running in the morning show studio…”It’s Air Force One for you!” I thought it was joke...I answered the phone live on the air and son of a bitch...anyway got to get Clinton on the line and had him play our trivia game as a joke..he went along with it. I had Dan Quayle on radio too and we did a mock spelling bee (Remember Potato/e?) There were others but these are the standouts
Blame it on my parents and my grandpa...they gave me a fever for human rights….and a to borrow a phrase...a fear and loathing of politicians!
Next in Part Two…..The Ballroom Blitz of Donald Trump!!
The Inauguration Ball Room Blitz - Part Two
By Mike Marino
This hallucinatory event would have been one hell of rush to cover loaded on a pedal to the metal speed and acid run for some media company like CBS or some other stale and staid enterprise primed for prime time coverage and on camera comes their correspondent-reporter-freeloading freelancer telling the telly audience that he has seen blue fire shooting from an intern’s arse while they loaded up Air Force One with rolling papers and pornographic magazines to drop over Nebraska in an effort to get the state residents to lay down their arms, legs, and other detachable plastic limbs and goddamn it...Surrender!!
Soon the effects would get dreamy with a mason jar of red and yellow pills and could cover the event from high in the sky overhead mumbling in newly learned Slovenian “Republicans are playing with worry beads dressed as blind guru con artists looking the fleece the flock of Beatles and Beach Boys, while bald Buddhist monks wait for self immolation to spontaneously occur and dissolve into ash and come back as a brick of hash in another life.
Dateline: Doesn’t matter. The Concert
Where the hell was Kid Rock??? I was eagerly waiting for the American Badass and Detroit Hometown Bad Boy to kick it up with some real car-jack nation rock & roll shit at the Inaug Concert. He does offer a line of Trump -Shirts after all, and for the ladies, just an idea now, how about Trump teddies he could say is from the upcoming Fall Trump I Love Women Fondling Fashion line-up. I’ve seen better lineups in Detroit’s 13th Precinct for mugging suspects when there for stealing a car...my parents car at that….!!! Tough love, tough shit.
Other than Lee Greenwood’s home run making “Proud to be an American” it wasn’t only not a cherry bomb or M-80 of a line up,but was about as exciting as a kids sparkler on the 4th of July or as Hillary would say, Quatro de Julio. Or as I would say, Suzi Quatro & Julio! Leather Pants and a Mariachi singer from Albuquerque. Lee Greenwood rocked the crowd….half of them in uniforms past from WWII, the so called big one, with tears streaming down their cheeks...
Toby Keith? I’ve met him, got rip snortin’ rodeo drunk with him and his band and roadies while M’ing two of his concerts and partied on the bus and he is great at State Fairs and great fun....but Inaug worthy...He should have stopped in his tracks and yelled “We Are Not Worthy” (In my first meet with Toby we were at an outdoor concert in California...before the show I was on the bus to get an interview and our pudgy sales rep tagged along..Toby and company kept hitting on him (as a joke) as the more nervous he got...the harder they played,,,we left to go back to our remote equipment to broadcast, taped interview by a drunken Toby, interviewed by a drunk me) We told our on site engineer about it...and he said…”Hell, he’d have offered me money!” He was Georgia so hence the Deliverance aura.)
3 Doors Down was OK...nothing that a heroin habit couldn’t fix, and damn...The Piano Guys? Great if you’re expecting a polka band with a keg of beer to come rolling into a frat party. The worst case scenario have been an appearance by a Slovenian mime and folk dancing troupe complete with blind jugglers with swords and a dancing Croatian bear that can imitate Rosie O’Donnell….does a bear or Rosie shit in the woods? Most interesting would have been Madonna in a Cher sanctioned chastity belt, belting out “Burn, Baby, Burn”
From a fashion standpoint, as I play Mr. Blackwell here, it was a clearly a contest between Oscar De Laurenta and St. Vincent de Paul Thrift Shops. This was not a Camelot Kodak moment. Jacqueline Kennedy could compete with Melania on the runway, but DJ Trump does not have the hair to pull off a JFK. Michelle was thrift shop sedate and looked like she was ready to finish loading the U-Haul and was puzzled and perplexed when receiving a gift wrapped box from Melania as a token. Of course the return address label was a dead give-a-way..it was marked simply …”From Ted Kaczynzky, Montana” Kaczynsky? Isn’t that Slovenian?
The two first ladies smiled a lot at each other, they have too… it comes with the territory, Inside there was a tempestuous tempest brewing as both were probably ready for some Cat Scratch Fever. Now a T&A mud wrestling match in chocolate and whipped cream between the two would have been worth the wait. The First Ladies duking it out in salacious debauchery followed by pole dancing competition between the Trump Daughters and the Obama Daughters. To be fair all four are strip club worthy prick teasers of White House caliber. Bill Clinton offered to be the judge while the media cameras caught Hillary making out with Bernie Sanders in the bleachers swapping Bazooka bubble gum back and forth. George Bush was grabbing at a female secret service woman whispering….”My bird...your bush”
The A-List Seats...fortunately Obama didn’t go out in the dark of early dawn and set out a bunch of whoopie cushions. It would have been an interesting interlude during the gap between speeches. Jimmie Carter was busy building Strip Clubs for the homeless on Connecticut Ave. in between nodding out in his chair and was that Bob Dole they rolled out or his corpse? Apparently the formaldehyde didn’t take effect and the taxidermist hadn’t made a house call yet.
Ruth Bader Ginsberg, of the Popiel Ginsu Knife fortune, looked more like a ‘Star Wars’ Ewok Ruth Buzzy than a justice of the Supreme Court. I always wonder what judges are doing with their hands when they have that robe on and Clarence Thomas’ action zone starts shaking and quaking?
As for the Women’s March...it was better than a singles bar. I’ve seen marches where women bared their breasts to express their right to go topless. Well, dammit, then I am a feminist too...I fully support that right! A working woman in the US based on a winning case in Brazil, is fighting for masturbation breaks at work. I’m all for that too….unless you’re a two time convicted male felon fry cook just out of prison, (‘Waitress, the Hollandaise sauce tastes funny?”) The White House would be at it 24/7….Ladies and gentlemen of the press...I give you the First Lady, Melania Trump….(a hush comes over the press room while Wolf “Thumper” Blitzer is going at it hard and fast giving it one final thump for Trump.
Violence in America? Is it New and Improved?
American society hasn’t changed all that much since the days of the old west, wild west, far west westward ho. Violence has always been part and parcel of us. I can remember when Billy the Kid’s mom showed up at a Congressional Hearing on Youth Violence demanding that warning labels be provided on all boxes of ammo sold to teenage gangs of horseback riding rustlers and hustlers. She also claimed that “today’s youth watch far too many lynchings in Dodge City. Another aspect of the growth of teen violence is when a thrilled audience of Regulators watched Bat Masterson chew the head off of Ozzie Osbourne in the Opera House in Wichita.
Jesse and Frank James might have followed a much different career path had it not been for the election of that Republican President Elect Lincoln and the violence in the streets he touched off. His hair and hat were bad enough but that beard! His violent rhetoric to move the Native Americans to reservations and he authorized the hangings of some 200 plus participants of the Sioux uprising of 1862. The Great Emancipator.
His Republican rhetoric divided the country as race relations became the focus. He freed the slaves but put no safeguards in place to prevent the lynchings, beatings, and segregation that would follow for over a century. Great brain trust! “Ok, you’re free now and all you southerners and freed Negroes, play nice now. We are all equal. Now I’m going to the theater tonight at the Fillmore, do a couple of hits of purple haze and chill out. I hear this play really blows your mind...especially the guitar solos of Rick Derringer
Later his legacy gave us the Ku Klux Klan! The Klan, formed by the Democrats I might add flourished in the in the late 1860s, seeking to overthrow the Republican state governments especially by using violence against African American leaders!
Native American teens of the old west, like teens today were lost in a world of smoke signal texting and and just hanging out at the nearest Spirit World 7/11 listening to the original percussion only version of pre-Ventures “Pipeline”
As for Westward Wagons Ho...It was an early version of Occupy Wall Street, only this time it was Occupy the Whole Enchilada.
Violence is not new, or improved. If it was, it would be packaged and sold by the Mad Hats of Mad Ave. Street Gangs? Those began with the Irish in NYC in the 1700’s. Drug use? Blame the writers and poets of the 1800’s. Drive-by shootings? Blame Edgar Hodgkinson, an Amish mental patient who went berserk in Lancaster, Pennsylvania when he went buggy in his buggy after smoking a portion of his beard mixed with opium he purchased from an Anabaptist Chinese dealer from Anaheim.
Bad guys of the old west were glorified in action packed dime novels….today, they end up on t-shirts. Violence in music…ever listen to Clementine and her demise?
Tiny Tim Cratchit the question always arises whether he was merely a pathetic kid with a dork hat limping around on a pair of Cratchit crutches or was he just a pain killer addict scamming the system with stolen prescriptions and as devious as the doctor who performs lobotomies for public executions for fun and wild eyed sinister imperial prophets who watch all knowingly and all impervious to the pain of having fire extinguishers extinguish themselves distinctively before their expiration date with the girl next door explodes in a beehive hairdo mist of hairspray of tricked out hot rod flames of strawberry milk shakes and flavored condoms, if you like peppermint that is, mortar and pestle’d with pharmacological precision as the finest workings of a Swiss watch made in an underground laboratory with a non functioning lavatory were the flushing mechanisms are illusory at best but can tell the story of how one Tiny Tim stole the crutches from the local orphanage after pushing the twins down the wooden steps of a crumbling building in the Russian Steppes as wild vodka peasants cheered the appearance of Red Zeppelin at the Winter Palace during an evening of bullshit at the Bolshoi with bolsheviks dressed as head hunting head waiters on the headwaters of the Amazon with poison spears and forked tongues looking for a screwdriver, and anyone who can drive a screw and pound a nail into Ezra Pound so he can earn his name once and for all to hock it at a Jewish pawn shop to exchange it for a new one with more weight to it than a mere pound or a pint and find a cure in the Alps from a spiritual advisor who knows secrets of such dreaded things as Tiny Tim’s illusions he is always eluding to when drugged up dragged out on Darvons and deranged on watching invisible Muppets doing morphine with strangers from Warsaw dance with sugar plum fairies all the way from Harlem with music in their hypodermic hair they sell on the street as hair hookers at least this is what I was told by Tiny Tim the day he died on a bed of cardboard boxes in the famous Alley of Sheedy near the Jewish Temple of Shirley in Old London Town as he handed over his crutches and proclaimed… Vicodin for All….and Darvon tonight...Merry Pharma Christmas to all…..and enjoy your pharma flight!
Symbols of mythical birds and repulsive reptiles and holier than thou cats, along with carved Egyptians walking like an Egyptian Bangles style etched onto and into the epidermis of rock cave walls and ancient tombs (with the obligatory Indiana Jones curse to ward off trangressors, trespassers, and Roman cross dressers would for centuries suffice sufficiently as “language” or “communication.”
They told dream tales of ancient chariot battles, kings and queens who conquered the known world in a quest for glory and riches. These symbols brought to life the history of the world as it was perceived at the time of Roman sandals and Egyptian mummies. Statuary acted as communication as well, notifying the beholder that they now stood on some powerful pharoah’s property in perpetuity. Faces of the royals were also carved on the walls as tribute to themselves and on the elegant mummy cases used to house the sacred remains…..was this merely language developing or was it as I fear….the first Facebook!
Today, forget the library of Alexandria, the manuscripts of Thebes, and the wisdom of the Byzantine scholars. (Not one ancient cave public bathroom or royal tomb drawings said “For a good time call Cleopatra at CAT-NILE)!
Forget knowledge….wisdom….history! We have Facebook in all it’s glory alive with Emojis, those mystical childish symbols of “mood” complete with a complex array of happy faces to anger faces. Frankly I’ll take an eagle carved 10,000 years ago over those damned silly smiley attempts at “adulthood”
Some walls have so many 20 something female selfies posted row upon row just so some guy will say….You Rock or Baby you’re hot! Except most selfies are not hot and those with pursed lips looks like they just gave a blowjob to a cabdriver coming down from a meth high. Bad enough when a 20 something does it..but in your 30’s…..ha...give it a rest.
Don’t forget the ultimate cry in the Facebook wilderness…”I know who will hug me and who will not...please like and share on your wall” I can see the tomb of king Tut. “Please share this curse if you love me, if not I’ll eat your heart for dinner!” The hug me crowd needs a safe space on the nearest college campus and a pathetic puppy.
The ancients never carved symbols of their dinner on a Stoneware plate. Facebook has more “Look what I’m eating at dinner with friends” in other words…”I have no life off line so food will replace sex.” Or “I’m going offline for a few hours” as if we care and the planets will go out of alignment.” Or people who contact a Facebooker….”Call me here’s my number “ and post it in a comment for all to see...stalkers and Facebookers alike….what, they don’t know how to use IM or Email...lot safer these days.,those are the same ones this week that will end up featured on a John Walsh TV show segment under...STUPIDITY next week. Next time you see that..flood the phone number with pizza orders at 3 am.
Cats have taken over as the Facebook rock stars. Texting as symbols are eradicating language. Words were literature for centuries...Chaucer, Dickens, Wells, Fitzgerald, Thompson, Kesey and the list goes on...until literature was kidnapped by the mass media...political correctness….and cry babies….
Now a good Facebook poke is fine if only it could be placed anywhere on the poked one’s body. Sort of like pin the tail on the donkey only much more personal in placement…
So on that note I poke you where you will get the utmost satisfaction so share this if you believe in world peace and anchovies on your pizza. If you don’t give me a hug I will seek psychiatric help immediately after I post a pic of my french fries taken at a PC Safe Place Campus restaurant.
Early Morning Ramble
Sitting up in the dark quiet morning as I am right now staring at the Picasso-like juxtaposed marvel of an adorned Christmas tree with the jumbled tangle of lights and a visual cacophony (if such a thing can exist as a visual cacophony itself, stealing the audible thunder from it’s meaning.)
Ornaments affixed with tiny hooks, the precautionary measure to providing them safety from falling from their temporary holiday season evergreen (plastic substance of some sort now has replaced Norman Rockwell’s ideal mid-century merry Blue Spruce monolith as well as the Griswold Family Christmas Tree that can electrocute a cat in under 10 seconds flat.
I see the Christmas tree in front of me as a skid row mission, offering shelter for homeless ornaments who for 11 months out of the year, spend endless days and cold nights in a storage box under a freeway overpass. My regular decor….bobble heads, toy robots and Jerry Garcia infused stimuli ignore the ornaments when at last they emerge from Ornament Rehab for Christmas with a holier than thou attitude hogging attention, a free mission meal and a little town of Bethlehem rosary while the mission dispenses gruel and God in equal measure.
I’m staring into the tree now...past it’s shimmering glitz….past the past and secular Santa’s….and the Ghosts of Dickens with General Patton filling in for Marley’s prey.
Christmas is meant for cheer…hell, it’s the Dallas Cheerleader of all holidays. To some, however, the tree itself, the Christmas carols, and 24 hours of cable “Christmas Story” is enough to chamber a bullet and shoot your own eye it.
It’s also the season of suicide hotlines, ambulance sirens racing to the rescue of someone who prefers to be not disturbed. Look past the glimmer of bubble lights, a joyful and wondrous invention, and the tree is dark beyond the front layer of Liberace lights. Peer deep enough and you can see a dark forbidding alley strewn with empty bottles of cheap booze , and the bubble lights are now replaced by syringes and needles. The junkie will cook his lovin’ spoonful with hurried, yet meticulous care, as much care as is given to the basted beast sitting in it’s own Auschwitz oven filled with dressing without the Zyklon B garnish.
As the years travel by at ever increasing speed, family and friends have taken a number while standing in life’s line. “Next!” calls out the cubicle bound attendant. Death takes a number….depression begins to weigh in...it’s a prize fight...in this corner ….the coroner!
Joyeux Noel replaced by mental and physical pain so fierce at times suicide happens….Imagine ….the Suicide Season at the mall. “I’d like to see something in this season’s suicider fashion… None of that off the rack Sears crap either...and I’d like it gift wrapped please. Just charge it, thank you.
Depression is rampant at Christmas. Health problems job loss, loss of a family member, cancer…. A myriad of mental mayhem at play. So remember … suicide season is upon us..like a midnight clear….here comes the night ….so make sure those bubble lights are on ….share the warmth of spirit...lend a helping hand….fill the room with song….and hope...grab the mistletoe and hide the Smith and Wesson...lest we forget….it’s Christmas...make it a merry one. Reach out to someone who needs you...and remember ..Suicide is not painless!
Everybody Must Get Stoned..In Sweden!
Sweden! Think Nordic Viking pillage and plunder expeditions.
Sweden! The country that banned Donald Duck cartoons in the 1950’s because he didn’t wear pants!!! (It’s a duck for Chrissakes, and a cartoon duck on top of that!)
Sweden! The sex change capital of the Donald Duck free world!!!
Sweden! Home of the prestigious Nobel Prize for a myriad of arts, science,humanitarian efforts on behalf of peace and a compost of other laudable life science and arts.
Sweden….where our very own poet laureate, the Hibbing, Minnesota hipster, Mr. B. Dylan pulled a Jimmy Hoffa not appearing in person to accept this of all honors.
Not everybody can get stoned in Stockholm do they Mr. Jones? He claims he had prior engagement. Commendable but really, singing Positively 4th Street in a duet with Kanye at a Bar Mitzvah in Skokie, Illinois, hardly qualifies as a mitigating circumstance! (Yes, this is speculation on my part, as I have no idea what event would have had me cancel a Marx Brothers “Night at the Nobel”
I can imagine the have your people call my people convo.
“Bob Dylan here. Look, this whole Nobel thing is getting out of hand and right now I’m stuck inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again wearing a Leopard Skin Pillbox Hat and reviewing a list of religions I haven’t joined yet. Remember, yesterday’s Jew is today’s Druid!”
Nobel Committee: “Well, it’s important you be here. There’s money involved in the prize for peace and ever since you recorded “Talking World War Three Blues” there has been peace in the valley, world hunger has been eliminated, and you have outsold Donovan records 5 to One!”
Dylan: “Can you deliver it to me, you know like a Dominoes Pizza? 30 minutes or it’s free? If you toss in an order of anchovies I’ll be a happy hipster. Have it delivered to Standing Rock. Yeah, got a new album of oil spill classics I’m promoting and want to get some free PR.”
Nobel: “We’ll see what we can do Mr. Dylan. By the way, met with your PR man the other day, a Mr. Quinn the Eskimo and he says you’re embarking on a new career.”
Dylan: “Yep, ventriloquism. I had a guy carve a Tom Petty puppet who will sit on my lap as I teach him to sing and sound like me. This will wow them at next year’s Grammy’s, or Country Music Awards. May even try a hip hop duet with bouncy Beyonce for the BET network. Gotta run now. Joan Baez and I are due at university campuses to hand out diapers and puppies for the minions still in shock over the last election….they just don’t get it! One side says Hillary rigged the election and stole the popular vote...the other side says Trump stole the Electoral College Vote.”
He smiled that Dylan smile and said…”Both sides are wrong. It was the vandals who stole the handle! So, yes, please mail the Nobel to me...I’ll be in the basement, mixing up the medicine!”
Christmas Movie Madness: Christmas DOA!
Christmas, a real damned Andy Williams Captain Piccard let it snow make it so time of year of the same warm and fuzzy films of peace on Earth, and radio stations that assault our secular arses with Johnny Mathis jingling all the way in a one horse open sleigh with bells ringing are you listening?
Move over Little Drummer Boy unless your name is Ginger Baker. The Mike Marino Forensic Fun Films, Inc. is pleased to announce some positively Un-Hallmark Movie Moments adding realism to your mental eggnog this charge card season of schmaltz and mistletoe and suicide and toys for tots.
The all new updated “Miracle on 34th Street & Pennsylvania Ave” where Jill Stein assumes the Natalie Wood child in disbelief roll this time around. In this version, young Jill believes in Santa, but can’t believe Donald “Scrooge” Trump is her new president. “I want a recount,” she cries to her smother mother played by Hillary Clinton. Finally in court a bag full of ballots are emptied on a judges desk confirming that “Yes Virginia, there is a Santa and according to the recount, Trump is your president”
On the way home from court in New York City, they pass a large mental institution. “Stop the car,” she falsetto’d….he promised me a room and here it is!!!”
The big scene of the film is the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade where Kim Kardasians real ass blows up causing wide spread (no pun intended) throughout the parade route.
What would the holly jolly film season be without Ralphie shooting his eye out? OD’d on Darren McGavin’s major award? Then this year it’s The Amityville Christmas Story where this time Ralphie blows a fuse and after wiping out the family on a triple dog dare he goes to a Chinese restaurant dressed as a giant pink Easter Bunny carrying a fully automatic weapon all because of a bad version of Fa Ra Ra!
“Oh, Little Town of Washington” is new production where Joseph and Mary portrayed by Bill and Hillary Clinton arrive in Washington but find there is no room at the White House so grab a spot in an alley off the Beltway where they await the birth of their little baby, Jesus portrayed by Bernie Sanders who is soon visited by three wise politicians, an oxymoron in and of itself. They are also visited by three wise kings from the Middle East who are turned away as King Herrod Trump declares them Guantanamo material.
Other new releases include the entire Manson Family Reunion cast in “It Came Upon Midnight Unclear” Murder and Mistletoe do not mix!!
There is more slapstick fun this season in the remake of the Bing Crosby classic of “White Christmas. In our version “White Christmas Lives Matter” a riotous romp of rioting and racism where an African American family are evicted from the White House and as a result BLM meets the Ku Klux Klan in a David Duke-Al Sharpton remake of “Westside Story” Also starring the Three Stooges who use the “N” word freely..so if Nyuk, Nyuk, Nyuk is found offensive stay home glued to your yoga mat watching reruns of Victory at Standing Rock while listening to the Venture’s surf album version of “Pipeline!”
Drama? Tune into the Snowden-Assange version of “Silent Night, Holy Shit’ where silence is golden a plumber has to be called in to plug the wikileaks and other secrets. There is a touch of Dicken’s hidden in this experimental film where Hillary Clinton as Screwed Scrooge is visited by the Ghost of Vince Foster and Vlad the Putz Pitin in a tuxedo is puttin’ on the Ritz in a Mel Brooks inspired dance number.
“Home Alone Four” starring Jimmy Hoffa and “I Saw Monica Kissing Santa Claus Under the Beltway Mistletoe Beltbuckle” with Deep Throat Lewinsky is a must see this “on your knees season to be jolly.”
This Season….don’t make it Hallmark...make it Christmas DOA...Santa’s got a brand new bag this year.
Merry Creepy Christmas Toys
Move over Barbie….your pink dollhouse has been condemned. It’s being replaced this year by a whole new doll babe in the toy ‘hood….Barbie De Sade and her Playhouse Dungeon! Mom’s….you may want to think twice about this perverse present unless you have prior experience with whips and cuffs. You know, that blind date with the inbred cousin of your first girl on girl crush!
Then there is the Pee Wee Herman Pussycat Theater Dollhouse with a motion activated Pee Wee Doll with authentic hand movements that will fool even the perverted Ken doll sitting erect next to him! Talk about doing that crazy hand jive!!! The perfect gift for that never been married neighbor man down the street who names all his pet cats after porn queens of the silver screen! (Playset come with two films, “Lolita Loves Your Lollipop” and “Catholic School Girls Do the Vatican” where they must choose - Puberty or Piety? In the end..so to speak….they get their cherry popped by the pope! (extra porn films sold separately including the critically acclaimed but banned“101 Dalmatians: Canine Rape Gang Attacks the Humane Society During Pet Adoption Week”
For the little child who spends a lot of time still sleeping with mama even though he is 14, why not give the little psycho tyke a treat with his own bag of toy serial killers. He’ll delight clowning around with the John Wayne Gacy Killer Klowns or the Jeffrey Dahmer Bake and Shake Oven with Menu. Comes complete with an electric drill and a psychosis!
Had enough of politics for this lifetime? Then get yourself a set of Rock ‘em Sock ‘em Killery-Trump Robots. Comes with a “Feel the Bern” Bernie Sanders Burnout Referee who will declare who ever scares him the most ….the winna!!! Love Political Horror Films? Then you’ll want to order a special edition Jill “Franken” Stein Collection of “I Was Hillary’s Love Slave” where Jill goes down for the count….and the recount.
Board games are always fun! This years fave is Charlie Sheen and Kanye’s “Mental Breakdown Trivial Pursuit” Freak out your friends when you draw the special Rant Your Ass Off Card and babble incoherently for hours then walk out of the room mid game and come back with your very own Phil Spector Pistol set and dare anyone to leave the game!
You can also play Lady Di Celebrity Paris Escape: The European Cocaine Edition or the Mother Teresa Leper Colony Candyland Game where you make it atop the Big Rock Candy Mountain or your opponent can send you to debilitating death in a village of disease. More fun than last year’s “Cancer Ward!”
Make it a Merry Creepy Christmas and stuff some trauma in a person’s stocking.
Pop Culture Christmas
Buying a present for Superman isn’t as easy you think. He’s already got X-Ray vision to grab a sneak peek in the Victoria’s Secrets dressing rooms. Now that’s a super power I’d like to have! OK, so maybe a new cape from the Caped Crusaders Big and Tall Men’s Shoppe, the Mens Warehouse of Super Garb for comic book crime fighters. I guarantee it! Plus if he’s been a bad superboy this year...leave a 5 pound chunk of Kristmas Kryptonite in his leotards!
Many male super heroes like to wear form fitting tights to show off muscle mass not to mention that tell tale ballet bulge that makes people yell with excitement...Look Up in the sky...It’s a bird….it’s a plane….it’s Genital Man! Yep, Supe showing off once again as he does a fly by with his rudder showing looking for Lois Lane’s tail wind….
Batman is another story altogether. He shops for leather, leather and more leather and gets his jolly’s perusing the Marquis de Sade Boy Wonder Emporium. Cape and mask sold separately. Oh, the mask...come with some sort of animal ears. To make his Christmas rock...make sure to give him a basket of gingerbread cookies in the shape of bats so he can pretend he’s Ozzy Osbourne with milk, cookies and cocaine.
Betty Boop is always a joy to buy for. Black frilly short skirt with a false eyelash makeover kit and a riding crop to stuff in her boop boop de boop. Throw in an evening she can spend drunk in a sleazy motel with Jessica Rabbit and hot damn...Lesbi-toon heaven.
Who can forget Uncle Keith Richards...Santa’s favorite doper. Make Keith merry this season with a custom hypodermic needle kit. You can pick one up off the lawn in Tompkins Square Park in New York City on any given Saturday night. Talk about a Christmas rush….it’s the gift that keeps on giving.
Christmas with the Clintons? How about a copy of the Anarchists Cookbook or the complete special edition DVD collection of ‘Murder She Wrote’ the memoirs of Hillary, the golden years. You can also pick up a copy of Election Results for Dummies. Comes with a set of numbered ballots she can count over and over again at no cost to taxpayers.
For President Elect Trump an autographed copy of ‘Mein Kampf’ direct from Argentina. The ‘How To’ book that put Auschwitz on the map. Special foreword written by David Duke and the Ku Klux Klowns,,,.
Bernie Sanders...Remember him. Well, he’s now playing Santa Claus at Macy’s in New York. He was found wasting away on Skid Row passing around a bottle of Russian vodka saying he was Nikolai Lenin, one of the Beatles! He was dazed and confused so to speak humming Back in the USSR during dinner at the Salvation Army.
Don’t forget Paul McCartney...he needs a new set of Wings!
Have Yourself a Merry Sexmas Christmas!
Yep,Sex & Christmas go together like a leather thong and a pair of handcuffs. Time to stuff someone’s stocking with a little Christmas Sexmas! The holidays are just around the corner and times have changed. It's a sexual universe we dwell in now and Christmas should reflect this trend in increased sexuality. All those little holiday nuances like decorating the tree, Christmas carols and stockings hanging by the fire with care need a drastic overhaul. So my children settle back and sit on Santa's lap...just be careful not to excite him while you’re wiggling around giving Santa a lap dance as it may excite his North Pole and melt his ice pack!
It’s hard to always find the perfect gift for someone, but you’ll never go wrong if you unwrap that libido and let their bells jingle all the way! Gift certificates are always a crowd pleaser. Forget Macy’s this year. Score a victory with a Victoria’s Secrets leather and lace gift card good towards a sexy red teddy, white pantyhose and green garters...the traditional colors of Christmas.
For the Ladies..choose from an extensive line of erotica from the Marquis de Sade Dom/Sub shops located in the seedier parts of town next door to any adult bookstore and one block from the nearest church. Riding crops aplenty in a wide selection that will make your Rudolph fly.
Mistletoe is the romance sprig of the holidays. He or she who stands under it gets a kiss by those who happen by. It is usually suspended over a doorway or entrance. I suggest we hang a sprig on our belt buckle, so when guests come over, especially that neighbor lady who has been arousing you all summer long as she puttered around her garden in hot pants. As for she comes over for a hot toddy and notices your manly sprout sprouting into a Christmas bulge she can get into the holiday spirit and your pants when she opens your "present" and jingles your bells louder than a Catholic Church! It's a candy cane she'll never forget as visions of sugar plums dance while she is giving you head!
The ladies of course can strategically place mistletoe in a variety of her body locations guaranteed to do the deed. The combinations for her are endless!!!
The Christmas tree itself is adorned with decorations and lights, pretty traditional so this year...be creative and decorate with dildos and tampons. It will give your tree a certain savoir faire as Santa Claus Maxi Pads hang delightfully and deliriously for all to enjoy. Shredded maxi pads by the way make a great mass of simulated snow for that manger scene or Santa and his eight tiny reindeer. As for tampons, they make great swizzle sticks.
Instead of hanging Christmas stockings with furry tops and bright red colors, hang up a pair of tattered fishnets from that ho, ho, ho, hooker you met with last week on the street. That will pique Santa's curiosity and could lead to some amazing gifts. Besides...that hooker? You already stuffed her stocking so now you can stuff her fishnets. Hopefully she didn't give you the clap or disease...you know...the gifts that keep on giving...and giving ... and giving!
For unique gift ideas invite your friends over for potluck gift giving. Everyone writes down what they want to give and these are put into a hat then everyone at random picks one and they get the gift. These can be things like an hour with a Chippendale in kilts with hell of a set of bagpipes, a male or female (your choice) Laplander lap dancing while wearing rubber antlers, or the ever popular threesome in under the tree! Imagine how the room will light up when someone yells out...Hot damn a blow job by my neighbor ...now that's the Christmas spirit!
Handcuffs and whips make for the perfect femdom gift to give for the dominant woman in your life. This year make it a Christmas she or he will never forget. Naked Twister and strip Trivial Pursuit..blow jobs to hand jobs...Tis the season to roast your chestnuts and deck your balls with holly...and if Holly won't do it...that neighbor lady will! Ho, Ho, Ho!
Christmas on Acid
Christmas on acid...the tree alone is a real green needle Druid and loaded with those classic bubble lights and Fillmore light show blinking fiber optics turning your living room into a Karma filled kama sutra beaded curtain incense filled harem of holiday cheer with the turntable spinning with the Seeds ‘Pushing too Hard’ to create a blue moody Moody Blue’s Magoo version of Johnny Mathis singing ‘Hey, Joe’ you’ll shoot your eye out kid, with that gun in your hand.
Soon the stockings hung with care begin to stare back at you and the toys begin to talk in tongues and Alice appears in her Wonderland Wonder Bra with her designer Cheshire Cat thong running screaming “I’m late...I’m late .. I missed my period and got pregnant on a date!”
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus…. And he has a gift for you...How old are you anyway? You look 18!
‘Twas the night before Christmas in Haight Ashbury and all through the house
Hallucinating acid heads were trying to smoke a mouse!
All the NARCS were awake...all the stoners were sleepy.
Junkies were whacked out and crashpad creepy.
The runaways were hooking with lesbians dyking
While down the street Hells Angels were biking and addicts were spiking.
Now...picture yourself on the Spare Change streets of the Lava Lamp Sixties, or even on a boat on a river with tangerine trees and marmalade skies...either way, you get the idea. It’s the Alice in Wonderland Super Bong of holiday hallucinations without Jimmy Stewart yelling at Mr. Potter or even Harry Potter trying to convince them that ‘It’s a wonderful life.’
Haight Street wasn’t ready for any Miracles on 34th Street. It was instead Jimi Hendrix as Santa Claus and Janis Joplin as his old lady with Cheech and Chong appearing in a cloud of too much to dream last night smoke on the Christmas water as two way out far out elves helping Hendrix Claus waa waa a big ass bag of bongs, pipes, and rolling papers. They were experienced!
Rudolph just completed a drug rehab program at the free clinic while Timothy Leary helped guide the Merry Prankster bus sleigh just a little bit ‘Further’ over the cuckoo’s nest..
On Stoner
On Doper
On Dimebag
On Bomber
On Hash pipe
And Nixon? (It rhymed with ‘Vixen’)
On Cocaine
On Acid
and, of course, Rudolph the Pink Floyd Reindeer
Won’t you guide the sleigh tonite with your goddamned pupils so big and bright!
On the 12th Day of Christmas my connection sent to me:
12 Hookahs Smoking
11 Dealers Dealing
10 Loaded Hashpipes
9 Bob Marley Records
8 Packs of Zig Zags
7 Acid Flashbacks
6 Hallucinations
5 Bags of Weed.
4 Lava lamps
3 Monster Bongs
2 Bail Bondsmen
and a Alice B. Toklas Cook Book!
When Words Get Weird...The Weird Get Going
Koo Koo Ka Choo!
When words attack a writer or reader it’s akin to getting mugged in a back alley in Detroit. For example, if you have the opinion of two physicians, you might say, you have a paradox.
If you have a couple of kids not off the deep end eating Prozac for a breakfast snack, you have what? A Paranormals? I have always wondered what a mecium is? If you have two do you have a parameciums?
A pair of pants could be two teenagers in heat in the backseat or simply something you wear to hide the pair of Ru Paul thongs you got for Christmas.
Words alone can confuse such as the word ‘refuse’ which can be a bag of trash for the landfill or a ‘statement’ of protest “I refuse to take the refuse to the dump”
We also in English have nouns and Pro-Nouns. What were they before they went PRO? Amateur nouns? Verbs? Adverbs? Reverbs? Simple you would think…”I’m sorry but your verb doesn’t explain it enough could please add a verb to it like a boxcar full of hobos, hence ADVERB? Reverb? Easy explanation …”Could you repeat that verb, re-say it for me hence re-verb.
Which brings us to phrases, purely American and would confuse and confound Confucius. How many times, guys, have you or your buddies in a bar have to “Take a leak” Now we come to terminology...women powder their nose...we go to take a leak.What is that.."Excuse me sir. Where are you taking that leak? I saw you try to steal it now where are you going with it" as though we're shoplifters at Leaks R Us. "Uh, nowhere, I meant to pay for it, not steal it. I'll put the leak back so that way I can leave a leak and not take one!" I would never take a leak ...honest...never.
At Christmas ‘Ho Ho Ho’ is not three ghetto hookers in a Kanye song. When someone asks you ‘Whats Up?” they don’t really want to know if you have an erection so don’t get excited. Slang has changed culturally with the times as well...a Fag is no longer a cigarette..so if you go up to someone and say “Can you spare a fag?” Don’t be surprised if a hairdresser comes screaming from across the street smiling with a pink poodle on a leash singing YMCA in a falsetto voice.
As for Star Trek fans never confuse Kardashians with Cardasians. One has a big ass, the other has a weird forehead. I’ll take the big ass over a forehead with furrows.
Sex terminology to the non-American ear can be confusing as well...when we’re kids we yell out to our best friend “Can you come out and play?” No problem however in our version of English, as adults, we don’t want to play...we want FOREPLAY...if you’re into kink you may want FOURPLAY...so can Four Play Foreplay? Indeed….Been to San Francisco lately? Trust me ...I used to live there..
How many words to we actually need to describe genitals...and no a conundrum is not a prophylactic nor a set of drums for an incarcerated person...Cock is a rooster...a Dick is slang for a detective...Pussy is a cat ...and when someone tells me go fuck myself...I merely say…”I have to buy myself flowers and chocolate first, but thank you!” Fucking is a good thing so thank the person who tells you that...in fact you can thank them in kind by saying “Screw You” same thing…
So if words get weird….RUN!!!!
Drug Trafficking in Mayberry with Captain Kangaroo
TV has been as addicting to the Boomer Gen as the I-Pad is today to Generation Zero!
We are all junkies to the electronic visual medium as much as William Burroughs was to a surrealistic pillow case loaded with a dazzling array of mind numbing colorful mind altering pharma karmaceuticals.
I blame part of the whole damned this e-drug epidemic on Andy of Mayberry and Barney “Opium Pipe” Fife. The “Pushers” of Mayberry RFD! Who else but down home folksy as Tennessee Ernie Ford on tranqs Sheriff Andy Taylor would name their kid, “Little Opie”? Opium? Opie? Coincidence? I think not! Barney kept a bullet in his left pocket? Bullshit! It was a little black ball of Oriental heaven.
Children’s shows were the electronic hypodermic gateway to our current mental mauling by the media causing our current affliction of addiction. Who in their right or left mind can forget Howdy “Hypodermic” Doody and his home grown Doodyville Doobies brothers and sister? Clarabelle the Cocaine Cowboy Clown was a normal, yet idiotic mime out of his mind circus act on probation as a result of a former sentence to the Cool Hand Luke county chain gang from a determined DA’s convincing argument that led to a conviction for meth addiction that was born of a sting operation which led to his bust by undercover Doodyville cops. He would hang out with the Buffalo Bob Mob and Cartel hanging around elementary school yards yelling at recess….”Hey kids! What time is it?” It certainly wasn’t time for the next meeting of the D.A.R.E. program. It was time for a hot shot of smack snacks hidden in a Pop Tart.
Clarabelle, the John Wayne Gacy of his day was eventually arrested and placed in a rehab program in the Doodyville State Home for the Saturday Morning Criminal Clown Insane. After a week of cold turkey sweats and shakes he escaped from the prison hospital ward with the help of Princess Summer Spring Winter Fall Nuclear Winter Global Warming and hid out in sewers with balloons telling every little kid that came by…”They float!”
The original “Superman” TV show with George Reeves was laced with classic kryptic kryptonite drug references. What else would explain Clark Kent’s need to wear a cape, leotards and red boots in public! There was Red and Yellow Kryptonite. One pill made you larger and one pill made you small. Take a handful of either and you too will see Great Ceasar’s Ghost!
Clark Ken and Superman. Classic schizophrenia personality disorder induced by years of injecting Kryptonite at the Daily Planet Hollywood disco. He also was fired up on Viagara 24/7 which explains his wanting to be around Lois Lame and Jimmy Olsen Twins around the clock. He is Superman with Super addictions after all. As the show progressed psychedelic drugs were the Super drug of choice as we can see when the show went from bland black and white to full “oh man, holy shit, look at the colors”.
Mr. Rogers In the ‘Hood was a little too weird for me. He has high on Vicodin and so laid back he was merely one notch above a corpse in a locker in the Coroners. “Won’t you be my neighbor boys and girls.” Yikes.
Captain Kangaroo and Mr. Green Cream in My Jeans? Jesus, the man sported large ‘roo pockets on his over stitched jacket and enough cocaine residue in his mustache, it’s no wonder he looked like a video extra in “I am the Walrus” while Mr. Cream Jeans would pop a few red pills laughing hysterically while he yelled “Koo Koo Ka Choo”!
Green Acres? It’s now called Humboldt County. “Muppets?” Miss Piggy was so hooked on horse she took to the streets and would fuck a frog for Gawd sakes. Animal was on PCP and Oscar the Groucho Marx was a paranoid who smoked crack with a transvestite ostrich from mars impersonator known only as Big Bird.
I Love Lucy! Think about it. She was a speed freak married to a babaloo conga contra drug pusher and her best friends were the Darvon darlings upstairs, the Crazed Mertz Duo.
Looking back through the looking glass of the old cocaine cathode tube contraption referred to as the TV we can now explain the Sixties to our children and our grandchildren. I still am wrestling with how to explain to them what a Pink Flyod in the court of the Crimson King is doing having sex with a Jefferson Airplane after eating few marijuana laced King Biscuits.
We were hooked on the medium….we still are….once a junkie….always a junkie….our cocaine is now the internet and cable….so in parting I quote from the Buffalo Bob the Buffalo Bard…”Hey Kids! What time is it?”
Feline Vikings and Other History Mysteries!
Recent scientific evidence has revealed illogical yet irrefutable proof that Scandinavian cats, and not big burly Scandinavian men named Lars, led Viking raids of pillage and plunder terrorizing the village people (no not the damned singing group) of Celts in kilts in the British Isles to the shores of North America.
Small graves of a ritualistic nature have been unearthed in Northern Iceland were scientists who study such things for whatever reason beyond research grants found small feline skeletons. Buried with the remains were tiny feline Viking Helmets... miniature versions of the those seen today worn on the heads of supposedly grown armchair quarterback men and women in Minnesota on football Sunday. (Football fans should not be allowed to operate heavy machinery or to breed.)
This discovery prompted further study involving the academian brain trust of Elmer PHD’s at the Marino Think Tank Research University and Pinball Emporium. We’ve determined that Genghis Chaka Khan led hordes of Mongol Mongrel Canines to conquer Catstantinople in 800 B.C. (Before Catnip). The Eastern Pope, Catius Catboxious the Frisky First of Nine Lives met the Chaka Khan Milk Boners in a pitched battle on the plains of Sylvester Syria led by Brian of Setzer Stray Catannapolis who delivered a devastating blow...Genghis Chaka Khan left with his tail between his legs howling at the king...I taut I taw a puddy cat...just before he was neutered in public.
Columbus and America? Forgettabout it..also what is a Native American nonsense...there is no such thing as a Native American...genetic evidence shows the gene pool originated in Asia before they crossed the Bering Straits...they were not indigenous to North, Central or South America...Europeans also not indigenous crossed the Atlantic Ocean...so in effect...Europeans are Native Americans too...or nobody is...besides...saber tooth tigers, CATS were here long before AMERICANS. Glad we got that cleared up.
Cats led the Chinese Communist rebellion under Chairman Meow Tse Tung. Cuba followed suit under the leadership of Feline Catstro and Cat Guevara. The Beat Generation...now there were some cool cats….and in summer….when there’s a cat on a hot tin roof look for a cat in a hat.
When cats of different races meet and mate...it’s called a Meow Mix, and there is a Dalai Lama of felines who sits in a monastery high atop Catmandu who when he dies will be buried with his predecessors in the Catacombs.
In the world of cat sex according to Fritz the Cat, nothing beats a good feline fellatio frenzy. Asian cat sex, try Siamese or Burmeses. As for Persian cats most are OK but today are on the Watch List according to Patriot Act protocol, and mainly live in New Jersey. The Russian Blues are not only descended from Cossacks but can play Muddy Waters riffs with a Moscow accent. Which brings us to the All American Alley Cat...the cat worlds version of the homeless human population living on the streets scrounging for a can of Fancy Feast and a bed to curl up in for the night in a cat house.
There are junkie cats to be aware off. Addicted to syringes full of high grade catnip they’ll attack you if they can’t get a fix...a cat suffering from cat scratch fever has been known to be one felonious feline….
Beware the Cat in your life...it could be just an innocent furry purr thing...but remember...the canine world has Cujo….you may end up as a fancy feast yourself if your cat is Catjo! As for my Asian friends in Japan….BEWARE CATZILLA!!!
The Age of the Tyranthesaurus Rex Drowning in Words
It was an age of Dictionaries, large beasts consuming words as hungrily as a fat man at a fast food fiesta. The king of monsters that all writers rely on is straight out of the Jurassic Park of language….the Tyranthesaurus Rex for those of us who can’t tell and antonym from a synonym….words and variations have always fascinated me...more than they should perhaps...for example.
If you have a pair of pants...can you have a para meciums? In the world of medicine and you need a second medical opinion does that mean you have a paradox? A business accountant at a board meeting always has a display of charts to show growth or decline...together these two charts are referred to as a paragraphs.
I like pronouns, but let’s face it before a noun went all pro it was an amateur noun. Verbs...when you want one that can do basic math..is it an add-verb? It’s distant cousin is well known to musicians as Reverbs. Verbs can be Verb-al and verb-ose. Organic writers enjoy settling back with a steamy cup of verbal tea to soothe the poetic soul of the polemic prose prone while watching cartoon reruns of Yoga Bear...or the Canadian version Yogi Bear-uh.….and his friend Yoda the Yodeler and his girlfriend Ricola.
Antonyms and Unclenyms….and Synonym Toast…..or Neil Young’s Synonym Girl. It’s all just a jigsaw puzzle of words...and pinata of syllables...love the movie by the way about Syllable and her multiple personalities.
Semantics….it’s all so confusing to me and yes I admit...I am anti-Semantic. Thankfully I have spell check which I guess is one witch saying to another witch…”check out this spell...I can turn the prince into a toad!”
The best part for a writer is completion of a project...that is called Finis Envy!
The Carnival is Coming to Town!
Step Right Up Ladies and Gentlemen and children of all ages. There’s something about a traveling carnival that comes to town or an amusement park that makes the tongue salivate for cotton candy and corn dogs, the heart pump fast in anticipation of a death defying ride on the Wild Mouse that could derail at a moment’s notice (now that’s entertainment!) or fuel injects the hormonal pump as the Tunnel of Love where you get to cop that first virgin feel of the girl next door.
The midway is alive at night with neon and music and barkers barking and hawking, three balls for a dollar, win a prize, be a man, step right up ring the bell and let me guess your weight.
The freak show alone would be worth the price of admission just to see the bearded lady pound nails into a midgets nose while he blows flame out of his ass.
The best part on any carnival or midway are the workers who tilt the whirl, roll the coaster, and at best have a background that would includes a rap sheet Charles Manson would be proud of. They speak little, avoid photos, and that is whiskey on the breath of the midway clown and not the aroma of a stale bottle of Brut cologne. Believe if one of them dressed Santa I wouldn’t have my kid sit on his lap...hell I wouldn’t sit on his lap if I was wearing a steel plated jockstrap on a million dollar dare!
The rides are thrill packed as you don’t know if you’ll be stuck for 6 hours high atop a Ferris Wheel or end up riding the malfunctioning Jaws of Life Roller Coaster where an EMS unit with attendants dressed as circus clowns are ready to yell “CLEAR” once they’ve stopped the internal bleeding by stuffing salt water taffy into your wounds.
The Merry Go Round is a classic basically harmless ride for the little tykes...for we adult males there is the Mary Go Round, the hooker who sets sail on the Midway looking for locals who want to take a trip into her Tunnel of Love. She’s been around the block a few times or to borrow nautical terms...she now wants to ‘round your Horn! For ten bucks you can get laid in the trailer she shares with Long Wang the Chinese sword swallower and her swallows will delight your Capistrano.
My favorite game at the carnival is Catch the Pick Pocket. It’s like playing Clue except Mean Mr. Mustard is trying to get into your pants while your watching the Ralph Nader Go Carts do their imitation of the Gone in 60 Seconds chase scene with worn rubber tires only acting as a bouncing barrier separating the drivers from certain unsafe at any speed death in replica exploding Pintos and Yugos.
The whirly rides are best avoided if you have spare change bogging your pockets down. These rides catch loose change faster than a junkie catches AIDS from a used needle and the carnival will not donate it to Jerry’s Kids. In fact that white powder under the tattooed ladies nose ain’t powdered sugar stolen from a box of doughnuts in the backseat of the cops car parked by the Belly Dancer tent.
Carnival workers are called “Carnies” and they know they are the outsiders in your town. However when you step through the gates after paying admission you’ve stepped into their world. You are now in the Twilight Zone that even Rod Serling couldn’t dream up. It’s the French Foreign Legion for those on the run or just want to withdraw into a world of make believe. Sort of like politicians or going into a coma.
It’s colorful, exciting, full of dangerous malfunctioning rides, potential for death by ptomaine Corn Dog poisoning, and best of all…..strange ride operators who could be the offspring of Hannibal Lecter or at best, this week’s John Walsh “America’s Most Wanted”
These are not reasons to avoid carnivals from out of town. On the contrary….it’s the reason I go! It’s the potential for danger as entertainment, getting stuffed on cotton candy until I explode and watching belly dancers as Mary Go Round’s swallows make my Capistrano happy.
Superman! Faster Than an Atomic Dildo
One of the first undocumented illegal aliens to enter the USA to wear a cape, red pants and leotards, and wasn’t a hairdresser or host on the Bravo Channel. Instead he assumed a false identity as Clark Kent, got a job as a reporter with no experience or training (much like FOX Newscasters) and was as white and heterosexual as Jimmy Olsen in a whorehouse trying to pop his “golly gee” cherry!
He could bend steel in his bare hands (masturbation must have been a real bitch); faster than a speeding bullet so when he did have sex it must have taken 5 seconds to unload….so much for foreplay...and he never did get to bag Lois Lane and fly her to the moon of orgasm!
It was a lonely childhood….no one wanted to hang around a male kid in the school yard with red thigh high boots wearing Buddy Holly glasses sporting a super hard-on that could last for hours when he used his X-Rated X-Ray Vision watching the nuns shower together in the nuns locker room after a mud wrestling match in the rectory organized by Twisted Sister Mary Hoo Ha.
Lois Lane could have discovered his secret identity if she would have dropped her drawers for Clark and Superman...the proof is in the pudding they say, and having had both in her pudding she have felt both and known...there were men of steel….like a dildo from outer space. And Kent would have been content. Lois may have been pounded through the wall with one super thrust with his more powerful than a locomotive appendage highballing in her caboose yelling “ALL ABOARD!”
One day while changing into his fly me to moon piano bar get-up in an alley, a talent agent for Ru Paul happened to catch his act and promptly hired him as a Female Super Hero Impersonator. He worked out a whole routine flouncing on stage as Wonder Woman and Cat Woman to the music of Burt Bacharach and Paul Williams, eventually joining the Broadway cast of Cabaret as a stand-in for Liza Minelli.
Superman eventually disappeared from public life after a sex and dope scandal involving Batman, Robin and a goat. Don’t ask. The files are still sealed. In a recent interview he did say it was the best Kryptonite hashish he ever had and Batman was all latex and no action. Robin however looked hot dressed as an altar boy with mask and bat wing dings.
He was recently discovered in an assisted living facility super cranky and complaining about handicap people parking in non-handicap parking spaces and how wimpy Iron Man is. He still masturbates faster than a speeding bullet and mumbling under his breath….truth, justice and the American Way!!!!
Motorized Bong
If any one vehicle can define a generation, the trendy VW Microbus is hands down the stoner machine of the whacked out Sixties of the tie dyed tribe of America. (England was also swinging as a pendulum do but they had the magnificent Mini Cooper and the Mods scooted around on Vespa’s trying to outrun leather jacketed Rockers on Harley’s beachside at Brighton.)
The Microbus could pack a group in back tighter than an expertly rolled joint. In fact with a group of those in need of weed the bus would fill with a cloud of exhaled heaven. It was like living inside a bong!
Longhairs longing for LA and the Valley girls, or looking for free love with a runaway in Haight Ashbury only had to stick out his, hers, or their collective thumb and a VW bus would gravitate to the shoulder of the road and haul the hitchers to the Haight.
Hopefully the roadside prophet wasn’t getting into a van driven by a serial killer, but that’s the chance you took. “Excuse me, but why are we stopping at this deserted rest area Mr. Manson?” or to the perverted 40 something who cruises the highways who pretended to be hip “I will not drop my pants for a hamburger and coke!” (A steak and milk shake? That’s another story.
The bus may have been festooned with Mary Quant quaint daisies but that damned Peace Symbol! It was like having a bullseye painted on you that for some reason attracted every short haired John Wayne cop in every small farm town you went through, as well as state cops and sheriffs on the main highways who would run interference as they protected this land is not your land longhair, it’s OURS. (I was rousted with others in a bus in New Mex as well as Portland. Never went back to Portland after that and avoid it today. They were the nastiest cops I ever ran into!)
These were not lumbering Winnebago’s, but they could, without a load of homeless hippies, be loaded with cooking equipment, sleeping bags, food, wine, books, kites, lanterns, built in camp cook stove, and a load of wood for fires for those weekend jaunts posing as motorized, mechanized John Muirs.
Now that I think about it, they kind of looked like a big fat rolled joint with tires and windows and I wonder now, how many times someone on a three day acid run would see one parked on Fulton street and would to try to shotgun the tail pipe.
Speed freaks didn’t care for V-Dubs….they thought they were evil dragons sent from the past hell bent on eating all the meth available on the street and leaving only granola behind to cook in a spoon to shoot up, which would be like injecting Post Grape Nut Flakes into your veins. You could sell a handful of Fruit Loops to a speed freak by telling them they were hand painted Dexedrine pills laced with Darvons and Bella Donna and they’d go cuckoo for Coco Puffs!
Many followers of zen in the Sixties looked at the Microbus as the ultimate One Hand Clapping driven by Long Wang himself. By entering the bus, bam...instant fourth level of enlightenment with a full tank of gas and a Rand McNally road map to lead the way to San Jose in case you didn’t know where it was, or why you even wanted to go there in the first plac
If you were rich by street standards your micro bus mental hot tub had an 8-track tape player and the floor littered with “People Got To Be Free” by the Rascals or “Cry Like a Baby” by the Boxtops to show off your pseudo hipness at full volume while racing along the Panhandle at midnight.
She was iconic. She defined a generation and sailed the asphalt seas as your own Yellow Submarine (Captain, Captain, Full Speed ahead!) Sometimes depending what drug you were on it transformed into a Magic Bus on a Magical Mystery Tour across the American Heartland following the trails first blazed by Kerouac and Neal Cassidy, the Lewis and Clark of finger poppin’ on the road dharma bum road trips... so close your eyes. Start the mental engine in your mind and get behind the invisible wheel of the venerable V-Dub Micro Bus...and pop on that Door’s 8 track of “LA Woman” or better yet….”My G-G-G-Generation!”
George Hamilton Casting Call
It’s Casting Call time in Hollywood and time to dive deep into the celluloid dumpsters in the diamond studded alley’s of ego driven Tinsel Town. Ever since I saw the Hank Williams, Sr. film starring, George (Gag Me!) Hamilton, the suntan cream puff cretin miscast as the pill popping hard drinking hard living Hank, Sr. (Ed Lauter would have been my choice!) I have questioned the casting skills or rather lack of said skills in many film
For example. Disney’s “101 Dalmatians” The first thing wrong is the title. It should feature Steve Buscemi leading a pack of bank robbing canines in “101 Reservoir Dogs” Add some cutesy Disney dismal dingle berry flying fairy cartoon music to compliment scenes where dogs bark “Fuck” instead of “Woof” and you have a start.
TV’s “Lassie” program. Too damned cute for my taste, besides Lassie was a dude dog posing as a girl dog. Ru Paul should have played Timmy just to keep the gender reversal flow going. It would also have been more interesting to have Cujo play Lassie as a meth addicted rabies infected man eater. Take that Timmy me lad!
Peter Pan has caused many a young boy to a path of confusion in a corn maze of ridiculous casting. Mary Martin as Peter? Sandy Dunkin’ Donuts as Peter? Neither one has a peter pecker to pick a peck of pickled peppered penis with. Of course with Sandy/Mary having the hots for Wendy does add a bit of old fashioned debauchery to the “fairy’s tail” that would be Standing Room Only in a fantasy booth in North Beach after a visit to the no longer in business, Big Al’s Sex Store.
Today I would recast it with Selena as a Latin “Pedro Pan” and George Michaels from Wham as Wendy Wham Bam Thank You Ma’am pulling tricks with a gang of cross dressing Lost Boys following the lead of Tinker Bell played by Justin Bieber or any Canadian who spent anytime in Seattle.
The entire Star Trek TV series the 12th Generation...Picard was cool, Kirk was corny, so it’s time to re-address the program with the cast members of “The Departed” and “Goodfella’s” Klingons won’t dare mess with Capt. Jack Nicholson or Joe Pesci as Spock.
I can see the Klingon warship on the screen, asking for the Enterprise to surrender. Joe Spock goes ballistic, “Look you mother fucking alien assholes, do you think my phaser torpedoes are funny? Funny like a clown? Take this you cocksucking, mother fucking fuck faced dicks!!” Then Capt Jack Nicholson looks the Klingon Commander in the eye and says, “No Tickee No Laundry” then opens fire.
Then we come to the greatest love story of all…..Gone With The Wind...this time starring Sharon Stone and Al Pacino. In the end Sharon crosses her legs just enough for a sneak peek at her pubic plantation while Al says, “Whoa...Let me say hello to your little friend!” But in the end it’s Samuel L. Jackson who has sack time with Sharon. He gets up from her bed...gets dressed, turns and looks at her and says, “I’ve bagged Halle Berry. You’re OK, but frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn!’
Now the ultimate casting call…”A Christmas Carol” by C. Dickens has been and always will be a classic holiday tale since it first emerged from the pen and literary placenta of the 19th Century. Ebeneezer Scrooge, Tiny Tim, and three go! go! ghosts have blazed their merry ass trail into the collective Christmas cranium for generations past, generations present and generations to come. My Gen, your gen, gen’s on the holiday horizons...it just won’t go away!
Many adroit adaptations have graced live theater and blazed brightly in the silver screen. They have been linguistically performed in just about every language spoken on this blue orb of Babel. The films have been a showcase for E. Scrooge for everyone from Henry Winkler to George C. Scott. But...what if Dickens were alive today...and produced his own version for the TNT network...ladies and gentlemen I give you Extreme Dickens (Casting by Director Mike Marino Coppola.
Tonight’s feature presentation is a new spin on an old classic. A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. In this updated somewhat ribald version we have Al Pacino starring as Ebeneezer “Scarface” Scrooge, a feared Cuban drug dealer with a penchant for red leisure suits who directs a world wide drug operation and invites us the viewers to say hello to his little friends...the Elvis Elf Cartel. This time at Christmas when it snows it blows and goes up the nose! His arch rival is Snow White played by Tim Curry as Kim Kardashian who runs a group known simply as the Magnificent Seven bi-sexual Dwarves. The version has made other changes in keeping with the spirit of Americana. 18th century England with a bunch of Cockney accents has immigrated and Scrooge now operates out of a broken down ranch in the small town of Tony, Montana.
Scarface Scrooge works his minions hard even on Christmas Eve so that night while sleeping in his compound, his former partner, Marley, no, not Jacob, but Bob Marley visits him...Marley is dead and is a reggae ghost now and is played by former white as white can be Senator Strom Thurmond who was cast perfectly in the role as he is dead now too, and even when alive he looked dead so heads or tails, he was dead on perfect for the role..he was useless in Congress after all. Scrooge who certainly lacks anything resembling the C-Mas spirit is told by marley, “Hey Mon, tonight you will be visited by three little pigs...or three bears maybe..or three ghosts...I can’t remember which.” To which Pacino-Scrooge replies….”Fredo, I love you like a brother, but if you ever go against the family again…”
The ghosts by the way are the ghost of Christmas Past played by Christopher Walken, the ghost of Christmas present portrayed by Steve Buscemi and the Ghost of Christmas Future is played to perfection by Gary Busey. Together they are The Three Reservoir Dogs of Dickensonia!
Along the journey into the fast paced pinball world of fast forward, reverse and neutral that evening, Scrooge encounters Sugar Plum Fairies brilliantly portrayed by the Ru Paul Drag Team where the colored girls do indeed take a walk on the wild side going do do do do do do...etc etc..and Pee Wee Herman grabs his rain coat as Little Joe who never once gave it away…everybody had to pay and pay.
In this Sam Peckinpah-esque cinematic romp we also encounter Santa Claus, portrayed by Mickey Rourke and also features Kim Bassinger as they reprise their 9 and a Half Weeks characterizations with cookies and milk, a favorite scene of the BDSM crowd when they run out of snuff films. Rumour has it Mickey underwent cosmetic surgery and played the role of Bassinger as well!
Bob Cratchit, played by Reefer Sutherland works as an accountant for Scarface Scrooge and cooks the company books and launders the money into legit business operations and offshore bank accounts...he also has a little cripple son...Tiny Tim played by Joe Pesci who has a game leg from an old bullet wound and a mouth like a sailor. So much for sympathy for the little tyke…”Do I amuse you? Funny How?” At this point Ray Liotta enters the scene for no apparent reason.
After Scarface has his nightly encounters he has a change of heart and his heart if filled with the Christmas Spirit. “I don’t mind the ghosts,” he mused, “but a wet dream would have been better!”
He leaps out of bed...puts on his holiday shoulder holster and greets passerby on the early morning Christmas streets. “Get the fuck out of my way you cock-a-roach!” Just then Rudolph the Commie Red reindeer appears guiding a red zeppelin with 8 tiny reindeer. An 8-track of Jimmy Page guitar solos blasting away with the holiday stairway to heaven holiday spirit.
He rushes to the Crachit household with a Christmas goose, and presents including a pair of fishnets for Mrs. Crachit.He also gives the oldest Crachit girl a box of tampons which she begins to hang on the chimney not having a clue as to what they are used for!
Laughter and good cheer prevail and as the story begins to end and hurries to fade to black...Tiny Tim Pesci looks quare into the camera and utters those immortal words..
“Fuck us all everyone!” I hope the little bastard breaks his other leg after a visit down the chimney from Jack Nicholson and the gang from The Departed!!!
Imaginary Voices in Mr, Potato’s Head While Gumby Goes Rogue!
Childhood, that magical mystery tour before we get mechanized with “think of your future””make something of yourself” “contribute to society” and fitted for the straight jacket of adulthood. Who rides the Magic Bus?
We all do, the major difference is that our gen’s was a child’s garden of imagination. While later in the 60's we saw looking glass ties while kissing the skies, as children...we had some pretty weird ass toys. Hasbro has-beens today lining the shelves of toy museums like some rock relic acts trying' to make a comeback at a Holiday Inn Lounge doing surf pop music in between breaks taking their blood pressure meds.
Some of the toys have withstood the ticking clock of time, time, time (insert Chambers Brothers music here!) such as the Rock Star of the Toy Box … Gumby!!! Probably the first alien we had a close encounter with. A strange green rubber character I never knew what to do with! I could bend his legs but the positions always seemed obscene as if he were trying to give himself a blow job.
Let’s face it, a rubber man with an orange gumby-esque talking pony named Pokey (my toy Pokey did talk...after getting into mom and dad’s Darvon, all my toys talked!) fighting a battalion of Blockheads with cube shaped heads is as weird as a hallucination on blotter acid when I saw the Space Needle in Seattle melt before my very eyes. My friends with me said they didn’t see it. Bullshit!
Gumby got to them first with a fist full of Thorazine from the Mattel Free Clinic where all dope fiend toys end up on Skid Row after years of listening to the incessant rambling of Chatty Cathy and watching Betsy Wetsy destroy the only good mattress at the Salvation Army mission and Ken Doll needed fixing up after being beaten up at a gay bar by two beefy GI Joes two blocks from where Barbie was shooting up smack scored from a lesbian hand puppet named Lamb Chop with Shari Lewis’ hand constantly going for the gold.
My favorite Gumby character was Goo, a flying blue hooker mermaid who spit blue goo balls and is a shape shifter as well. Now that’s entertainment. “How much for the Blue Goo Balls routine, I really get off on that?” “Look sailor you can go around the world for $200 bucks. Goo Balls gonna cost ya double or you can play with your own!”
His damned dog was named Nopey because all he could say was “Nope”. If I had a real dog that could say “Nope” or anything I’d be rich on the carnival circuit!
Gumby didn’t have a girlfriend. Imagine what they could do in bed. Both as versatile as a trapeze act with the sexy moves of a Miley Cyrus made of Silly Putty. Gumbo came out of the toybox closet eventually and proclaimed he was in love with Barbie and Ken. A bi-sexual Gumby is better than an asexual Gumball!
Take Mr. & Mrs. Potato Head. Please! They were “ahead” of their time. They had a treasure trove of facial parts you could place anywhere on their enormous heads. Plastic Picasso Hasbro Surgery! Not being geniuses as kids let’s face it the more bizarre we made them look, the happier we were. Thinking back they came out looking more in breeds from Deliverance. Some looked like Mickey Rouark and Melanie Griffith today who both resemble Raymond Massey in “Arsenic and Old Lace” or Jigsaw in “The Punisher” film War Zone. Besides it was the only toy that you could perform lobotomies on. What fun! Watch them drool!
Which leads us now to the game of Operation where the doctors who make one false buzzing mistake can kill the electro patient then and there. I think it would be fun in a real hospital to have a machine just making the “noise” and scaring the hell out of real patients just for fun. A variation would be the Danish Sex Change Operation Game. One wrong snip and BUZZZZZZ! Whoops….thar she blows!
Who didn’t get orgasmic over a box of Cracker Jacks. Crunchy crap with a chintzy cheap plastic dog at the bottom of the box. You’d eat your way down and the excitement grew as intense as getting a top secret email by mistake from Hillary Clinton, the Obama hand puppet toy who at 70 is an antique and should be in the original box to be worth anything.
Imagine if Ted Kascynski owned the Cracker Jack Company. Now that would be a blast. Open that box and watch the fun as Jack goes crackers and ignites the neighborhood with ball bearings and nails as shrapnel...then you can bring out your Mr. Bomb Squad action figure with only one arm and one leg.
Etch-a-sketch was supposed to teach us….I really have no idea what, but it was pretty nifty keeno making squiggly lines with no meaning whatsoever. The same kids who excelled at Etch-a-Sketchery are now urban highway designers in Chicago. It was more exciting than a View Master which is today’s Cable TV and dance reality shows.
Of course we also had Silly Putty but today they’re call silicone implants and for the more intellectual child there was Play-Doh which was actually named after the philosopher Plato but was misspelled. Typical America..Europe gave us the skillful game of Chess...America dumbed it down to Checkers.
Toys of the world unite! You must slay the electronic dragons of Pot Farm and Farmville and take back your rightful place and bring back imagination….I can picture myself now on a boat on a river, with plasticine porters with looking glass ties….
War is in the Bag
Red Devil steel rains down from above causing destruction and leaving dented impressions in Mother Earth, while on the battleground the enemy rolls over their adversary easily in a surprise blitzkrieg crushing their opponent with rolling Tiger tanks. The forces on the ground take prisoners in hand to hand combat sealing their fate until another battle or until one side or the other admits defeat and unconditionally surrenders. It’s a classic battle that has raged since the Roman Empire. The war for conquest. Riches obtained that are beyond comprehension. Victory and Empire!
A war of aggression? Oil? Land? Religious Holy Wars? Or just a game of marbles?
If your mind wandered into the rich realm of childhood where we arrived on the field of honor in the corner alley or mom’s backyard knuckled down with “steelies”, “cat eyes” “aggies” “shooters” and “red devils” you would be correct.
You would wager your bag of marbles against that best friend who was after all your “steelies” and fight to the finish yelling “Keepsies!” which means you have no intention of returning any captured marbles. No prisoner exchanges. No Geneva Marble Convention Rules of Engagement. Name Rank and Serial Number Only! This is the Stalag 17 of childhood games, with No Great Escape.
There was no United Nations mandate and even your other friends wouldn’t interfere in the capacity of Peace Keeper. It doesn’t work in Bosnia and it certainly won’t be effective in Marble Wars. Steelies and Aggies have never gotten along and never will...They are the Middle East of the marble bag.
No “quitzies” in my neighborhood...You didn’t walk away until you had your buddy’s bag or most of it in your bag. If you did yell “quitzies” you were only fit for piano bars with a lot of fern, or to play with a Betsy Wetsy doll with your sisters friends while engaging in hop scotch! No,marbles are for Macho Men and in Michigan’s East Side Detroit neighborhood where I grew up, we searched for the Holy Grail...the Plaid Marble!!!
Steelies were highly coveted for the sheer destructive power to chip a glass cats eye marble, rendering it “wounded in action”. I always felt there should be a VA hospital for wounded marbles. If a marble was marred on the field, there was no Mattel M.A.S.H. unit to come to it’s rescue. You dealt with it as you would when you were wounded at night playing flashlight tag or the horror you felt when your new kite crashed and crumpled on the ground, a victim of an invisible Luftwaffe attack engaged in dogfights in the Battle of Britain. You took defeat as graciously as you could when Patton Bastogne’d your bag of marbles.
But….tomorrow after a summer time cease fire, you were ready, marble bag in hand to free the marbles you lost in combat the day before. You become William Holden going back in the jungle to blow up that Bridge on the River Kwai.You are now Rambo...Chuck Norris and a Navy Seal all in one because in the Game of Marbles as in War there is to be “No Man or Marble Left Behind!”
Marbles...are looking for a few good men and women. Be all you can be! Be a Marble Marine! Uncle Marble Needs YOU!!!
Myth versus Reality: I See Dead People and Other Things
Once upon a time….there was a kingdom comprised of those clinging to the notion that there really are things that go bump in the night. Pushing reality to the outer limits while taking one step beyond into a world of belief more powerful than a Robin Trower guitar solo where a sexy voodoo queen can make zombies from Jamaica try to make ya….
Recently the Mike Marino Archeo-illogical “can you dig it” team went in search of...things that not only bump in the night but can shake, shake, shake their booty, uh huh, uh huh. Things that humankind has taken to heart as fact, and not fiction. We are a group of academic geeks with a variety of degrees, to one degree or another in fields as diverse as Bullshitology. I myself graduated Some Cum Loudly and was the Valiumdictorian of my graduating class...rah, rah, sis boom, bah klatuu barada nicto.
Were the Mayans stoners? Did they really have a clue? Those madcap Mayans of mayhem predicted standing room only cataclysmic events for 2012 remember? Nothing happened, but then again how can a group of Mayans predict OUR end 900 years ago when they weren’t astute enough to see their own decline and collapse staring them in the face then? They also didn’t see Disco coming in the ‘70s.
Mermaids. Fact or Horny Fiction? These were merely wet dream visions conjured up by sweaty salty dog seamen of yore with a massive build up of seamans semen who wanted to fuck a manatee! I’m sorry, but have you ever seen a manatee? Confusing a bulky “sea cow” with whiskers that can weigh up to 1,000 pounds with paddle like flippers with Daryl Hannah tells me these guys spent a lot of time below deck with a bunk buddy and too much rum. I wonder what they saw when whales breached spouting? This was pure orgasm I bet as they yelled with glee “Thar she blows!” Now wonder when they hit a port the first place they looked for was Madame Bovary’s Ovary Blowhole Bordello.
The Greeks and Romans had a plethora of Pan’s jammed into Pandora’s Box. Pan is the Greek mythological version of Richard Simmons, who is regarded as the clap hands, work with me people god of the woods who loved to cavort, sing, and dance, and play music. In today’s world of reality, fact vs. fiction we have Elton John. Screw fluting in the forest, you can foray in a piano bar. Speaking of Pandora’s box….I opened her box once...wow...I mistakenly thought she was a virgin. She thought I was a Satyr, one of those mythological magnificent beasts of half man and half horse. Our dig team has found evidence that a disgruntled band of ancient feminists made this up claiming that men were similar to a horse’s ass.
Imhotep! The name alone not only conjures up fear but sounds like the name of a chain of Pancake Houses! This creation lumbers along at an astounding speed of one mile an hour and somehow catches its human prey that can clearly outrun it ..maybe the aerodynamics are all wrong...notice too...the mummy kills men only...an act of self hatred as a latent homosexual embarrassed by his feelings..a momma's boy gone berserk...who knows...I know I could outrun old rags in a flash.
Frankenstein’s Monster...big lumberjack who plods along with electrodes resembling an electronic goiter and the clothes were purely a Salvation Army fashion statement and the massive Dr. Scholls platform shoes would have made a hit if only Frankie were a glitter rock star in the 70's and 80's..Bowie would have hired him as a back-up singer along with Klaus Nomi. Frank only killed those who were doing him harm..and did not kill women or little girls. He was the kindly weird uncle just released from the asylum that although sedated...”Children, don't bother uncle Frank...the meds may wear off and he'll have you sit on his lap while he bounces up and down...” Thankfully they created a Bride for him..sort of a flesh and blood inflatable doll that looked like an Courtney Love that stuck her finger in a socket before she got fingered in her own socket.
We are doing more research in fields to study jackalopes, horned rabbits and do they really go roaming in Wyoming or do they only exist in tourist trap souvenir shops? Big Foot, he is an American mythological beast. Or is he or she or it? Before bigfoot there was Sasquatch a Canadian forest beast, but it all began with Moses and the Jewish bigfoot, Yentl the Yehti who both arrived on a UFO landing in Loch Ness but were saved by a tribe of Celtic faeries who welcomed them to earth and intermarried with them after a good old fashioned alien “who’s your daddy” probe!
Class dismissed. I have to find the ancient Crystal Skull shaped like a disco ball and find out of Leo Sayer became Richard Simmons...the truth is out there...way out there!!
The Race for Time & Space
Outer space has beckoned humankind as tempting as any short skirted street hooker flags down a customer in a Cadillac on a Saturday night. The rocket itself is a highly phallic factor bringing forth from the alley gutter of the imagination a vision of a large fuel injected dildo ready to penetrate the infinity of a sexual galaxy filled with planetary orbs and orgasms. Sure. Space is Sexy! Seductive! Seducing! Who doesn’t want be an astronaut enjoying sex in a gravity free space station floating aimlessly with the cosmic Kama Sutra co-ed of your choice? Houston...we are having the time of our life.
Female and Male Astronauts from a galaxy of nations are taking to space in increasing numbers. Why? We’ve been to the Moon and managed to get our moon rocks off, so what’s next?
Which planet is sexier than the rest? I guess it depends on your sexual and political persuasion. Venus of course is a hotbed of Amazonian Females...if you can breathe in an ammonia heavy atmosphere then fire up the old rocket booster and remember...Like Virginia ….Venus is for Lovers!
If you’re a senior citizen and prefer a dry heat, then Mercury is for you. It’s the closest rest home planet to the sun. Each day on Mercury is equal to 58 days on Earth. You never sleep anyway so you can still make it to the early bird special..anytime you please! Parking is a breeze with plenty of handicapped jet pack parking spaces available.
If extreme solar system sports spots tickle your macho or macho-ette fancy then make it Mars! It’s an Arctic wonderland for solar cross country skiing and ice fishing for 3 headed man killing bass. Think dodge ball is fun? Try ducking a rain of thousands of small meteorites. It’s about as fun as dodging a cinder block dropped from a freeway overpass during rush hour.
For the galactic gastronomically inclined load up the old fast food feedbag and grab the family for a foraging foray to the planet McJupiter where everyone weighs 300 plus pounds thanks to a gravitational force with enough pull to flatten Gov. Chris Christie and Donald Trump to size of a chihuahua.
Saturn is the most flamboyant of the planets surrounded by a large ring the screams FASHION STATEMENT! It’s actually a planetary project runway with ten moons! Some moons are rated PG and others are rated, well….if you’ve seen “Deep Throat” then you’ll prefer the moon Pandora just for her box alone…
For the LGBT crowd, they’ll clap hands in glee when they take in Uranus (so to speak!) It has a cabaret nightlife to die for. Piano bars aplenty with sequined Liberace impersonators from the Outer Limits of Uranus and the Lesbian Review from the Torrid Twilight Erogenous Zone from the Venusian Vagina Vector.
Neptune is the Michigan of Outer Space. Water water everywhere. It was closed for a few years after Sen. Ted Kennedy drove off a bridge near the equatorial region with Mary Jo, but the space rover was retrieved after he called for help two days later. If you want to experience the to the max IMAX thrill of your life...you’ll lose your breath on the Ted Kennedy Waterslide or on a Hillary Clinton White Water Rafting trip down the Clinton’s fun filled“Suicide River of No Return”
Round out your space trip to trippy little Pluto. The forgotten planet. The demoted planet. The sad planet. The Bernie Sanders Planet. The refugee planet. In the grand scheme of the universe, Pluto has been demeaned and never had a chance to be on an equal par with the other planets so if you are ready for a politically correct space vacation...remember….Plutonian Lives Matter!
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Michigan's Super Heroes: Deetroitman, Yooperman and Plaidma
Superman! Truth...Justice...and the American way! What if Supe’s Krypton express baby space bod didn’t land in the heartland and wheat fields of the American Midwest...after all, he did arrive in 1938 according to comic book lore. What if he landed in Berlin instead in 1938? He'd be just in time to invade Poland a year later.
Superheroes come in different nationalities, genders, and races. Take Plaidman and Yooperman. These are the most revered of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula Legion of Unemployed Superheroes. Yooperman can leap over a deer blind in a single bound and is faster than ingesting a box of Exlax after drinking a 12 pack of Stroh’s beer. He couldn’t afford a fancy latex costume so found a pair of faded torn long johns at the local church garage sale he bought from a widow whose husband passed away. (Besides, latex won’t sit well with the many manly lumberjack Green Bay Packer Backer crowd in Menominee, Michigan. (Yes they are Michiganders, but they drunkenly root for the Packers! Recently they, the unfaithful have been labeled a terrorist group and rounded up and sent to Macinac Island, the Guantanamo of the UP.)
As for a cape? Too fancy for the knotty pine UP version of the Fortress of Solitude so he wears a bowling shirt tied around his neck embroidered with the words “St. Ignace Bowling Champs ‘57” To complete a superhero fashion statement, nothing screams “SUPER” like a good pair of Arctic Cat snowmobile boots to strike fear in the evil that may be lurking in the fruit section of the local IGA supermarket.
Michigan’s Plaidman is another UP anomaly down to his plaid winterized bikini briefs. Plaid cape, plaid leotards and leopard skin pillbox hat (Sorry, had to get in a little tribute to Bob Dylan, the first Jewish superhero from Hibbing, Minnesota).
Plaidman is a close relation to Canuckman, afterall Michiganders have been inbreeding for centuries with Canadians and hockey is the state religion with throngs waiting for the day of rapture when Gordie Howe will return to Earth, or Olympia Stadium in Detroit, whichever comes first.
Plaidman prefers an evening at a stripclub in Cheboygan. Claims he gets his manly super erection after the first show of the naked Chippewa Dancers and that is the source of his super powers. Once erect he can’t bend it with his bare hands!
Dee-troitman is the Lower Peninsula illegitimate child of a union couple from Flint. Some say his father was Michael Moore, some say he’s delusional and blame his delusions on the local water supply. He has no Fortress of Solitude unless you count the holding cell at the First Precinct at 1300 Beaubien Street near Greektown.
He stands ready in Hart Plaza day or night to stop the flow of the criminal element that constantly crosses over from Canada. (They built a wall at one point, but the Mayor of Windsor said to Mayor Roman Gribbs…”Mr. Gribbs, tear that wall down” after a three month standoff by stopping the flow of Canuck whiskey to the drunks and whores on John R. Street.
Yooperman and Plaidman don’t have a fancy Batmobile chick machine to cruise main street with. Instead, fuel injected Polaris snowmobiles outfitted with deer rifles and spotlights have to do the job. They’d use their pickup trucks with spotlights, but those are reserved for night hunting during deer season.
Dee-troitman is lucky. Plenty of Cadillac Escalades to jack when he needs one and who’s gonna argue with a man with a hockey stick yelling “Puck You, Suburanite!” with a tell tale bulge emerging like a volcano ready to heave ho from his pants while he’s high on cocaine scored at a Chinese restaurant on the Mama Cass Corridor from a Wayne State University drama major.
Yes, we are lucky in Michigan. We have it all. Beer, lighthouses, beer, bowling, beer, and Salvation Army Superheroes. We’re plaid...and we’re proud. We support our airport strip clubs. We drink Vernors and Faygo by the gallon, and eat chili dogs at Lafayette Coney Island until we puke and dammit, we worship White Castle hamburgers although a movement is gaining support called Black Castle Lives Matter Too.
So lose the latex and confiscate the capes. Get plaid and get proud! See you in Cheboygan at the Chippewa Dancers Review. I hope it doesn’t make me faster than a speeding bullet when the time cums….
Friday Night Lights and Mating Rites! Rah Rah Rah!
Cheerleaders! They fuel inject the team spirit and fan loyalty to the pro game, and add a pot full of carnal passion to the promiscuous delight of the Friday Night Lights high school crowd. Sure there are also baton twirlers in short baton twirling skirts and Radio City Rockettes thigh high Gestapo goose stepping leg kicks who love to show off how they can manhandle a very big shaft making it spin, twirl and obey on command as it returns and nests softly in the warm hands of a pubescent blonde Lolita.
The crowds of students, parents and homeroom teachers jockey for the best bleacher seats….the potbellied parental fan of the game opts for the sky high seats to armchair quarterback every play in the coach’s playbook. Unless of course his kid is on the team. Then he becomes the loud, boisterous, overzealous embarrassment of his offspring for all four quarters.
Students with more of an interest dictated by hormonal changes choose the first lowest row. When the home team scores a goal...he and she in many cases, (lesbians are people too you know!) can get a glimpse of animated cheerleader cartwheel action that will expose, if lucky, the Pearly Gates and the promise of hidden treasure more exciting than a ton of gold on a Spanish galleon heading home laden with wealth stolen from the Phillipines. This is Cheerleader Booty. The stuff Dallas Cheerleader dreams are made off...in the world of sports, this is the gridiron cheerleader Maltese Falcon moment of sexuality.
The girls in the high school marching band are usually not man magnets, nor are male bandies chick magnets. The uniforms are stuffy....long pants and funny hats that make them look like refugees from Sgt Peppers band while wearing heavy coats that hide breast size which by the way would be too heavy to wear for even a Russian soldier on the frontier of Ukraine in winter.
No one, to my limited knowledge of school ever wanted to fuck a bandy. Dress them up in short plaid skirts and push up training bras for the girls and maybe kilts with daygo jockstraps for the guys and you may have something going for the coy co-ed audience. Let’s make bandy’s sexy again. Forget the librarian look….think Sharon Stone with a tuba!!
I do think those in the brass and woodwind section would make for better sex partners as they can do wonders with a large instrument begging to be played.
Bring more sexuality to the gridiron. Peek-a-boo short skirt pigskin moments during halftime cheerleader mating rituals. Abandon band prim and proper propriety and bring on the topless piccolo players. Baton twirlers can twirl but imagine what they could do as pole dancers!
If pigskin action and John Phillip Sousa music is not your cup of tea….then you can always be cool...and try to fuck the prom queen under the bleachers. Go Team Go!
That Time of the Electoral Month
In the time machine of Presidential elections it’s that time of the month….convention time as the crow flies. It may not be as fun as Chicago was in ‘68, but does have the potential of a real Three Stooges Moment...Soitenly! Nyuk, Nyuk, Nyuk.
Das Trump and the RNC will hold forth in Cleveland at the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame where Mr. Trump and Gov. Pence will do their impression of the Chambers Brothers with a rousing rendition of “Time Has Come Today”
Billary and the DNC will be in the City of Brotherly Love. DNC D&C? Sounds like a cervical procedure so that could be a most interesting visual televised on the podium on FOX News. She'll be doing a solo act at first singing “Stand By Your Man” (thought I forgot about that, eh?) later followed up by Bill and Hill doing a classic lip synch of Sonny and Cher’s “I’ve Got You Babe By the Balls”
Bernie is not giving up either. Gotta give that guy his kudos. As a true man of the people the Feel the Bern Convention will be held at a local Chuck E. Cheese that’s not booked solid for a birthday party, although there will be hats and horns a plenty. Followed by he and Hal Holbrook performing a bit as Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels reading from Das Capital and Abbot and Costello’s “Who’s on First?”
Black Lives Matter and the Ku Klux Klan will attend the DNC and RNC just to shake their booty and stir the pot, while a new group I saw a posted about on Facebook will also throw their considerable weight around..”The Black Sabbath Lives Matter” movement led by spokespersons Ozzie Osbourne and his translator, Keith Richards. I can’t understand either one so I just usually nod my head before nodding out when either one speaks.
Hillary claims she is the ghost of Eleanor Roosevelt while Trump is adamant that he is Julius Ceaser. Bernie says he is Nero, so both parties may feel the “burn”.
LBJ showed his appendix scars for all the world to marvel at..so Hillary has plans to show off her vericose veins as a map of the United States interstate system while Trump will show the lobotomy scars hidden under his corn patch hairdo. Bernie? He has taken a beating this year in the Primary Ring, but can take it as he will prove when he shows the bullet wounds he sustained when he tried to overthrow the Czar of Russia in 1917 when he was on spring break.
Hillary’s platform on immigration is simple...let ‘em in, we’ll deal with it and every refugee can then pitch a tent on the White House Lawn...Trump also will let refugees come with his arms open..as long as they are from the former Iron Curtain. He said…”Let them in...I’ll marry them and make them citizens!” Bernie went a step further in the past and is a proven immigration advocate...rare film footage shows him in front of Pharaoh telling him “Let My People Go!” Did a few tricks with his magic disco stick and voila!
Food at the DNC will be catered by Dunkin’ Donuts, Bill’s fave along with Krispy Kreme, his nickname for Monica Lewinsky, while the RNC will serve lobster tails and Bull Testicles to prove manliness and, yep Bernie will serve up Chuck E. Cheese slices and to show he is not homophobic will also invite The Dairy Queen female impersonator to deliver ice cream cakes.
Pop stars will abound at all Conventions….Kanye will headline at the DNC to make Hillary famous and said he’s only doing it as a favor because Hillary’s butt is as large as Kim Kardashians….while the RNC will be entertained by The Mariachi Singers from Mexico City. They will have to leave the country as soon as the convention is over or Trump said he will employ them off the books as waiters at the Trump Casino. Bernie promises a real razzle dazzle entertainment filled evening with folk dancing by Ukrainian tap dancers and music by Lawrence Welk impersonators...ah von, a two, a feel dat Bern, eh?
See you at the unconventional conventions...bring your kevlar vests...I think of Chicago but have a feeling…”we ain’t seen nothing yet!”
Walmart: The Great American Cultural Tampon Absorbs the Population
America is a nation of diversity. Different cultures blending into a whole. Immigrants seeking a better life of prosperity, democratic freedoms and the star spangled American Dream. They leave behind hundreds, perhaps thousands of years of culture, language and heritage. Lady Liberty opens her arms in New York Harbor as many others cross the Rio Grande from south of the border (SOB) and Canucks embrace us by crossing the Detroit River (NOB) with beaver pelts and Maple Leaf sweaters.
Asians come to us from across the Pacific Ocean seeking economic freedom while the Middle Eastern immigrant brings the smell of curry cooking to almost every Motel 6 at check in time. Hard working...industrious….most assimilating just as my Dago-Wop and Canuck forebears had to adapt.
In exchange...we cook them up in an anthropological petri dish culture with bunsen burner Walmartism while replacing Greek shish-k-bob with a fucking big Mac! We homogenize the American culture into a “one size fits all suit off the rack in Hong Kong” transformation.” If the immigrants are the new blood in America...America is the cultural Tampon!
Walmart has tried in it’s lust for greed to appeal to the immigrant shopper with Ethnic Aisles. Watered down Americanized versions of everything from Chinese to Italian foods as well as the Mexican aisle with restaurant sized cans and packages large enough to feed a North Korean battalion. Must be Catholics streaming across the border.
Canadians, like their counterparts without sweaters south of the Rio Grande, also flock to America in numbers. No, not numbers as large as the Mexicans who make a mad dash into the tidal pool of tired, hungry, and poor wretched refuse. No exact Canadian numbers can be calculated but the estimated lower numbers is based on the fact that if you go down the food aisle of WalMart not one of them is labeled "Canadian Food".
Russian immigrants usually have no problem coping with a trip to Walmart. The store will have 15 lanes and only three will be open manned by someone with Alzheimer. To us it’s frustrating...to a recent immigrant from Russia it’s just another day in the Kremlin breadline.
The Walmart greeter is the first person an immigrant has a close encounter of the Walmart kind with when they enter the Ninth Gate of Sam Walton Greed and Hell. It’s Usually an older person with the personality and carved smile they have to wear for their shift that resembles Howdy Doody needing another fix of heroin.
Immigrants are amazed that you can get half-assed medical care and advice at a kiosk clinic complete with blood pressure machines and a 20 something Britney Spears doctor wannabe who would rather spike your blood pressure medicine and euthanize you at their first opportunity.
The recent immigrant unfamiliar with Walmart probably view it as an amusement park, American style. Cheap clothing hand sewn in Mongolian sweat shops...shoes that should last at least a week and a vast selection of beers from around the world...providing the world consists of Milwaukee and St. Louis and Colorado. It’s a small beer world after all!
So give us your tired….your hungry….your poor….we’ll Walmart them into submission before you know it. They can in time raise their right hand in front of a judge to become a citizen by answering two simple questions…..Who are the Supreme Court Justices….and…..In what aisle in Walmart are the sex toys?
Black Vinyl Turntable Teenage Angst Death Wish Blues
Thinking back to the “dark ages” of my youth (and quite possibly yours as well) I can remember the adrenalin rush of racing every week to buy the latest 45 rpm AM radio hit of the week...in my case, these were according to the radio DJ gods of Detroit-Windsor who sat high atop the Top 40 analog mountain.
Racing home we ripped the black disc Holy Weekly Grail from its protective jacket and then the magic moment, damned near sexual as we held it up and ceremoniously inserted the 45 rpm adapter disk into it as if it were a vagina accepting a diaphragm for that extra ounce of protection and to accept the tight fitting penetration of the silver spindle as it slid sensuously down the waiting shaft for a foray of foreplay as the stylus moved to takes it’s place in its waiting groove to make contact and gently traverse the long furrow makeing mechanical love with music….until it reached climax at the end of the song...the stylus would then lift gently, move aside and wait until Connie Francis dropped down next awaiting her turn to tell us “Where the Boys Are” as the stylus massaged her vinyl groove into orgasm…..but wait..this isn’t about sex...it’s about AM Radio Angst! Real heartbreaker teenage rage, ok, sex and “Oh the humanity”....Car Wrecks!
The morbid and morose music of Motor City mo-sheens as the ended Teen Angels jailbait life for example. OK, so she was stupid to run back for her high school ring as a train came cannonballing down the track, but...it was young love, first love so she was buried and he probably now started going out with the nubile prom queen….fortunately she wasn’t on a motorcycle with the Leader of the Pack on Dead Man’s Curve!!!
Yeah, I admit it...I bought all of them and more….like Thunder Road by Robert Mitchum and those are some of my memories of my era...but mostly...forget the car crashes...I loved watching that spindle enter the adapter and watch it slid down the shaft!
Teen Angel - “Teen angel, teen angel, teen angel, ooh, ooh
That fateful night the car was stalled
upon the railroad track
I pulled you out and we were safe
but you went running back
Teen angel, can you hear me
Teen angel, can you see me
Are you somewhere up above
And I am still your own true love
What was it you were looking for
that took your life that night
They said they found my high school ring
clutched in your fingers tight
Teen angel, can you hear me
Teen angel, can you see me
Are you somewhere up above
And I am still your own true love
Just sweet sixteen, and now you're gone
They've taken you away.
I'll never kiss your lips again
They buried you today
Teen angel, can you hear me
Teen angel, can you see me
Are you somewhere up above
And I am still your own true love
Teen angel, teen angel, answer me, please”
Deadman’s Curve - “I’ll never forget that night on Deadman’s Curve I was cruising in my Stingray late one night when an XKE pulled up on the right and rolled down the window of his shiny new Jag and challenged me then and there to a drag I said, "you're on, buddy, my mill's runnin' fine let's come off the line, now, at Sunset and Vine I'll go you one better if you've got the nerve let's race all the way to dead man's curve.Dead man's curve Dead man's curve Won't come back from dead man's curve”
Last Kiss - “When I woke up, the rain was falling down
There were people standing all around
Something warm flowing through my eyes
But somehow I found my baby that night
I lifted her head, she looked at me and said
"Hold me darling just a little while."
I held her close, I kissed her our last kiss
I found the love that I knew I had missed
But now she's gone, even though I hold her tight
I lost my love, my life that night.”
Leader of the Pack -
“He sort of smiled and kissed me goodbye
The tears were beginning to show
As he drove away on that rainy night
I begged him to go slow
But whether he heard, I'll never know
Look out! Look out! Look out! Look out!
I felt so helpless, what could I do?
Remembering all the things we'd been through
In school they all stop and stare
I can't hide the tears, but I don't care
I'll never forget him (the leader of the pack)
The leader of the pack - now he's gone
The leader of the pack - now he's gone
The leader of the pack - now he's gone
The leader of the pack - now he's gone”
[Fade]
Cooking with Mickey and Kim! Nine & a Half Weeks in the Kama Sutra Kitchen
Kim Basinger and Mickey Rouarke proved that a refrigerator can be a S & M sex toy! In fact, they went one step further and have shown conclusively that strawberries and a squirt bottle of honey can bring a blindfolded bound person to their knees! Kim Bassinger also showed the vanilla world at large that with the proper heat she can defrost an iceberg in a frisky fjord in Finland.
If you’ve never seen the film “Nine & A Half Weeks” I’ll clue you in now. It’s not “On Golden Pond” or “The English Patient” not by any stretch of Schindler’s list. In “Nine” Mickey and Kim fire up the fetish furnace and heat up the silver screen to such a degenerate degree you could pop your popcorn before the butter is ready. Remember, Ballpark Franks plump when you cook ‘em and these two together are the Tracy & Hepburn of the soft porn BBQ! This meat is all beef...no filler.
Since the film has taken it’s place in pop culture (remember the parody food/sex scene in “Hot Shots” with Charlie Sheen?) Mickey and Kim have embarked on a cable TV career with a new extreme cooking program on Bravo XXX titled The Kama Sutra Kitchen. How to master basting with kinky exhibitionism and the art of clothing optional cooking.
The program will have recipes for gargantuan gastronomical treats from Missionary Position Minestrone to various regional finger foods from the pubic garden. Carnivores among us will devour pounds of fresh, hot Canadian beavers while, Vegetarians with Vaginas, the famed veggie competitive cooking team who have been wowing crowds for years will also make guest appearances and give meat dishes a vasectomy. They may even share the secrets to Yoga Yogurt if you’re nice.
Betty Page will show you how to “whip up” a batch of sticky buns from her book “Garters in the Garden: Sado Salads and Masochist Munchies. Her Riding Crop Ravioli will have you begging for seconds. Top it all off with her smash hit spatula spanking ice cream Tit’s and Arse Tutti Fruiti.
Hungry for more? Gluttony got ya by the short hairs? No problem. Every week you can tickle your tonsils with offerings from the Linda Lovelace Deep Throat Dish cookbook. Every recipe is a mouthful of pure richcreamy decadence. Remember, don’t talk with your mouthful.
Terese and Isabell will cavort and create food fun with Kim with a frolic in one hot kitchen for some labia tested Lesbian Lasagna, while Ru Paul will show you how to dress up any cuisine with Neapolitan Rainbow on the Runway Ice Cream in chocolate, strawberry and vanilla colors and flavors, if your tastes run in that direction for a cuisine erection.
Rocky Road Horror hors d'oeuvre i are a snap with helpful hints from Dr. Frankenfurter during the weekly segments of Sweet Transvestites in Tights. You’ll marvel at the simplicity of making a batch of Fishnet Finger Foods guaranteed to make Col. Sanders jealous and tuna one of your new favorite aromas.
Just announced this week...their first guest will be Lolita herself demonstrating how to properly suck a lollipop and Monica Lewinsky will be on hand to show you how to effectively remove “food” stains from clothing while sucking the seeds from a watermelon in one refreshing gulp.
You don’t want to miss all the action from perversion to pasta. Mickey Rourke and Kim Basinger are ready to rock the world of cuisine with a dash of salty sex peppered with side of fettuccini fetish and flesh. The kitchen of Marquis de Sade meets Johnny Wadd in this raucous romp with blenders and dildos, while ripe bananas slip effortlessly into warm doughnut holes.
The Mad Hatters American Political System Roller Coaster
Buckle up, bend over America and let America’s two party political system take YOU for a ride. Hell, every election seems like an out of control roller coaster ride at the hap, hap, happiest place on Earth. No, I’m not talking about a whore house in Manila. No sir, no ma’am, we’re talking about the American Political System Disneyland. Get your two party system ticket punched here by the carnival barkers from the mass media. Sorry...No Greens, Libertarians or Marijuana Party Members aloud. This is a private party after all and let’s face it….you’re not a member of the Electoral College but, you bought into this “of the people, for the people” hyperbole.
Imagine if this Media Disneyland of two party atrophy were open to all on a fair basis. In Democrat Land you can visit the Hillary Clinton I’m One of You Magic Show under the Beltway big top. Watch her make super delegates appear before your very eyes. Hungry? Grab a bite at the Clinton Monsanto Cafe Concession. (Remember in 2015 Hillary Clinton had just appointed Jerry Crawford, a long-time Monsanto lobbyist, to be her advisor.) So while Bill Clinton may be Pac Man….you can now have PAC Woman as well at the helm)
If you’re one of the tired, hungry and poor, you may wish to enjoy a day strolling the latest attraction at the park at the all new Trumpland. You will need a ticket to get in as there is a wall around it to keep out undesirables. You know….Canadians and their sweaters. The kids will have fun climbing over or around the wall and sneaking in past the no trespassing sign. Yes, it’s in three languages so let there be no mistake, English, Spanish and Viking.
On a lonely island isolated in the center of the park is the all new Bernie of the Caribbean attraction. “Down and Out” you say? Not quite! Yes, it is an out of the way attraction and everyone who enters must also pay the admission price for the person behind them but in the end...you’ll feel better for it..umbrellas come with the price of admission as numerous doves fly overhead and you never know when a bird droppings peace bomb may fall on you...so feel the Bern...but Duck and Cover too!
The real fun comes when you enter the gates of Libertarian Land, through caution to the wind and remove all your clothing. It’s your right to parade naked where you please. OK so we’re not all buff...but...too bad. In Libertarian Land they say “It’s your party and you can strip if you want too!” Sexual orientation and nudity have no bounds here…(not recommended for children under the age of 25)
If you’re political tastes don’t go up in smoke truck on over to Maryjane Land, home of the US Marijuana Party Party. Where else can you rock and roll on the world’s slowest but most intoxicating theme park ride. That's right, we're talking the Roach Clip Roller Coaster where it rocks you while you roll your own!
Maryjane and Peter "Waterpipe" Pan take you on a journey where somebody speaks and you go into a dream as you float down the river on a ride that includes stoned pirates and alligators with carnivorous munchies while stoners pop up out of the jungle on either side. You can sign up as a voting member of the party if they don’t forget where they put the applications. You also get a signed photo of Willie Nelson eating a bale of hay!
At the Gus Hall Memorial Pavilion the proletarians will provide food and entertainment for your ballot vote for the Communist Party. Food is available at the Joe Stalin Starbucks Cosmonaut Cafe. Be advised there are extreme shortages, so if you order a hot dog..that’s what you get...no buns available! A handful of chips...no bag….Pepsi and Coke are too American, but with a combo commie meal you get a shot of vodka. Three shots for free if you vote the way they tell you. Remember your politics...under Communism...the Government Controls Big Business...under a Capitalist Democracy...it’s different...Big Business controls Government.
So...enjoy the Political Ride America...just remember you do have choices but instead of fretting over it...go the Political Theme Park and bend over...we’re fucked either way. But at least there are choices besides Dems and Repubs...we may as well choose who’s going to do the fucking….
It’s Time to Come Out of Closet and Play….LGBT Monopoly!
Forget Boardwalk and Park Place!
The Sexopoly game begins on Go! Girl! And you go around the board with a sashay as you mince your way to the nearest Espresso Shop. If you land on Ball-Tick Ave, beware, it’s home to the rough trade blonde male hustlers. If you’re looking for that Middle Eastern heart throb...roll the dice and get lucky..you may end up on Mediterranean Avenue where where Turks with big bouzoukis will light your flaming cheese!
If you’re playing Bisexual Monopoly and land on Chance...you’re in luck! You now get to choose one of the other players for some sex hockey to see if you can get your puck in his or her net. Male or Female..the choice is yours. What the hell...you’re bisexual! The world is your oyster! Be all the pearl diver you can be!
If you prefer Lesbian Monopoly roll the dice and land on the Community Chest...and what a chest it can be in this game version. Choose the female player- opponent with the most to offer and see if you can build hotels on her hottie hills.
Let’s camp it up! If you’re engaged in Gay Monopoly and land on Fire Island or the Village...Fabulous!! Grab that blow drier and get ready to advance to the bath house and camp it up with the Village People. Tokens are a bit different to...maybe you prefer the leather hat or perhaps a nice pair of pink handcuffs...when you pass GO GAY! Grab that $200 dollars and shop until you drop...by the way the $200 comes in $3 bills!
Hermaphrodite Monopoly can be played alone without other players. The best part is landing on the Electric Company where you get a real charge and a chance to go fuck yourself! It’s very similar to Masturbation or Dildo Monopoly where you’re the Banker and the Wanker!
Hetero Monopoly if you own all the railroads choose an opponent and take a ride on the Reading Railroad into her tunnel….now you know why they call it a “box” car…. Use the airplane token and go for the cock pit!
Transsexual Monopoly is the latest out of the game board closet. You can take a “Chance” and move around the board in any direction...the rules state simply….You Go Girl!!!
Either way….it beats an Erector Set...and if it’s not your cup of tea...then you can always play with your Lincoln Log!
Murders & Killers: The Musicals!
There’s no business like show business! However, when you can mix dancers in fishnets with lovable singing psychopaths it’s a gold mine! Mike Marino, the playwright and theatrical empressario will be producing a series of murder musicals in Central Park. What better place for a murder than Central Park! Move over Shakespeare, Jack the Ripper is back in town...and this time it’s personal.
The entire cultural event was inspired by the Amy Fisher Comic Book Series. She didn’t actually kill anyone, but when the cast hits the stage and breaks into a rousing edition of “Long Island Lolita” it’s a killer performance culminating with Joey Buttafuco in fishnets doing a duet with Amy Fisher singing “You’re Sixteen, You’re beautiful and You’re mine”
The outdoor series will also feature “The Manson of La Mancha” where mansions replace windmills and mass murder takes the place of impossible dreams. Justin Bieber in his own never ending “impossible dream” to man-up his image, will star in the role as Charles “Chuckie” Manson.
Don’t miss “Hello Clarice!” starring Hannibal Lechter and Clarice Starling reprising there earlier off-Broadway roles in “Hello Dolly” Joining the cast as the transvestite psychopath, Buffalo Bill Clinton, will be the hilarious Hillary Clinton (no makeup required) wowing the crowds in the pit with solo renditions of “Don’t You Hurt My Precious” and “Put the Locomotion Lotion On”
Bundy On Broadway!!! It’s about time Dead Ted got his shot at the bright lights. Ted’s voice has never been better. He’s won acclaim on Florida’s Death Row Dinner Theater for his remake of “First Cut is the Deepest” and “Killing Me Softly”
Not all is art in the dark park, the kids will love the John Wayne Gacy-Barnum and Bailey Circus complete with Killer Klowns from outer space. Yes, Spacey Gacy is coming to town...if you think Pennywise was a riot...you ain’t see nothing yet!
If you missed the first salvo, don’t miss Albert De Salvo! Call Ticket Master now and reserve your tickets for “The Boston Strangler Meets the Son of Sam” also starring the son of Sam Elliot as they do a rousing rendition of “Dirty Water” by the Standells...ah yes...Lovers, Muggers, and Thieves..Boston Your My Town!”
Hungry for dinner theater? What Made Milwaukee famous? Beer? Nope! Jeffrey Dahmer. Fun filled moments recreated on stage where Jeffrey’s mother and Jeff are sitting at the dinner table eating a Jeffrey Dahmer Happy Meal he just cooked. Mom looks at Jeff and says, “I really don’t like your friends, Jeffrey.” He replies with quick witted Mel Brooks confidence., “Then try the Mashed Potatoes instead”
It’s Theater of the Absurd you won’t find in the ‘burbs! Refreshments available at the Jim Jones Kool-Aid Concession stands or feast on Corn on Macabre from the Edgar Allen Poe food carts….soon you too will feel like singing Helter Skelter. One warning... if a stranger comes up to you and says “What’s Your Sign?” He’s not trying to be fresh...it’s only the Zodiac Killer.
Don't Fear the Reaper
Death doesn’t have to be a morbid, macabre short story affair by Edgar Allen Poe. In fact, it can be a tongue in chic, tongue in cheek deadhead party to rival an evening at the Playboy Mansion rather a night at the Manson Mansion.
Cancel that order of fries and the river of tears flowing for what appears to be an eternity in the funeral home. Everyone talks in a whisper, as though they may wake you up at your own wake. Shhhh...you’ll wake the dead. Goddamn...it’s YOU in the coffin...not Dracula or a Jamaican zombie under the control of the black magic woman of voodoo.
The jungle of flowers festooning the chapel resemble an endangered rainforest so thick the mourners would need a Cuban machete to hack and blaze a trail just to make it to the coffin to see you’re pasty Night of the Living Dead face. “He looked so much better...alive!” Duh!
The open casket, like an open faced pastrami sandwich, is showcased on a raised platform as you, the dearly departed are merely reposed and posed in your Sunday best on display as the main creature feature attraction at a spooktacular marathon at the local drive in. "He looks so natural, at least for a dead guy" and other frivolities are tossed about like candy spraying in all directions from a pinata as condolences.
Now, New Orleans has the right idea. The band plays "When the Saints Go Marching In" ringing out as the funeral procession proceeds down those steamy Streetcar Named Desire streets. The music has a cadence and lively beat that lifts the Cajun spirit to defy the dread of death. In fact, it's a celebration with a wink in it's eye, but, elsewhere, funerals are a somber affair with dirges dredging up a portrait of stoic sobriety, and the bereaved, now bereft of a loved one, realize the "Bringin' in the Sheaves" finality they are faced with.
Alternatives abound! Popping up like a cadaver with rigormortis are Drive Thru Funeral Parlors (I did you not..for real!) similar to Burger Kings or MacDonalds. Now you have a Combo Happy Meal funeral experience for people on the go to view the dearly departed who aren’t going anywhere! It’s better than a breakfast burrito on the run. You sit back and through specially installed windows that displays a dead body set up with a raised and tilted platform for the casket. Curtains over the window automatically open when a car pulls up (even in death...there’s no business like show business) and mourners get three minutes to view a body as music plays overhead, sort of like having a Grateful Dead jukebox. There also a deposit opening for leaving donations and maudlin sympathy cards and there’s even a guest book that drive thru mourners can sign. Pull up to the next window please….your order is ready.
Then again...want to be preserved? You can opt for cryogenics where you are kept on ice for 200 years until they can cure what can kill you. The world will be much different and you’ll stick out like a leg with gangrene. Remember too, when you thaw out technology 200 years from now will be so advanced you will have a hard time mastering it..Look you can’t even program your TV remote now or decide which re-run to watch so imagine trying to figure out an X-9 Jet Pack! You’ll kill yourself the first time out anyway..and you spent all your children’s inheritance to cryo yourself to sleep for what?
For the fan of Egyptology...you can go all Mummy. Wrapped in layers of cloth and drained of fluids all you have to do is add a small curse and scare the hell out of the grandkids when they open the sarcophagus kept in the family room when you pop out on a spring loaded launcher.
There is a certain fascination with all things vampire these days...many 20 somethings dress and act as Hollywood tells them vampires act. I’ve spoken with real vampires and they scoff at the image...strictly movie bullshit. So if someone you know says he or she is a vampire..you never know for sure..so have a sleepover and while they doze in their cape...drive a stake through their heart just for laughs. If the really are a Vamp..you’ve saved the world...and they get a real “Twilight” movie sending off.
Of course….you can always go the Creation to Cremation route a fill an urn with your burned remains. Now your loved ones can use you for fertilizer or to honor your last ash wishes...remember be emphatic and explicit in your directions...you don’t want to be half ashed about this.
Death by the numbers is like painting by the numbers...Dull. Go out with a bang...be creative and please..don’t fear the reaper...have fun and remember…”It’s your party and they’ll cry if they want to!!”
Is Karma edible? The easy cosmic answer is YES! We’ve all heard the saying “we are what we eat”. In fact what we devour defines who we become later in life. It all begins with breastfeeding, the gateway drug that creates the galactic big bang creation of concoctions and confections that forms our gastronomical galaxy of snack foods, junk foods, and sugar filled breakfasts that turns us all into deranged homosapien cereal killers!
America is suffering from obesity. Just go to any Walmart and cruise covertly in the aisles. One too many happy meals have been foraged by young and old alike. A plague of locust devastating the drive-thru windows for breakfast burritos and McGrease burgers. We’re fast becoming a nation of Jaba the Pizza Huts.
Remember when you’d come home from school when you were young? There was mom or grandma whipping up with a blender a big ass bowl of chocolate frosting for that evenings dessert. She graciously let you lick the blender churners and clean the bowl….don’t spoil your dinner! You’re now officially an addict and you can’t wait for Halloween when adults fill your bag with so much sugar and chocolate you start getting as wired as a psycho on a three day methamphetamine run!
Soon….you are what you eat. In the universe of candy, Marino’s extensive research has shown in numerous case studies in North America and foreign research in Finland most $50 street hookers started out in life as children consuming Sweet Tarts, and many of them are. I’ve known many sweet tarts in my life. If your passion was for Three Musketeers, chances are you attend 5 five or more Renaissance Festivals a year dressed as Robin Hood with bulging leotards hoping to make Maid Marion in the food tent.
Monica Lewinsky had a craving for Bomb Pops and Jaw Breakers. Coincidence? I think not. Most Democrats prefer Dove Bars. Eat one and doves of peace feel the Bern and land on your head. Some Democrats enjoy $100,00 Dollar Bars and end up spending as much to eat dinner with Hillary and George Clooney. Republicans love Fifth Ave and Pay Day Bars while The New Left has proposed a new candy bar called “Minimum Wage - The $15 Dollar an Hour Bar.”
Some gay bars, will in addition to a complimentary basket of Nutty Buddy candy bars will also offer discount prices on Twinkies to twinks. What Lesbian can turn down a serving of Mounds Bars while bi-sexuals can gorge themselves on Honey Nuts and Vaginal O’s...they’re not choosey. The LGBT gand will parade with bag of M & M’s in a rainbow of colors to celebrate and in the world of dark or white chocolate...Chocolate Lives Matter. Catholics enjoy Sts. Peter and Paul Bars, while Southern Baptists enjoy munching on a Billy Graham Cracker.
In the world of illiteracy, it’s root cause is due to the fact that not enough attention was paid when eating a bowl of Alpha Bits. As a consequence today those children are reading impaired. As a footnote, Helen Keller would place dried Alpha Bits on the breakfast table before consuming them in order to learn braille. Some foods bring out the activist in some people and any true PETA member to this day will not eat an Animal Cracker! Ah, but now we have Salt Water Taffy. I dated her once and I am here to tell you, she was a natural cotton candy blonde! Every fan of Cheerleaders and Catholic schoolgirls consume vast quantities of Little Debbie Cakes and Girl Scout Cookies. Fans of athletes love to mix their breakfast cereals so they fix of bowl of Wheaties topped off with a layer of Fruit Loops.
I’ve found also that people who like to expose themselves in public subsist on Moonpies while the cops who arrest them down donuts by the ton, except the Metrosexual Metro cop. He is Croissant city all the way.
My ex-girlfriend in San Fran was bi-sexual and enjoyed edible condoms...but we both shared an apetite for each other’s edible undies. Not sure what caused that. Beware of what you eat and if someone offers you a lollipop or popsicle ...well….decisions, decisions!
The Mike Marino News Network has uncovered (through our “Deep Throat” nameless and shameless sources) the hidden world of the underground of Bobble Heads, Dolls and Action Figures. Our research will shock you beyond belief. We'll expose this gang of criminals who have gone on a killing spree in toy boxes across the country! If you think Chuckie, Freddy Krueger or Killer Klowns are bad ass....wait! This may not be suitable for young children, fans of Fox News or the politically correct crowd from Seattle where Starbucks gives more of a thrill than a cargo load of Star Wars action figures.
According to the Bobblehead Bible….In the beginning … there was a void...a darkness over the land. Then one day in a drunken fit of sarcastic whimsy, God created Bobbleheads. One a man, one a woman and declared in a booming Charleton Heston voice “Know ye throughout my infinite turf, two bobbleheads are better than one!” One day in the Mattel Garden of Eden Playset (made in China by the way with small parts that may cause choking) The female B-Head, known as Evita Argentina said to the male B-Head, Adam-12, “Eat this!” This was the first almost vegan meal served (along with a side order of serpent almondine in white sauce)
It wasn’t long until the male B-Head, not being an A-Hole learned how to insert one of his strategic removable parts into Evita below the equator where Argentina would be on a globe and before you knew it...little bobble babies emerged to inbreed for all time. Brothers and Sisters kicking out the jams for eternity.
Thus is the gospel according to the Book of Marino, Verse One, Second Verse, Same as the First, Chapter 11, Plan 9 from Outer Space. As time used the passing lane, inbreeding begat a basket case race of toy Dolls who enslaved the Bobble People until emerged from a toy manufacturer in Taiwan, an Action Figure Bobble known as Mattel Moses who went unto (love that term “unto” ...no one says that anymore. Why?) Patty Playpal, the female Pharoah, and said sternly, “Let my Bobbles go!”
Now, boys being groomed for Machismo don’t as a rule play with Patty Playpal, unless of course she is the human girl next door. If Betsy Wetsy is the girl next door then you have to be careful it’s not that time of the month. No guy wants to go to bed with Chatty Cathy as that could ruin a perfectly good mood. Barbie has no pubic hair, so that could be a plus factor in my book, and most guys like a drive-in with burgers and fries, so Madame Alexander dolls are too high maintenance for a guy on a six pack budget.
Guys like action figures. Well, some may like to diddle with a Ken Doll before it gets shipped to Sweden for a sex change and becomes Skipper! For the most part, give us GI Joes (yes, there are GI Janes too, ready for combat action in a Tonka Tank looking for ISIS Tela Tubbies running amok among the desert.
The German Bild Lili Doll is everyone’s favorite, boy or girl. Built like a toy Berlin Wall shithouse she turns any boys toy box into a bordello. She is a former Nazi Youth plaything with a penchant for perversion!
Bobbleheads! They run the gamut from Killer Clowns to Cheech and Chong and everything and everyone in between...beware of Serial Killer Bobbleheads though. The two Teds, Bundy and Unabomber Kascinsky are the worst. Never mind Two Teds are better than one! If you own a set of serial killer bobbles you’ll also want to buy the complete set that includes a beat up Barbie van, a roll of duct tape and a plastic bag full of tiny rubber victims.
The Monica Lewinsky Bobblehead is so high tech it’s head movements are a work of precision perfection. Probably German engineering is responsible for the smooth flow. It is the only known Bobblehead Action Figure unless you count the Pee Wee Herman Bobblehead action figure. Both of it’s “heads” bobble and wiggle. Keep it away from your Barbie Collection though as she may end up in Pee Wee’s Pussycat Theater Playhouse playing with itself...now that’s entertainment...and action!
The Dollhouse Conspiracy: Fact Or Fiction
Toy Gender Specificity Factor of the 1950’s created a societal sugar and spice vs puppy dog tails battle of the sexes. It was considered an unnatural act for a boy to even contemplate whipping up a cake in an Easy Bake Oven or a girl to throw the switch on a slot car racing set, unless of course she was Danika Patrick.
If if we dared to boldly go where no child had gone before and crossed the line of sexual gender demarcation that the toy manufacturers and society drew as a “line in the sandbox” we’d have been labeled as degenerates influenced by the Kremlin to overthrow the government of Mattel...as well as homosexuals and lesbians, where in fact we were merely trying to come out of the Barbie Dream House Closet. Toys made us switch hitters, and the dollhouse was the weapon that split our immature atom.
The dollhouse was an amazing set up. Metal with an open facade with rooms to be decorated with miniature furniture including toilets and little mini people mom and dads but, never anyone going to the bathroom on a miniature toilet, unless you had a shrunken version of Betsy Wetsy. Imagine you’re in a singles bar and want to get lucky with the babe on the stool two seats down from you. “Hi, what’s your name?” She smiles proudly and says “I’m Betsy Wetsy!” Right then you know if you did get lucky that night you’d need a raincoat and a box of diapers!
Then along came Barbie and her Bravo channel pink minions and set the world of doll houses on fire with pink this and pink that. Even her garage was pink. Move over Pink...the Punks are here!
Boys did have dollhouses, although we didn’t refer to them as that. We wanted to build them out of Lincoln Logs or Legos giving them a rustic macho woodland look or the Lego look that resembled more of a compound in Waco, Texas or Soviet architecture. Utilitarian and not froo froo. Lincoln Logs are manly, or so we felt, but never once did a girl say to me “Is that a Lincoln Log in your pants or are you happy to see me?” Never once to reciprocate did we say “Man, she’s built like a Lego shithouse!” Besides I never found a shit house outhouse sexy at all!
We not only built these houses with our hands, we built them outside in the backyard, clearing the land allotted for play with Tonka trucks and bulldozers and lifted the pieces in place with erector sets. Today I can’t even program my Smartphone properly so I settle for a dumb phone instead and when I put a wall unit together I always have a piece left over. I guess that is what the instructions in Spanish and French are for.
We as boys, didn’t have miniature Donna Reed Family persons to live in our constructions so had to make do with a bag of rubber army men with bazookas and machine guns and the rubber tanks wouldn’t fit in the garage. In the end we didn’t have any reasonable facsimile of Barbies Dream House, but more the appearance of Ruby Ridge under siege by the FBI.
Barbie had her pink Corvette by the Dream House..we, on the other hand set up our houses indoors with our electric trains to roar, smoke and shake as though we built on the wrong side of the tracks and all that was missing was a Barbie Bordello nearby with Skipper waiting in the wings next door to Ken’s Gay Bar. (I never wanted a gay bar near my constructions. Too many GI Joe’s might have left the fortress undefended to go AWOL to dance and drink umbrella drinks)
One other major difference between female and male doll houses….girls always were decorating, or changing furniture, buying toy baby furniture and kitchen appliances. Boys were different. We didn’t decorate...we would demolish them with M-80’s and cherry bombs.
Today the Metrosexual politically correct boy wants to ban the harvesting of Lincoln Logs in the hopes of saving the rainforest of Madagascar and he doesn’t build from rustic logs. Instead he wants to show is sensitivity so mom and dad buy him a Barbie Dream House to go with his man bun. In the deep south boys don’t build doll houses...instead they buy kits to make double wide trailers with toy rubber dogs with three legs called Tripod with an outhouse out back...Outhouse Barbie? I think not!
Little Catholic boys don’t build doll houses...they build churches stocked with nuns, while the Metrosexual boy doesn’t build one either. Instead he hires the kid down the block to build one with a complete kitchen set-up then spends his time shopping at IKEA for matching furniture including a lot of mirrors and a large screen cable ready TV.
Young former East Berlin boys would use Lego’s to build little Berlin Walls and use Daisy AK 47 Air Rifles to shoot down Weebles trying to escape. Yes, they do wobble and they DO fall down with a well placed bullet, and young Russian boys build Space Station Doll Houses equipped with listening devices, nuclear rockets and a Cosmonaut Brady Bunch Family. Moscow Barbies really knock me out!
So go go girls with your doll houses. I’ll stick to my Fort Apache set up and play with my erector set!
PEZ Dispenser Lives Mat
I’ve always identified with PEZ dispensers, Identified? HelI, I wanted to be one. One time,one night time in Haight Ashbury, I actually thought I was one. Probably something I ate or dropped. There are many misconceptions as to the origin of PEZ and PEZ dispenser people. Where did they come from? Did they migrate across the daring Bering Straits?
According to PEZ, they came from Austria in 1927. The same country that gave the world Adolph Hitler. I wonder if there is a nasty Nazi version? I found out however, that PEZ dispenser people actually originated in Pezylvania. A minority at first. Now it’s time we liberals get out the vote for our first PEZ Prez don’t you think? In this political year and climate I can feel the PEZ Bern!
Politically, there is also the Bill Clinton PEZ dispenser that claims it never inhaled. He also claims he never dispensed PEZ to the Monica Lewinsky open wide PEZ dispenser. The 420 Cheech and Chong dispensers dispute this claim. The Donald Trump PEZ wants to build a wall to keep illegal alien PEZ Heads out. The Hillary Clinton dispenser opens it’s mouth and needs a breath mint instead.
On the PEZ civil rights front, People of Pez want to replace the picture of Andrew Jackson on the $20 bill and put a former Pez abolitionist on it instead. They should also replace the Founding Fathers...all owned PEZ slaves. As for the Native American PEZ people, I bet if you go to an Native American PEZ Casino, they will accept a $20 with old Andy on it. Hypocrisy can only go so far.
Granted racism does and has existed in the past. Southern bobbleheads fearful of PEZ equality committed acts of violence so heinous it’s hard to comprehend. PEZ people had to sit at the back of the candy rack while all the all white M & M’s sat in front of the concession stands, that is until Rosa PEZ defied authority. PEZ dispensers have also boycotted the Hershey awards as most of the white chocolate kisses were winning all the awards and dark chocolate was being ignored.
In the recent Occupy PEZ movement, there was protest for more diversity. Gay PEZ and lesbian (Pezbians as they are known) want rights equality as well. Besides nothing to me is more erotic than a little girl PEZ on girl PEZ action in a PEZ dispenser Fantasy Booth. In the Carolina’s they are trying to ban transgender PEZ People from public Men and Women restrooms, so soon there will be a third door labeled merely….PEZ. At least with that a PEZ Person can take a PEZ pee in peace.
Freedom of speech activists want more say ever since the Lenny Bruce PEZ dispenser started dispensing dirty jokes with each PEZ released, and PEZ pole dancers and sex workers want to unionize. I’m all for it...when a PEZ dispenser opens wide...it’s time to yell loud and proud “Thar she blows!” and you get a candy treat in the bargain to suck on!
There are conspiracy theories aplenty. For example was Kennedy killed by a lone gunman with a PEZ dispenser? Many theorists speculate he was killed by a single PEZ candy fired from a Mickey Mouse dispenser from the window of Willie Wonka’s Chocolate Factory that had recently opened in Dallas.
Two PEZ people who have made a difference in PEZ acceptance were Elvis Pezley and of course more recently, Jerry Seinfeld. So remember, we are all PEZ dispensers. We are share the planet’s candy shelf, and above all PEZ Dispenser Lives Matter!
Figure Skating: Sex and Flair on Blades of Glory!
Figure skating from Sonja Henie’s Norwegian heiny in the 1930’s to East Berlin’s Katerina Witt’s “built like a brick Berlin Wall” body to Kristi Yamaguchi’s thighs of glory sex and short skirts have propelled the male interest in the sport and art of figure skating for decades. Forget panache and grace. These ice maidens bewilder our senses with a dazzling display of a pure athletic form of ballet and aesthetic art, raising our male bar of libido enhancement, and transporting us from the clutches of mud wrestling and pole dancing drunkeness. When we men watch Figure Skating….we attain culture, yet still maintain our dream of dating the prom queen and having a go with cheerleader under the bleachers.
That’s not to say women don’t have their faves on ice. That I can’t speak too that and only two males come to mind but are Brian Boitano and Scott Hamilton sexy? Are they really athletes? Brian wears his bulge well even on the ice which most of us would lose under winter conditions. Scott Hamilton is more Yoda like and could be an Ewok character in “Disney on Ice” but...yes they are athletes. It may seem unmanly for a male to figure skate but then again...would you have the balls to tell Rosie Grier that real men don’t crochet? How stupid would that be unless you have a death wish!
Ice Follies and Disney on ice are another matter altogether. Disney has the right idea if you get off on watching Goofy chase the Little Mermaid around a rink while Donald Duck does backflips with his pants off exposing himself and shaking his feathers suggestively.
Ice Follies has potential. Imagine Burlesque on Ice with statuesque Nordic Viking women pole dancing to the Northern Lights over Finland to the Swedish national anthem, “Ja, Ja, Ja, Youbetcha!” sung by the all female clothing optional Danish Drill Team.
That brings us to Kilts on Ice for the Brave of Heart. Imagine plaid gone mad!!! As the Highland gents take to the ice, the lassies await what the laddies have under their lowlands. I guarantee it’s not a sport for Boitano’s men in tights crowd. This is the Ice Follies version of the Scottish caber toss. Bear in mind the average wooden caber tossed is 19 feet and six inches. Don’t count on a kilt covering 19 feet of a Scotsman’s caber...so that leaves a reasonable six inches to ponder.
I also feel the commie crowd would get a big Bolshevik bang out of a performance of Lenin on Ice. He’s already well preserved. Put a pair of skates on him, stand him up, give him a little shove or have him towed by a Zamboni blasting “Back in the USSR” and damn...it’s A Winter Wonderland Siberia on Ice. Hard labor with showtunes!
The Lawn Jockey Comes Out of the Closet
There is a disturbing lawn ornament ceramic cerebral homophobia rising in the land. The once stoic statue of manly cast iron machismo has come out of the landscaping closet. No longer a symbol of the hetero hyacinth crowd, one has emerged as the darling of the bi-sexual built for two lawn statue piano bar underground, no longer referred to as a lawn ornament, but by the politically correct terminology, Lawn Accessorized Adornment!
(Traditionally, a lawn jockey is a small statue of a White man in jockey clothes, begun in the 19th Century intended to be placed in front yards, similar to garden gnomes. Many felt and still feel the Black lawn jockey is racist. Technically, there were NO Black lawn jockeys. Those were “grooms” who tended to horses, not rode or raced them. According to Charles L. Blockson, Curator Emeritus of the Afro-American Collection at Temple University in Philadelphia, “People who DON’T know the history of the jockey have feelings of humiliation and anger when they see the statue...") KNOW YOUR HISTORY!
The emergence began in the 1970’s during the dreaded Disco Era of our Discontent at the famed lawn jockey nightclub, Barbie and Ken’s “Saturday Night Fever” during the Festival of Gardens Mardi Gras and Marigolds Mash Up, hosted by Monte Rock Garden the III. Lawn jockeys flounced about in writhing ecstasy in gaily colored costumes competing with the rotating disco balls for glitz and glam. The riding crops were added as a bit of whimsy by the Leather Lawn Jockeys.
The music was pulsating insatiably to a Grace Jones pedal to metal feverish fervor and the LGBT lawn jockey movement was underway. Yes, there are Lesbian Lawn Jockeys too prefer a bed of roses and not the male compost pile, so it makes for a more pleasant setting for female lawn ornament on lawn ornament sexual action.
There are predatory lawn jockeys as well. The most frightening are those who prey on underage leprechaun ornaments seeking shelter in the pansy patch.
Even now they are evolving and emerging to meet the times. Recently lawn jockeys have begun to run for president of the United States. It won’t be long before we have our first Lawn Ornament sitting in the Rose Garden at the White House Green House. Some are Republican while other Lawn Candidates are Democrats...both have one thing in common...they speak a common garden variety language...that of Manure. We have enough shit to contend with as it is with the current HUMAN contenders.
The Sado-Masochist crowd are as gaga as a lady over the growing number of Marquis de Sod gang of Lawn Jockeys and enjoy being placed in a briar patch of thorns. The Cheech and Chong Bong Lawn Jockeys love to be in the weeds and NRA lawn jockey is more comfortable with his guns and roses.
So if you have a lawn jockey and one day you see it is a tad more flamboyant than yesterday with more pinks and day-glo...don’t be afraid or homophobic. Be understanding...and if it starts belting out YMCA...join in...drop your weed whacker and grab that Village People tool belt...it’s show time!!!!
The Invasion of the Lawn Balls and Bathtub Madonnas by Mike Marino
No one knows for sure when the first invasion of invasive ceramic lawn ornaments began creeping into the realm of our back and front yard landscaping schemes. Lawn Balls as we call them were originally seen first in England in the 19th Century, except then they were referred to as “gazing balls.” Remember there was no cable to watch so you had to watch something after all. Remember too, it was an age where cocaine, morphine and opium was prevalent so that may have had something to do with it. You may as well watch a lawn ball while toasting the Queen Mum with a bit o’ cocaine! In Haight Ashbury we’d stare at a lava lamp for hours (invented by a Brit by the way...coincidence? Don’t kid yourself Brits are Druid stoners from way back, and the lava lamp was a lawn ball! Or could be, on the right combination of drugs.
During the Cold War 1960’s paranoid American suburbia was in full flower. Patio stones replaced Stonehenge….Backyard BBQ’s replaced Viking feasts...and the home horticulturist/gardener replaced the Pyramids of ancient Egypt with lawn balls and ceramic statues of gnomes
Then...Moscow launched it’s attack and the invasion began. Hordes of Communist manufactured lawn balls began the attack on American Backyards. We were helpless in holding them back. We dug bomb shelters...we ducked and covered….in the 1950’s we were afraid of flying saucers from Mars...by the 1970’s we feared Disco and Donna Summer...in the Sixties we were under fire from Dr. Strangelove’s intercontinental ballistic lawn balls.
Today lawn balls and their bastard offspring (how do they procreate anyway?) but at least if you have some you can proudly tell your friends….”My garden as balls!”
This fad led to a real crowd pleaser among the madcap Catholics. The Bathtub Madonna, Mary on the Half Shell, Bathtub Mary, Bathtub Virgin, or better known as the Virgin Mary statues enshrined in….yep….a bathtub! A bathroom fixture as a shrine! I wonder what Catholic saint would warrant a toilet tribute. We Catholics don’t have a patron saint of constipation.
There is a little Polish Catholic town (St. Casimir Church rules the roost in this upper Michigan potato growing capital) called Posen not far from Alpena. Every front lawn has a Virgin Mary and Bathtub and you can review the virgin troops as you cruise through town past the cinder block bar and the IGA store. Speaking of the bar in town, I’ve been there and clearly and apparently the only virgins there are the statues!
Virgin birth aside, you may in some cases find another related ornament in the form of a statue of St. Joseph, the patron saint of real estate! Joseph was a carpenter by trade but apparently moonlighted working for Century 21. He must have attained his certificate to sell land in Europe with the help of nuns at a cloister who needed to expand their land, and after a prayer to St. Joseph they buried medals of him in the ground.
After a short time their prayers had been heard and they got more land. So they say...nuns have a “habit” of making things up. They are celibate after all and perhaps they imagine things to replace good old fashioned sex. So, why not dream of that Catholic hunk..St. Joseph, the Johnny Depp of the Unlocked Chastity Belt.
This story has lived on until today but, instead of burying medals homeowners bury statues. Today the tradition is similar to Beatlemania with over 2 million screaming people doing this for a better sale. I bet somewhere, there is a real estate agent or two who make a quick buck by selling a St. Joe to their clients along with a Multi-Listing payable upon closing!
There are other types of yard decor, if you want to call it that. In an attempt to bring a yard into fierce competition with England’s Coventry Gardens, many will pop a gnome, usualy in a state of wino repose, carefully hidden so it peeks out at you by surprise...in time it is forgotten as the garden grows and overcomes it until one day it gets weed whacked to pieces. I call this the Unknown Gnome as opposed to a known gnome from Gnome, Alaska. Remember Alaskans, There’s no place like Gnome!
The Marino Theory of Darwinian Evolution of Our Human Fornication with The Wheel
We’re born from a Lake Placid of a peaceful, almost surreal placenta only to emerge into the primordial ooze of infancy. We learn to crawl, then walk and thus begins our life as a bi-ped in search of bi-pedals and motor vehicles. In this Mike Marino Darwinian discourse I will attempt, relying solely on the voices in my head and pharmaceuticals to explain the theory of Vehicular Evolution as it shapes and designs humankind…
We as a species are addicted to wheels just as much as a street junkie is to heroin, and our gateway drugs are baby strollers and big wheels, but, where did it all begin? At Toys R Us? A baby shower for mom? Not on your life!
It began with the invention of the wheel by some distant Neanderthal Einstein who decided to go “round”....but for what purpose? “Because it was there” is the only reason I can fathom. Drive-in theaters weren’t invented yet. NASCAR was not a caveman sport at the time and Jimmy Hoffa wasn’t born yet to form the Teamsters Union. It was simply a matter of putting the cart before the horse...or in this case, the wheel before the cart. As humans evolved pre-Volvo there came a time of conquest when chariots roamed the Roman Empire giving the wheel finally a purpose...that of pillage and plunder. This is the genealogical root of the gas guzzling automobile and the creation of the cretinous Department of Motor Vehicles, a known terrorist organization.
Wheel Evolution on an individual level begins with our first jaunt in a mom and dad powered baby stroller racing along at a breakneck speed of at the very least one mile an hour! Exhilarating? Youbetcha! Soon, very soon a taste of freedom as we begin to walk erect and get our first Big Wheel or Tricycle...three wheeled dare devils..Hell’s Angels hell bent on satisfying our need for speed.
Gradation time! No we’re ready for real NASA type astronaut training with the initial orgasmic romp on our first two wheeler with training wheels (Similar to a training bra I suppose, but with a bra, what is there to train? Verbal commands?) Soon, the training wheels come off (similar to our first run in with a bra as teenagers) and we’re ready to see if we have “the right stuff” as we sail the sidewalks...free as a bird on the wing dodging drunken duck hunters in a blind.
The bikes themselves experiencde a revolution during this evolution. We don’t just ride a bike anymore. Hell No! We add a playing card attached to the spokes to make the imagined sound of a Harley Davidson...click, click, click as we race down the street instilling motorcycle gang fear in old Mr. Fitzpatrick while all the girls on pink Barbie bikes see us as miniature macho Marlon Brandos full of Marlon machismo and Brando bravado.
There are guys bikes, you know, with the aluminum bar located where it should not be. One false move and you’re a falsetto that could leave us sounding like Truman Capote in a Turkish bath house. Girls get the cool bikes with no bar..why? What’s to lose? The girls bikes are safer, not pesky bar to do any damage as it they have nothing to lose! Wouldn't it be better if the girls had the one with bar at just below seat level? It could act perhaps as a stimulus of some sort, and the guys can ride the girlie bikes to protect the family jewels. Makes sense, right? Is the bicycle bi-sexual? Yes if it's a bicycle or bisexual built for two.
We get downright creative with flaming flair by adding colorful rainbow glitter streamers to our handle bar grips giving our bikes a real Ru Paul makeover and something of a drag queen look. A boys bike goes from manly to female impersonator in the garage in under 60 seconds.
Worse yet, today’s male generation wears colorful skin tight bike pants that leave nothing to the imagination except “Haven’t I seen you in ‘Deliverance’ or “Just how well do you know Pee Wee Herman?” Some adults wear those ridiculous helmets that make them look like a cross between Gumby the Geek and speed racer. Somehow I made it without knee pads or helmet in my youth and beyond...as for kneepads...they have two purpose only..they are to be worn when sanding a wood floor or by someone giving a blow job in an alley, otherwise if you're an adult and wearing them, you may advertise the wrong impression and make some new friends unwillingly! Or arrested for solicitation. As for those goddamned bicycle pants you guys wear...jesus h. christ...have you seen Deliverance? You wouldn't make it one mile down the river road wearing those in Georgia. You and your Schwinn would be squealing like pig before you hit the next set of rapids! Let’s face it, girls have more fashion sense..hot pants and halter tops, thank you very much.
We get our wheel bearings on bikes, but soon we want even more speed and flexibility so we graduate to roller skates and skateboards. Which can lead later to a career careening around a Roller Derby track getting smacked and whacked or lead to a career as a card carrying tray balancing carhop.
Soon...our own…(gasp!) CAR! Ha...now we’re talkin’ the first one might be a rust bucket with torn seats but it’s ours! Drive-ins for burgers and girls….drive in movies for backseat passion leaving in it’s sexual wake various stains everywhere. Maturity strikes...family...it’s soccer mom and little league dad time to fire up the….dare I say it...THE VANor the SUV. (Classic Land Rover yes! Cadillac SUV? NO!) I dare you to go mud bogging in a Caddy! The glory days of your freedom are ending….no Mini Cooper or Corvette for you...no sir! It’s carpool time with the family. Regular maintenance and regimentation of your life. Besides...the SUV was once the province of MAN...now they are mainly driven by WOMAN.
You are a rebel at heart so what can you do to hold onto your faded youth? NASCAR ...that’s what! You can also move up to a pickup truck. A friend of mine in Colorado who is a car and truck dealer calls the pick up truck...a man’s penis extender! It’s all psychological and illogical unless you’re a farmer or tradesman. Don’t forget you can also go Humvee to impress….well...no one ...as you cruise to the croissant shop...drive it on the road to Bagdad under fire and I’ll be impressed!
Remember Pee Wee Herman rode a bike to lead the way, a pioneer, a warrior, but then one day..he accepted a ride in a car and the next thing you know...he's beating off to different drummer in a movie theater. It's a proven fact...cars do lead to masturbation...I can't even imagine what driving an SUV will lead too!!
Our Darwinian evolution ends eventually, whether we want to call a halt to it or not...remember, we started our wheeled life in a stroller….it ends in a hearse!
The Easter Bunny Coco Puff Cartel & Cheeses of Nazareth
“Easter! It ain’t the same,” said E. Bunny in a recent interview I had with him after locating him on Easter Bunny Island. “I remember hiding colored eggs for the kids, faded yellows, bright blues and red ones that only came out a weak pink. Now, Ha...now they have to be rainbow colored to show support for gay marriage and pride and those fuckers from the Great Lakes and Upper Midwest want plaid eggs. Do you realize how hard it is to dye eggs rainbow and plaid? It’s pain in the Easter ass I tell ya.”
Things have changed and E. Bunny was not happy. “We used to hide eggs for the kids...now we do that and the NSA arrests us as security threats and those goddamned frisk downs during the White House Easter Egg Hunt organized by the CIA. Also we don’t hide them in airports anymore. Worst is that all the old gang is gone...the Tooth Fairy was arrested for being too “oral” and busted in the men’s room at a Tooth Fairy Bar one night in Greenwich Village. Not only that but our droppings are always confused with a bowl of Coco Puffs! Rainbow Colored Fruit Loops too...like we’re on a bisexual built for two! It’s embarrassing!”
In addition to lamenting the loss of the “old days” some traditional frictions still exist between rival factions. “We were until recently still fighting for dominance of the Holiday with the old Cheeses of Nazareth gang. Some of their soldiers left to form a rock group call Nazareth, but the hard core is still there and we’re still fighting!”
The rivalry began a long time ago he explained while smoking a Cuban carrot Castro had sent him. “I left Easter Bunny Island years ago to go to work for the Bugs Bunny Corleone mob. He was top dog, or rabbit in this case. We sat down with the Cheeses mob to form a truce as we were killing each other off! Bad for business all around so Bugs says, ‘Look there’s plenty of biz for all of us Cheeses, You take the Hallmark Greeting cards, Good Friday and the Easter Bonnet churches and we’ll take the Easter Baskets and the Cadbury chocolate bunnies, whadda ya say?”
A tense truce was formed and things were quiet ...for awhile until E Bunny fell in love with one of the Coco Puff gangs hookers, Jessica Rabbit. “All she wanted was power and I was her patsy. She kept after me to whack the boss and take it all, we’d be rich she said and on Easy Street hopping down the Bunny Trail, so I arrange it and I become head of the mob. She steals all the money I got and runs off with Peter Cottontail right when I’m in the middle of new talks with Cheeses now that Bugs has buggered off!”
I noticed a glint in his eye though as he wiggled his nose and tail. “I got back at her though. I was a frequent guest of Hugh Hefner at the Chicago Playboy Mansion on Sam Giancana Boulevard and took up with Gloria Steinem. Cute little ass...for a human that is, but she found feminism and that blew that all to hell!’
Today there is still friction but a quiet friction as the two sides have agreed once more on a solution. “Cheeses has opened a deli in Jerusalem called “Cheeses of Nazareth” you know, wine and water, loaves and fishes and they even have He’brew beer! He still does the Good Friday schtick of getting crucified...only now when they roll away the stone on Easter, he emerges alive...but if he sees his shadow, he goes back in for another six weeks. It’s an old vaudeville routine that still gets them laughing in Bethlehem.”
Today E Bunny is back on Easter Bunny Island...retired...aging...wiser. “It’s a young bunny’s game”, he said…”Fuck...plaid eggs!”
A Motown Retro Moment: My One Gig as the “fifth” of the Four Tops and When Jackie Wilson Left Me Speechless
Growing up in Motown, the music wasn’t all Bob Seger and Suzi Quatro. It was also...MOTOWN. Berry Gordys behemoth music monster born as Hitsville USA! I was working in radio, my first gig in fact in Detroit, and every year the Broadcast Association threw a media bash for those of us locked and loaded in the bullet chamber of Radio and TV.
The bash was being tossed at large venue on the Eastside and the featured entertainment was my fave Motown group...the Tops! Prior to them performing before the dancing began, I was sitting with some friends of mine at the WRIF table, you know..THE HOME OF ROCK AND ROLL but first I was getting quite stoned in the parking lot with the air aces of WABX then drinking with the RIF crowd.
It came time for the Tops to hit the stage and me girlfriend at the time grabbed me (stoned and drinking) to the front of the stage to beat the crowd...soon the room was filled with sweet Motown sounds and everyone was singing along...let’s face it...we ALL knew the words…
After the third song Levi Stubbs, the lead singer with the magic voice stopped and asked for a “fifth” Top to join them on stage..one of the WRIF guys raised MY hand standing next to me and Levi called me up...I was used to a stage having MC’d show all over town...yes..as an MC not a SINGER!
I was nervous as hell but made my way up the steps and stood surrounded by TOPS! Levi knew I was nervous and well...intoxicated and stoned but sobering up fast. The fact that I knew just about everyone in radio and TV there the good natured yelling began..”Motown Mikey” etc..the Tops were laughing...I was faking cool and calm...Levi then cued the band and grabbed my arm to lead the choreography and we did “Sugar Pie Honeybunch”
I was getting Tops dance lessons from the other Tops as well and damned if I didn’t actually relax and felt like I was floating on a Motown Cloud! The song ended and the Tops were gracious and applauded my attempt at landing a Berry Gordy contract...Levi said “Take a bow” which I did and was never the same again...my fave Motown group and my fave song by them and I may not have been the Fifth Beatle...but in Detroit...when you’re the “fifth” Top it doesn’t get any better than that!..
You Are What You Play With
According to Psychotic Sociologist, Dr.Marino the toys you played with as a child reveal a plethora of information of what you may be in later life..for example research has shown that if you spent time building cabins and forts with Lincoln Logs you would most likely end up suffering from Ted Kacysinki Syndrome with desires to live as a hermetically sealed hermit in the middle of no where busily mailing letter and package bombs to celebrate Christmas...on the other hand if you were a Lego-Maniac with it's stark Soviet style creations of formidable structures of blocks, you might have a penchant for working in a prison environment or in your own compound as you formulate plans to seize control of a wild life preserve in Oregon...Legos are a gateway architectural drug to Compounditis! Now we come to the fans of Erector sets...unlike tinkering with Tinker Toys (those children grew up to became roller coaster carnival drifters with potential serial killer tendencies as they set up in various towns with unsuspecting citizens) The Rock Stars however are the serious students of engineering who spent time, not masturbating, but playing architectural god with...an Erector Set while the rest of us played with our Erection apparatus...these dudes became structural engineers and NASA rocket scientists...Kennedy Space Center had more appeal to them than the Pussycat Theater! I was never talented with Erector sets.I tried playing with all these building toys and ended up building a highly technical motorized pole dancing club in the wilderness with a Lego Mud Wrestling pit.... I also stole some of my cousins Barbie Dolls and opened up a Bordello in my toy box for my GI Joe's.....in effect....we are what we play with....just look at Pee Wee Herman...
The Time Machine: Eloi & Morlocks and Yvette Mimieux!
I remember the one Sci Fi film that left an indelible mark on me as a kid and fostered my warped perception of what the fantastic future held. It wasn’t, to me anyway, a world of robots, rayguns and nuclear flying machines...no, not even close. To me it was a wondrous world filled with blond Eloi’s in short hot pants skirts named Yvette Mimieux, and I was Rod Taylor saving the vixen minx from the evil clutches of the morbid Morlocks in the film adaptation of H.G. Wells’ “The Time Machine!”
My friend Charlie and I must have sat through that film a dozen times, sometimes sneaking in the side doors of the old Alger Theater on Detroit’s East Side on Warren Avenue. You remember...one pays the pooled money to get a ticket to get in and then opens the side doors in the theater before show time and you sneak in like a cat burglar looking for popcorn and Coke, not jewels and money.
It was an age of sci fi silver screen action with giant saucers on a rampage to ravage the Earth a time long, long ago, before George Lucas took us to a galaxy far, far away. It was a time of sci-fi innocence before Scotty was beaming up Vulcans, and ET was just an alien egg waiting to be fertilized. Science fact had prevailed in the long run, but there was a time when science and imagination were having a lusty romp in the hay with fiction and romance. In the end, this terrestrial bound tryst gave birth to medium with the power and energy of the cosmic orgasm of a super-nova on the silver screen. The age of Sci-Fi had arrived. Sex and sci fi have been slithering on the silver screen since Fritz Lang unleashed the False Maria on movie audiences in Metropolis. She was not only a buxom mecha-babe but was also the forerunner of CP3O in Star Wars. Banging her probably was similar to having sex with a Jamaican steel drum.
“The Time Machine” had it all. A super tricked out Time Machine that was the Shelby Mustang of time travel with enough blinking lights to cause hallucinatory images and an odometer that displayed the flashing years whizzing by from 1890 something to the 50th Century, give or take, with the rush of speed freak on his third sleepless day on amphetamines looking for candy bars, probably in this case, Mars Bars.
The Eloi lived above ground surrounded by beautiful gardens, plentiful food and enough blonde hair dye to give Tammy Faye Baker a follicle orgasm. The men and women both looked like human Barbie and Ken dolls. I guess that’s what mass nuclear destruction of the planet will leave in it’s wake...a world by Mattel...the Eloi? They’re swell!
Now take those Morlocks, please! Grotesque underground dwelling creatures covered in green fur as though they were a golf course with a layer of sod with bulging eyes and not enough fingers...I don’t think or recall if there were any female Morlocks so can’t figure out how they propagated. I know they ate the Eloi after fattening them up so I guess yelling “GO VEGAN” to a Morlock is useless.
Rod Taylor falls in love with Yvette Mimieux, and you can imagine what effect she had on two 13 year old boys at a Saturday Matinee with her legs and short skirt our only focal point. Ah, Yvette, she’s not just for breakfast anymore!
Needless to say, Charlie and I both wanted to build a time flashy time machine ourselves in the hopes of losing our virginity to an Eloi in the future so when we came back we would be “men of the world” and knock ‘em dead with our prowess under the bleachers or down by the woods by the Detroit River. We decided then and there to build one, so stealing wood for a nearby construction site and adding large Christmas light bulbs, to add that flash factor we were ready to blast off from the backyard, my grandmother and even packed us a lunch!! She had faith in her favorite grandchild.
The moment arrived...we threw the makeshift switch, prepared ourselves in our time machine mounted on an old wagon and ….NOTHING!! We even added more light bulbs and still...we couldn’t escape the 20th Century. We were devastated. How the hell would we ever build a rocket to take us to the far ends of the galaxy if we couldn’t even conquer time and space?
We even had toy pistols to kill Morlocks with. We were crushed. How would we ever get laid or fall in love with Yvette Mimieux? That night lying in bed in my dreams I did travel to the future and damned if I didn’t make it with Mimieux! Proving to me that Time Travel and fantasy are realities..if only in the imagination of child….it was our time machine...and our rocket to the moon... a child’s imagination is world of fantastic imagery..even if it only includes just a little glimpse of the future and a little bit of a blonde Eloi with short skirt. Eloi’s….they’re not just for breakfast anymore...
Flash Bulletin! This Just In! Where are they now! The Mike Marino News Network has cracked the mysterious disappearance over the years of the world’s greatest comic book super hero’s and cartoon characters. Our team of crack investigators found them all, or at least a good number of them in a retirement home in Boca Raton, Florida soaking up the sun and going all Geritol….one of them, the Silver Surfer now refers to himself as Centrum Silver and has transformed his super surfboard into a motorized wheelchair with wood sided panels.
We found Superman sitting peacefully in a Zen Garden and was willing to spill the beans on his super comrades. “We got old, fer Crissakes,” he barked. “Hell I can’t even bend my own steel anymore if you know what I mean. It’s horrible. In my younger days when Lois Lane and I first got involved we had sex that was unfortunately for her faster than a speeding bullet...now I’m lucky if I can make it to the finish line inside her Fortress of Solitude!” She also hated the fact that when he did get down to it he always insisted on wearing the cape and boots.
“We don’t do it often anymore...seems I have been exposed to Kryptonite far too many times and has caused erectile dysfunction. When it comes to sex now I can’t “leap a tall building in a single bound anymore. Hell, I’m lucky to make it to the mezzanine level!”
We found them sharing a room together, the former Dark Knight and the Boy Wonder. Batman and Robin, the original Men in Tights, Robin spoke candidly about their past and about aging. “The sonofabitch started hanging out in leather piano bars trying to pick up young Barry Manilow impersonators. He spent so much time at these Copacabana’s that he lost interest in fighting crime and started to go all Metrosexual. You know, five o’clock shadow, sissy smirk on his face and started wearing cheap cologne. I finally gave up on him. I said quite emphatically one day, “The day will come when you can’t fire up your Batmobile anymore and your atomic thrusters will leave you limp. ‘I have needs too,’ I told him, and it was time for us to admit our affair and come out of the Batcave closet!’
Down the hall in the Women’s wing was former beauty, Wonder Woman. The years have taken their toll and her once svelt figure and ravishing looks that have made her look like a crossbreed of Kate Smith and the Bette Davis character in “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?” Turns out, she has spent the last few years shilling for Jenny Craig Diet Dinners. “You should see Catwoman,” she screamed….looks like feline roadkill these days….getting old is a bitch!”
Spiderman was found in the game room, sitting alone in a state of incoherency yelling about Spiders from Mars! “Damned aliens! I don’t need your help...I’m a solo act and work alone and the name is Spiedermann...I’m a retired Jewish dentist! Why the else would I be in Florida at this age?
..I’m….I’m...I forgot who I am...damn it!”
Our team of investigative and drunken journalists have also discovered that Archie and Jughead are still after Betty and Veronica!!!! Highschool sweethearts to this day! Dick Tracy is practically incoherent claiming he invented to cell phone and banana splits...once a dick always a dick eh?
Tom and Jerry, those madcap cartoon characters are still alive and well in a senior cartoon citizen rest home for the silly and senile! We had the opportunity to interview them about their career as a comedy team and found out the truth from them about good friends the Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote. "They weren't really enemies," Tom told us, "In fact, they were lovers but in those days, many cartoons didn't come out of the closet. It would have ruined their careers!" As for Betty Boop...Jerry told us backstage stories of Betty's wild orgies with Jessica Rabbit!"
Organ Music! Duck and Cover! We Italians are known for many things.....surrendering in WWII.....The Mafia and Organized Crime and of course the Organ Grinder and his early 20th Century monkey with a tin cup pre-dating the panhandling days of Haight Asbury and today's Kick Starter Campaigns for wannabe musicians who can't get a record deal.
When an influx of Italians descended at Ellis Island in the 1910's they brought something worse with them then a monkey....Organs!!! Not the kind where you donate a liver or kidney after death...the kind that cranked out and kept the tenement ghetto awake with it's strange mix of operatic background mixed with "street monkey pop and roll" if there be such a thing. Walk the streets and you dodged a phalanx of organ grinder monkeys that were simian extortionists who squealed and jumped around like Mussolini hanging on a meat hook. God knows what they would have done next...I've seen Planet of the Apes and I know enough to fear our little Darwinian darlings! Remember the opening scene of "2001: Space Odyssey"? I rest my case...give a chimp a piece of bone and a strange obelisk and it's head wound time....
Larger organs, indoor organs that is, have roots in the churches of the Middle Ages and later in the less parochial setting of bowling alleys and roller rinks...oh and funeral parlors as we lay in state with a bad make-up job and the only suit we own...then as we are taken by limo to our new "digs" 6 feet under...something worse appears...fucking bagpipes!!
Oh, yeah, one more thing...organs appeared in early silent films as Pauline suffered her perils tied to railroad tracks and Lon Chaney worked his Phantom organ into an operatic frenzy...I know that sounds dirty and off color now...but what the hell...what guy hasn't worked his organ into a frenzy at one time or another, but, as they say...that is another story.
The Goodship Lollipop Hits an Iceberg (The True Story of Shirley Temple)
If you think Shirley Temple and her years in Hollywood were all lollipops and animal crackers, think again. The Mike Marino News Network had dug through the PR dung pile, and our crack investigative team of jaded journalists have unearthed new information on this Depression Era Pixie of Prozac.
Was she really a midget disguised as a little girl? How old was she really? If we was a little kid...how come she never lost any teeth film after film looking more like refugee from Mississippi looking for a dueling banjo?
Shirley Temple, for one thing is not a Jewish place of prayer so you can hang your yamaulka by the door...It only sounds like one. Far from it. She was a vindictive vixen of voracious venom. We auditioned for the part of Dorothy in the film “The Wizard of Oz” but lost out to a pigtailed bundle of joy, Judy Garland who wore gingham dresses better than that thrift store Heidi crap Shirley was so fond of wearing as she frolicked in her Arayan frock looking for Hitler’s Berchestgarten.
In later years Shirley turned Judy onto heroin she got from Bill “Bojangles” Robinson and Judy fell into the gutter as a junkie while Mr. Bojangles and Ms. Temple high fived. “I owes you Miss Shirley” he said while tap dancing to a plantation beat in “The Little Colonel”
She was close friend of aviatrix Amelia Earhart too, but one day when Shirley wanted to pilot the plane but Amelia unwisely told her NO! That was a mistake as Shirley had contacts in the Japanese Air Force during WWII and arranged for her disappearance on a solo flight. The assumed wreckage was located decades later. Shirley said later, “The bitch should have let me have the stick and controls. I was America’s Dimpled Darling and I told her DON’T FUCK WITH ME!”
She was cast in films were she was always searching for a parent or grandparent while in the care of some evil foster care guardian. Shirley never got a clue...maybe your film parents and grandfather left in the middle of night so you couldn’t haunt them with your incessant obsessive singing off key of about the goddamned Good Ship Lollipop or your fucking Animal Crackers in your soup with your face all scrunched up like a used tampon!
She was also a tiny tot tease..always luring older men to take her in during her quests for family and got them to help by sitting on their laps engaging in a cat and mouse game of a Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm lap dance looking for a Wee Willie Winkee!
Shirley got her start in Baby Burlesque so that kind of says it all! Sometimes they contained material that may be considered racist or sexist by modern standards. Cast members were preschoolers clad in adult costumes on the top and diapers fastened with large safety pins on the bottom.
In her 1988 autobiography, Shirley (for real, look it up!) describes the Baby Burlesks (3 years old at the time) as "a cynical exploitation of our childish innocence". She also said the films were "the best things I ever did". Hmmmm…..explains why she wanted in later years to do the film “Shirley Does Dallas!”
She did some films never shown and we found them in storage in the studio basement. She was cast in “The Exorcist” but they couldn’t get her head to spin fast enough. In “The Shining” she played a rare double Parent Trap kind of role as both scary girls in front of the elevator singing “Come and Get Your Happiness” from an earlier film.
In a stranger role she undertook she portrayed the “Bride of Chuckie” in the Chucky series of slasher films. She was the right size for the part and during filming she admits she and her co-star Chucky, had an affair. It ended three months later and Chucky was devastated at first so he bought up every Shirley Temple Doll he could find and slept with them instead...beats a Betsy Wetsy!
Later years found her content and married to Charles Alden Black so became, Shirley Temple Black. In 1935 she received an Academy Award, but once she became a Black they ignored her.
Lassie: The Pop Culture Killer Canine (Timmy’s in the Well!)
The disappearance of little Timmy from the “Lassie” TV show and the eventual discovery of his lifeless body in the well by a passing hobo is right up there in the conspiracy hit parade of who killed JFK! Was it suicide or was the little tyke paw pushed to his death by a jealous collie named Lassie?
Lassies real name by the way was Hannibal Lassie Lecter and was in love with a French Poodle named Precious but her "dad" Buffalo Bill broke up the relationship..Lassie always went by the middle name to escape detection as Hannibal Lechter after she went on a cat eating rampage and also ate a sparrow named Clarice...he also loved Kibbles and Bits and a bottle of Canine Chianti...sad story.
(Lassie by the way was a transvestite collie and was chastised by many in her small town and fled to Hollywood and there found a home in movies and television.)
Lassie was also a pioneer and one of the first Hollywood stars to boycott the Oscars, along with Toto from the ”Wizard of Oz” as they felt many canine stars were being overlooked by the Academy and all the top awards were going to cats while dogs were under represented. A clear case of a dog racist Hollywood power structure by a group firmly against animal actors who pee in public and refuse to use a cat box…the are the founding members of the DET or Dog Entertainment to award awards to Canines only. (Cats are excluded, even Black cats like Felix..bad luck they say)
On the sexual frontier, Lassie was actually a male dog in the guise of a female in a bizarre Witness Protection program administered by the Humane Society. All the facts have become muddled over the years and one name keeps cropping up..popular myth would have you believe Timmy’s death was a conspiracy by a Canine Mafia of Lassie, Rin Tin Tin and Bullet, Roy Rogers wonder dog who chased Nellie Belle in Mr. Roy Roger’s neighborhood on a beautiful day.
The facts point emphatically to a lone canine killer Lassie. Known as
The Single Paw Push Theory. Although Lassie was thought to have been Timmy’s killer, he never made it trial. As he was being held in a Dallas Kennel in the exercise yard, former child star Tommy Rettig who played Jeff in the first few seasons of Lassie before being replaced by Jon Provost as Timmy unlocked the kennel fence and tossed a ball for Lassie to fetch onto the freeway during rush hour.
Other canine witnesses who may have had information regarding the death of Timmy also died mysteriously just as they were to testify to a Congressional Committee.
Lassie kept declaring his innocence. You remember Lassie could bark-talk. Timmy would be missing from the farm and his mom would ask Lassie (right, ask your dog where you son is!) ”Where’s Timmy, Lassie?” and Lassie would wag his beefcake collie ass and bark..”Woof, ruff, hrumph woof” which loosely translated means, “Timmy is in a mine shaft with a broken leg, follow me!” and of course they did and they found Timmy. Even stranger than following Lassie...they understood what he was saying!
Being able to talk was a blessing, but it could also be a canine curse at the same time. At the time of Lassies TV debut, popular macho stud muffin Rin Tin Tins popularity was drying up faster than his water bowl and Lassie rose to fame on television creating animosity between the two. They never spoke to each other again. In an interview with Lady and the Tramp, the Bogart and Bacall of the kennel crowd, both said on Canine Entertainment Tonight..."Lassie was a pal of mine and a true friend. I never got along with cross dressing canines before and while Lassie was a friend scared me with her voice ...it was frightening to me..so deep she sounded more like Chill Wills!"
Then there is the mysterious roving rover Bullet the Wonder Dog who shared more than a few kibbles and bits with Lassie during filming. Bullet was Lassies stand in and stunt double for those times when Lassie, a confirmed alcoholic was drying out from alcohol abuse or checked into the Betty Furred Canine Clinic for treatment of alcoholism and tranquilizer addiction. Witnesses saw Bullet lifting his leg and marking his territory on a grassy knoll near the well Timmy was found dead. Bullet is now dead also. so the mystery went to the grave with him. Notice the correlation between his death and that of Marilyn Monroe. (Scooby Doo rushed to Bullets side when he was notified of Bullets overdose in the kennel and authorities were not notified until the morning when he died peacefully in his sleep, no doubt dreaming of chasing cars.)
Jon Provost II whose father played Timmy on the TV series was a close human companion of Lassie, and did not believe Lassie could have done the deed. Rin Tin Tin died from a tranquilizer overdose. Tommy Rettig who was the original boy of Lassie and replaced by Jon Provost, had an alibi as he claims he was out of town and had nothing to with it or the death of Lassie nor did he conspire to have Lassie push little Timmy to his death in the well.
An accident? A conspiracy? We’ll never know. There have been as many Timmy and Lassie sightings as there have been of Elvis. The truth may never be known as one by one..the participants have all died mysteriously before they could testify.
Lassie never talked..too stubborn! Roy Rogers had Bullet stuffed.
The Berlin Night of the Asylum Schizophrenes and Hallucinatory Voices by Mike Marino & Sibyll Kalff (Artwork by Sibyll Kalff)
Schizophrenes have a free pass...a ticket to ride the auditory roller coaster of ups and downs, mental uppers and downers cripple and batter the embattled with mirror reflections of empty eye sockets in an emotional body bag in an enclosed alley from which there is no escape imprisoned in an psychological wheelchair and straight jacket while hopped up on narco midnight pills interjecting injections of sweet dreamy morphine.
A broken mirror fires back olfactory warning shots over the head trying to blast through rocks to make a tunnel through the mountain..some will make it to the summit...others will plunge to their death....eating a pile of pills or loading a gun...racing to meet the inevitable anyway at the request of invisible unheard voices and serving up word salads that make no sense except to the delusional hallucinations from a Berlin asylum afloat on rafts of dysfunction to escape the psychosis without success..
Drugs and alcohol induce calm or can increase the manic desire so the self murderer can circumnavigate their own private Polar Ice Caps, past giant icebergs, round and round the Cape we go, circular explorations they are, easy to negotiate, except for those 90 degree corners of fleeting reality that appeared only as more hallucinations obscuring what they really were. Those recesses, the corners, the 90 degree forks in the emotional road, are illuminated in deep shadow by electric currents, pulsating and twitching as Dopamine receptors attack with anti-psychotics for the psyche.
The self imposed mental night morphs into a nether region of blue black jazz with broken planets and schizophrenic stars and the wheelchair bound quarter moon taking its place as a coat rack for the peep show raincoat hiding all it' stains and memories.
You swim upstream, backwards in an old silent film like some insane asylum salmon with an asylums insane agenda...your walk takes you against the tide of life, against the downward flow of a thousand liquid rain children freely falling from the skies, falling and bouncing down the stairs and then out onto the street. You dodge them artfully as you tread deftly, as though they were, and they are, projectiles from space, fired from the moon at the behest of the beast within from the outer reaches of the Schizophrenes solar system and drowning in a sea of madness while those ever present voices cheer maddeningly...loudly...viciously until the pills bring relief and silence….sweet silence...until they wear off and the film is ready to roll again...and once again...you scream your own scream that is very real...you become the hallucination and reality disappears while you chase after it in a wheelchair wearing an invisible straight jacket from which there is no escape...
A Night at the Popera
Does the mere thought of attending the opera bring on convulsive explosions of fear and dread? You don’t feel like boarding a jet to the Met? Are arias not the mug of cultural beer or your corner saloon combo pool hall choice to soothe your bluest of collar concept of culture?
I attended an opera once and found it staid and as stale as a flat-ass two day old beer in a mug sitting next to a jumble of wet cigarettes ripely fermenting in an ashtray in some dingy dive. Does your dictionary as mine, spell opera "prissy" and "sissy"? Man-up! You know damn well, and you have a $10 bet to back you up that the heavy-metal Deaf Dumb and Blind Pinball Playing Popera kid could kick the shit out of Rigoletta the opera kid.
Flashback. An evening with imposters and impossible poseurs at the opera; joining hands with the incurable curators who act as secretive as ever in the back alleys of Tangier and Cairo. Artful dodgers dodging art while smoking big chunky bricks of hashish. following at the end of the sequined and black tie and tails evening, Dahlings! Spouting dreadful wine-in-a-box puns, "Got to go, it's getting latte!"
Great modern rock operas exist... everywhere, along with painters and pirates inhaling pixie dust, and there's a full jammin' needle loaded with kreative karma to ease the pain of the summertime operatic cold turkey blues...so it comes down to this my inebriated brethrens and cisterns...
At a stage production of “Tommy” I will sit in rapt attention while this same person in an auditorium subjected to “Rigoletto” I will be wrapped in misery. Sure “Rigoletto” has a hunchback, evil curses and seduction, the three basic cultural food groups, but where the hell is the Acid Queen with legs that stretch to the outer inner and upper limits of Tina Turner’s torso? You can’t get much sexual mileage out of a hunchback clown in a polka dot costume bellowing in Italian!
Clowns can be scary...singing clowns are worse! Remember Joe Devola as Rigoletto in a Seinfeld episode. He sneaks up behind a very nervous Kramer in an alley and says..”Are you afraid of clowns?” (In full Rigoletto clown drag). Kramer distraught mumbles…”YEAH!” I rest my case.
Thankfully we have Pete Townsend and Andrew Lloyd Webber who have pulled us from the quicksand of Germanic and Italian 12th Century murky mirth making that thrilled the Lombards to death and was more entertaining to them than the Spanish Inquisition with all it’s fun filled comedy of drawing and quartering and burning at the stake of the Heretics Ball.
This brings us now to the Three Tenors. Yes those manly men, two with beards who can bend steel wearing a thong on their vocal chords. Jose Cuervo Carreras, Placenta Placido Domingo and Lucky Luciano Pavrotti. Three guys and a dumpster full of pasta...the Larry, Moe and Curly of culture...when they sing it brings the house down and it’s a Ballroom Blitz. In my old Italian eastside Detroit neighborhood...a tenor was what you paid the local loan shark for borrowing a fiver..and we did spell it tenner, but being dagos we thought nothing of it. Blame it on immigration and my paternal grandparents.
Opera is popular with the effete crowd infected with male culturally superior affectations and their gowned wives with too many botox injections trying to cougar it up.
Thankfully we have Pete Townsend and Andrew Lloyd Webber who have pulled us from the quicksand of Germanic and Italian 12th Century murky mirth making that thrilled the Lombards to death and was more entertaining than the Spanish Inquisition with all it’s fun filled comedy of drawing and quartering and burning at the stake of the Heretics Ball.
The 18th century did give us reality in the German “Three Penny Opera”...a pandemonium of panhandlers and believe it or not...a character named Macheath...roughly translated as Mack the Knife!! Seriously...cue Bobby Darin and start finger popping...Finally an opera with valid price tag...spare change anyone?
Enjoy the opera..I’ll sit here with my stale beer and headphones and listen to “The Pinball Wizard” and dream about Tina Turner’s Legs….and a night with the Acid Queen….
Ballet: Bulging Leotards
When you go to the ballet do you have visions of a Nureyev trying to land his swan in the deep artistic waters of Lake Margot Fonteyn? I went once to a ballet. I was told it was a live version of “Men in Tights” so I was expecting a Robin Hood comedy with enough slapstick schtick to tickle your fancy
Along with tights they also wear a dance belt which is nothing more than a sturdy “head” strong thong. They are supposed to act as a first defense against any visible signs of an erection and to retard in the leotard by supporting a dancer’s “manhood” to avoid any hint of male “ballet bulge”. This is not meant to be a Chippendale’s dance review after all.
I do enjoy the female dancers in tutu’s designed by that great Project Runway designer, Desond Tutu, (they are named after him you know!) as much as I always enjoyed cheerleaders in short skirts showing ample thigh. If only ballerina’s would do handstands or form a pyramid!
We have the great Balanchine to thank for removing the restrictive overly dressed dance wear of earlier eras. The dance wear was as bulky as John Candy in a gorilla costume, so, he demanded and got his dancers to “strip down” to the basics so the audience could actually see the leg movements of the dancers. Supple female legs performing an adagio with grace and style can move a male to warp speed libidinous pole dance mode fluidity in under 60 seconds..faster than Pee Herman at the Club Pussy Cat in a stained raincoat over his lap.
One of my favorite movements is the female “Arabesque” which is where the dancer stands on one leg with the other leg extended behind her posing ever more as a flamingo lawn ornament in a trailer park. Done properly she will bring out the Bedouin in you as you race in your mind to her tent for a private Arabian Night of debauchery and tutu madness!
Of course there are many leaps and jumps, upwards, spinning like deranged Frisbees making you dizzy with awe and wonder...if you like mental roller coaster rides.
Many cities in America have ballet companies and usually in conjunction with that they also have a symphony orchestra to show they have class..unless of course you live in the deep south where the annual festival is to honor Barney Fife or Billy the Exterminator. Hell, even Akron, Ohio of no places has a ballet company or two to compete for the tourist dollar, unless of course that family tour of the Goodyear Tire Factory makes you horny.
I could enjoy Mud Ballet in a large pit in a seedy nightclub with wrestling prim and proper school marmish cheerleader ballerinas with inflated bodice and tantalizing tutus.
If you want to witness the Battle of the Ballet Bulge and watch a swan dive into a ballerina’s lake then by all means have at it as tutu’s go flying high with sky high thigh...as for me I’ll be at the Club Demento drinking and cheering and screaming at the top of my voice..”Give me pole dancing and mud wrestling or give me death”
The Seduction of the Detroit Symphony Orchestra: Breakfast at Timpani’s
At first I thought an evening at the symphony would be similar to landing at Normandy amidst a hail of gunfire from Nazi bunkers commanding the high ground. Would my rock and roll psyche be able to withstand the assault of a Leonard Bernstein with a baton and his army of buffoons with bassoons?
A friend of mine in Detroit in my rock and roll radio dazed days was the PR director of the Detroit Symphony Orchestra, (the DSO) while I was rocking and rolling in Detroit radio. He offered me free passes (in radio you don’t pay for anything...kind of like the President of the United States or a transient serial killer trekking the rural tracks of a railroad in Kansas in search of free duct tape.)
I went, I saw, I heard, I conquered….I also squirmed and couldn’t wait for the intermission to seek out the lobby and a glass of wine. Beethoven did not roll over….Dvorak’s Moravian ravings did not ravage my soul into a state of rapture and Mozart Wolf-gang-banged me until I felt I was date raped in a back alley near Wayne State University.
I still have an aversion to classical music, except the proletarian delight I feel when I hear the cannonade of Tchaikovsky’s War of 1812 Overture, the William Tell “Lone Ranger” theme song or when watching Robert Duvall in a helicopter attack choreographed to “The Cry of the Valkyrie” I told you...I ain’t got no culture and not afraid to admit it. So, let me get this straight, classical music doesn’t have lyrics? Does that make two toothless southerners who play dueling banjos on a porch artists or potential sex offenders in a barnyard?
I have to admit however, I enjoyed the sexual impact the timpanis had on me as they responded to the crash bash boom of the mallet by a skilled timpanist. I always wondered what a “timpanist” bar was like, and would violinist be allowed if they dressed in leather...and what the hell is on the juke box? Some really deep percussion and woodwind Austrian copulation from 1790 or John Williams theme from Jaws or Star Wars? I can hear Bill Murray in his best lounge lizard person now…”Star Wars….nothing but Star Wars...
Violins shriek from the stage and it seems like there is an entire sorority of Asian females stroking the strings, (most violin virtuosos seem to hail from the land of Godzilla) I have to admit they do add a libido laden mental image in that respect to me. Makes me want to be a rare 1666 Stradivarius or other various vintage of the Stradmeister, with some nubile female stroking my strings slowly at first and at the peak break into a fast paced “Turkey in the Straw” to complete the carnal concerto.
French horns blare hidden in the back left or right of the orchestra setting the lumberjack “TIMBRE” for the rest of the elegantly attired sections of brass, woodwinds, strings and maybe a tuba (thankfully there is usually only one tuba per performance including the Strauss inspired Elvis concert theme...“Also Spake Zarathustra” The Tubas Have Left the Building!
The Maestro...the orchestra conductor...it’s good to be the king! Picture Berstein upon his podium high above the patrons as well as his musical minions..Zeus atop Mount Olympus..his baton a fiery sword ready to thwart a single misplaced note from an errant precocious piccolo or to corral a fluctuating group tempo as though a herd of concerto cattle were on a rampaging stampede outrunning a grass fire in Nebraska. He controls the beats and meters...utilizing his highly trained Beat-O-Meter to keep the potential off-beat tempo from beating off!
If video killed the radio star….so be it. The symphony orchestra lives on...but damn..classical music...no words...does that make Nadia’s theme any more palatable? I may just join the DSO as a lyricist and set some words to classic classical pieces like weeds popping up in a verdant artistic garden. Remember Berstein what the Go Go’s said…”WE GOT THE BEAT!”
Santa Claus Gets Bombed
As a working journalist I never know where my typewriter and tape recorder will take me. Recently I was granted an interview with Santa Claus at his happy kingdom at the North Pole where he spoke to me at length about his days as a transvestite north pole pole dancer and female impersonator known as Sandra Claus while describing the hardships of fighting the unionization of his toy factory elves by the Reindeer Teamsters and the disappearance of Jimmy “The Reindeer” Hoffa. He also weighed in the upcoming elections in the USA.
Our initial meeting took place in his underground glacial bunker as Russian bombers unleashed a blizzard of heavy metal destruction from overhead. Penquins were flying everywhere as a torrent of high explosives cascaded a frozen waterfall of carnage. Many of the penquins were veterans of the Disney Wars.
“Oh, the bombing.” He explained. “That’s that putz Putin again. You see he knew I was checking my list twice and turns out he was naughty not nice. He contacted me a peace overture and I agreed to disarmament talks but they had to be held here at the pole.”
I was puzzled. If peace were in the air...why the bombing? Santa explained it was a simple case of misunderstanding. “Ho, Ho, Ho Chi Minh...I told Vlad, I call him Vlad the Gonad, you are welcome here, but it is the North Pole and it’s icy here...he thought I said ISIS IS HERE so he commenced to activate a Christmas sorty in place of a Christmas STORY. I have a call into him but phone service like toilet paper is in short supply in Moscow. Just because I wear a red suit doesn’t mean I’m hot to Trotsky you know..”
I was curious about his feelings on the upcoming elections and his response was equally explosive. “ I don’t like mixing in other countries politics but you’re elections always bring a laugh or two up here. Look at some of the contenders ..Trump, Clinton, Bernie Sanders and Jeb Bush. It’s slapstick on ice! One is a post menopausal Lizzie Borden and Col. Bernie Sanders platform maybe finger looking good to some but a bucket of chicken can get pretty greasy and slippery. Now take that Trump character. He sent me a message already that if he is elected president I will have to undergo a thorough background check before my sleigh can enter US airspace and I can’t deliver arms or toys to Muslim children and if I spot any illegal Mexicans on the ground crossing the Rio Grande I was to alert the Border Patrol and shoot to kill from my sleighs double air to ground missile system I had custom installed along with On Star and Sirius Radio. Not the Santa way I told him.
As for Jeb Bush, daddy and brothers clone. It would be like electing another Kennedy.
I knew delivering toys during wars must be hard on the old gent so asked him about that. “Not pleasant I assure you. During WWII I was flying over Berlin and the little shit Adolph lit the skies up with anti aircraft fire thicker than the grease on a Panzer. I had trouble all over Europe, but I did manage to deliver one small gift to a little Dutch girl in Amsterdam, Anne Frank, all she asked for was a small diary to write in and an end to the war. Unfortunately she didn’t make it to the end, but her diary is her gift to us.”
Unions of the North Pole Proletariat caused some grief as well in the Santa industrial empire. “There was this guy, Hoffa Claus. Real troublemaking elf. Always giving speeches and passing out inflammatory leaflets calling to shut down the toy assembly lines until the union was allowed in. After an elfin slowdown that lasted over two weeks I agreed but then that little fucker started organizing my reindeer. The agitator, Rudolph the Red was hired to incite reindeer riots that left the Pole in a leftist shambles. Finally they won and now I have to sit down with Blitzen at the bargaining table every year before they’ll even take off! I finally had Hoffa Claus taken care of and let’s just say he disappeared and is probably in a hockey field in Siberia or worse, somewhere in New Jersey.”
Most manufacturing jobs are overseas now and many North Pole workers have been laid off and now wearing paper hats at McDonalds. “Now we make fewer toys as the market has changed. Who wants a Betsy Wetsy anymore. Kids want electronics and the Japanese Santa, Santa-san has that market cornered. We still make a Barbie Doll but kids want more realism so we are experimenting this year with a Zombie and a Vampire Barbie...could be a hit. Our adult line of Betty Page action figures could whip up some business along with our Pee Wee Herman Bicycles and Inflatable Kardasian Rubber Love Dolls so you can blow up it’s ass to any size you want..you know, biggie size it.”
Ru Paul Rudolph The Red Nosed Transsexual Reindeer
Santa Claus...a man we visualize as machismo on ice from the North Pole with manly beard who handles a sleigh with the fearless skill and acumen of an adrenline rushing bulletproof NASCAR redneck driver on the track at Talladega. He dons a fierce red suit and carries a whip in one hand...able to leap tall buildings in a single bound with the help of eight V-8 powered reindeer more powerful than Clydesdale horses and able to break land speed records on the Bonneville Salt Flats! He commands the power of godfather Vito Corleone ruling over his family of hit men elves.
I have discovered in my research that all is not as it may seem at first glance. The Ho Ho Ho He was once a Ho Ho Ho She! Santa Claus was once known as Sandra Claus!!!!
It all began when Sandra and Rudolph watched the transvestite Ed Wood film Glen or Glenda. Rudolph at the time was moonlighting as a female reindeer impersonator at a dive club at the North Pole under the name of Ru Paul Rudolph and decided then and there to go all the way with a sex change. He was originally from Lapland where he was a transvestite lap dancer and prancer vixen with one hell of donder flaming blitzen in his reindeer thong so had been to Denmark many times and new the score.
Many misconceptions about Rudolph are as mythic as the Loch Ness Monster. Remember the old Rudolph cartoon where he meets another reindeer, a female named Clarice? Lies...all lies...in reality Rudolph went to Denmark and after the sex change operation became CLARICE!!!
The other 7 reindeer were nervous in the locker room when Rudolph/Clarice wanted to play some strange reindeer games in the shower with the others. Why do you think the let him up in front of the sleigh on Christmas Eve? Don’t buy into the bullshit “Rudolph with your nose so bright, won’t you guide my sleigh tonight?”
The truth is...no reindeer wanted Rudolph rooting around behind their haunches with a red bulb ready ready to play suppository!
Christmas Eves is a night of fear and loathing, not just in Las Vegas, but in the fanciful flights of reindeer fanny’s as Santa yells out “On Hashbowl, Tiny Dancer, Mincing Prancer, Va Va Voom Vixen (former topless reindeer dancer at the St. Nick Strip Club), Vomit, Stupid, Donner Party and Blitzkrieg (the former nasty Nazi German reindeer who still goosesteps to disco records by the Village People)
This Christmas Eve...look to the skies….and duck and cover!!! It’s Rudolph in rut looking for someone to fuck!
The Wonderful Ghost of Christmas Past
Christmas has the power to jump start nostalgia as effectively as a can of WD-40 can loosen a rusted bolt on an engine block that’s been sitting in a junkyard exposed to the elements for 20 junkyard years. We leave the past behind in our dust and eventually we revisit that old familiar junkyard looking for pieces of our past.
So as I sit here this blustery morn in the present, I am being transported back in time listening to the Jimmy Buffett Christmas album. Who better to sail the ocean of memory with, eh?
As a child, I was raised by my grandparents in Detroit along with my mom who had to work hard. My “dad” if you want to call him that wanted a divorce week after I was born…(not my fault, he already had wife number two in tow!)
Christmas was always special..cousins, aunts and uncles always showed up for Christmas at grandma’s house..there was no choice in the matter...she was the familial Queen Victoria, and I being an only child was the enfant terrible and recipient of gifts from me moms six other siblings. My bedroom was a veritable Toys R Me store…
Later at 15 I left home and ended up on a 8 year journey on the beach in Honolulu, living on the streets of LA and San Fran and it also included two years in Okinawa thanks to Uncle Sam’s little military elves.
In Okinawa I had an apartment outside of the town of Naha and high up on hill overlooking the South China Sea. Three of us who rented the place also spent our time selling marijuana from Thailand and LSD from Berkeley my old Haight Ashbury crowd would send over. The tree that first year was a true Charlie Brown bonsai affair straight out of central floral casting from Mr. Miyagi’s greenhouse.
Decorated with joints, roach clips and other paraphernalia of an altered states nature. The USO had a Christmas party in full swing but a dozen or so us decided to skip the Bob Hope cookies and milk and instead toke a few bowls to old St. Nick who to us was Timothy Leary with a beard and a red suit. After a few hits of acid and speed mixed with weed...you become a flying reindeer...I swore Rudolph was a lava lamp!
My girlfriend at the time was a stripper at a local club who moved into the apartment with me and was into the Christmas spirit deeper than I was. She decorated the apartment and added to the tree so it had some real personality and Cristmas decorations and bought an angel for the top. I knew back in Michigan the family was getting together minus me and one other cousin also in the military but with my new “family” of deranged weed heads and Kimoko removing her kimono...I was feeling like I had struck Acapulco Gold at the North Pole.
Flashback! 10 years old...my grandparents owned a cottage in Northern Michigan on Grand Lake near Lake Huron. I not only spent my juvenile summers basking in northern Michigan pines and beach and invisible pirates I had for imaginary friends...but one year we spent Christmas nestled in the cottage in the forest...it was the most memorable Christmas ever. Stone fireplace, roaring fire, full moon on a frozen lake and fresh fallen snow sparkling like diamonds that had fallen from the heavens.
I spent part of Christmas day that year bundled up thicker than a Jack London character living in the frozen north in his novel, “White Fang”
The snow crunching reassuringly under your hiking boots, following deer tracks that were joined at junctures by the tracks of deer, a family of raccoons and a porcupine or two, not to mention the tinier minute tracks of a chipmunk and the tell tale hop hop pattern of a northern rabbit.
It was Christmas and I was enjoying being engrossed and engulfed in the magic and wonder of the natural world of nature.
You’re never really alone at Christmas. It is what you make it..family, friends, woodland critters...doesn’t matter..just let it cascade around you. Christmas is many things to many people, different things as well depending on a person’s heart and perspective..to me having lived homeless for years and relying on the kindness of missions and strangers..it’s giving a helping hand to that invisible homeless person many choose to ignore...and not just at Christmas.
I may manifest itself as a time for family...religion...and yes, Santa. He was our first idol as children..before Batman and Superman. Santa brought presents. As for religion..well, I am not the most religious person on the planet but I do miss the Nativity scenes at city hall ...the Politically Correct Grinches have seen to that. Christmas is now politics and juvenile challenges…”I’ll say Merry Christmas..not Happy Holidays” as though it’s a challenge. Kind of defeats the purpose...I say Merry Christmas but don’t make a big deal out of it..I have no time nor interest in bickering over semantics or rhetoric...I’m too busy enjoying the season. If others want to argue about “greetings” go for it...anger and self righteous rage is not the Christmas spirit...all this bickering of Christmas present makes me happy I have a good friend, a best friend I can count on..the Ghost of Christmas Past...and the family that is not around any more but will always live in me in spirit...the Christmas spirit...so Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Seasons Greetings...it’s ll the same if you interpret it with your heart and ….the Christmas Spirit.
Is Your Sex Life A Board Game
Look at it this way...does your sex life feel like a game of “Battleship” or does it end up being more like the game “Sorry?” Most guys think of themselves as battleships, aircraft carriers and nuclear submarines and can sink the Bismark but when the performance is over...she may look at the whole affair as nothing more than “Trivial Pursuit!”
Maybe you have Zebulon Pike delusions of reaching the sexual orgasmic summit of Candyland. The game requires no reading and minimal counting skills, and best of all, there is no strategy involved. Most guys feel they can conquer Gumdrop Mountain and thaw out Queen Frostine, but instead end up as Sponge Bob lost in the Molasses Swamp.
In the sexual frontier of the game of “Clue” most men feel they are as wily and virile as Col, Mustard but soon misjudge their prowess and realize, maybe they can’t cut the mustard anymore as he discovers he can’t even find his knife in the ballroom while Ms. Scarlet reflects that he can’t hold a candlestick to Professor Plum’s lead pipe!
Monopoly is a real ball buster of the male ego. The Male views himself as a mansion on Boardwalk, but ends up being a Rescue Mission on Baltic Avenue. Worse yet, he sometimes can’t pass GO to collect..or in sexual parlance, make a deposit, but nonetheless is willing to take a “Chance” and hopes to hell he doesn’t end up tied to a railroad track in a failed attempt to enjoy the fruits of his female partners Community Chest!
Toys and sex also play a factor in the libido quest for gratification, He may picture himself as a manly macho GI Joe action figure with a virile Slinky, but Betsy Wetsy who by the very name is ready for action is disappointed when his performance is more Silly Putty in nature.
The male of the species takes special pride from self inflated egos in being as stiff and firm as a Lincoln Log, but in the end, (no pun intended, unless you feel “pun”ished) he may only be a stack of plastic Legos.
Most men also take special pride in their Erector Sets but fail miserably and turn out to be stack of playing cards falling apart at the last minute. His action figure self image degenerates into a fine portrayal of Mr. Potato Head.
Electric trains entering tunnels is very Fellini and most boys until they are men don’t realize the sexual ramifications of an engine cannonballing into a dark hole, whistle blowing and smoke rising..if that ain’t two track orgasm I don’t know what is. The manly man views himself as a human dildo but in the long run she regards him as a slot car in last place.
So, men...man up….face reality...you’re not really a doctor when you play “Operation” but thankfully there is Twister and Strip Poker..and if you play strip poker...remember this at all times..stack the deck and cheat!
Kilts! Show Us Your Tartan Nessie!!!
Kilts, those mainly manly fashion garments of plaid and proud Scotsmen have been the butt of jokes (peculiar pun intended) and special speculation about the mystery of what lies sleeping dormant and not so docile in the Lowlands below a lad’s beltline. Is that a Lock Ness Monster in your kilt or are you just happy to see me? Is it where Laddie keeps his Nessie nestled safely until it appears and raises it’s head erect to thrill the tourist so to speak? Insinuating innuendos abound as well. Were you aware or not aware that many men and kilt wearing lassies wear no underwear?
The kilt can be traced back to its humble semi-erotic beginnings to the 16th Century when it was called a “great kilt” which was a full length affair with the top half doubled as a cloak over the shoulder and could also be used as a “hoodie” in the Highland Hood for protection in bad weather on the moors where the Baskerville Hounds howled in the dark dank night. The kilt as we know it today, is referred to as the walking kilt that came into fashion around 1720 and is pretty much just the bottom half of a great kilt. The small kilt is called a “filibeg” and the little dangling bag, (not to be confused with what may lie under the kilt) is called a “sporran” or in effect...a man purse or man pouch. Now there’s a visual!
There are women’s kilts as well including mini kilts so ample thigh is visible and the treasure of her lowlands are yonder in the fields of musky heather. Interestingly enough, the femme kilt is made with a minimum of fabric with a narrower front apron to show off those treasured hips as they swing and sway and sashay down the road from Eden to Edinburgh.
Tartans were tantamount to treachery and reasonable treason under British rule for centuries as they developed from an innocent indication of regional distinctions to the more sinister warrior class...revolution in plaid! Samurai’s in wool! So blame the Celts for kilts and Scottish cuisine especially cock-a-leekie (includes prunes for the prudes) which is obviously a boast to boost awareness of incontinence or merely to taking pride in a Scotsman’s prowess with penile plentitude.
Along with cock-a-leekie at a kilt fest they also eat a dish called “potted hough” Now, I’ve been with many potted ho’s in my time but not when me sporran was busting out from me filibeg.
The kilt is part and parcel of a killer kilt cult that includes Angus of AC/DC among others and they appear at many a Celtic Festival with Highland Pipers and piping hot lassies with thigh high filibegs that beg for attention from your invisible sporran!
Yes for those of you dying to know..there are Kilt Strip Clubs from the UK to Brazil where you can party until the long haired Highland cows come home. Besides...a Brazilian in a kilt is the 9th wonder of the world no matter how you toss the cabor!
So Kilt Up America! Stop wondering what a Scotsman or Scotswoman wears under his or her kilts. Don’t be afraid...be a Mel Gibson “Braveheart” and let your “berry banger “ do your talking before ye go daft!
The Psycho Santa and the Serial Killer’s Time Machine!
One thing that all horrific unsolved historical killings have in common is the singular significant and overlooked forensic factor. A fear factor in fact that by admitting it rather than omitting it causes our psyche’s to short circuit faster than a tab of brown acid at Woodstock. The only person alive during each and every murder throughout time was Santa F. Claus!
I have found proof that cannot be disputed. Santa had a time machine sleigh to do his slaying. One minute he’s Dr. Jekyll Claus, passing out candy canes and visions of sugar plums to impressionable children while breaking and entering through soot filled chimneys. The next, after a stop at his meth lab, he’s the psychotic Mr. Hyde seeking helpless victims with a veritable variety of heinous weapons from a terror filled toy box!
Time machine sleigh? You scoff! You deride? You disbelieve? How else could he possibly circle the globe to drop off toys to every child on planet Earth and leave a trail of DOA in his wake as he zooms through history. That’s right...A Time Machine! What better cover than a jolly old elf in a bright red suit to lure his victims to a holiday demise. Look what John Wayne Gacy did in a clown costume. Rigoletto on a rampage! As for the eight tiny reindeer, feed them narcotics and they will fly believe me! Been there done that myself.
Santa, according to meticulous records kept at the North Pole Fortress of Solitude, was also responsible for shooting down Amelia Earhart’s plane. Seems she was actually flying over Santa’s workshop airspace at the Pole. She saw the signs that said North Pole, and mistakenly thought she must be in Northern Poland home Northern Poles, so she continued her journey deeper into restricted territory. Santa scrambled his stealth reindeer anti ballistic sleighs to intercept - all locked onto target and they fired. Later the wreckage was moved to a Japanese held island and blamed on the Japanese just as we blamed them for Godzilla and raw fish.
Take the assassination of president Lincoln! We are taught in our elementary history books that J. W. Booth shot him, but later to pay the toll at the Toll Booth. Our American Cousin has begun on the stage at the Ford Theater (Notice too..Ford is a car brand, as is a Lincoln, in fact Ford makes Lincolns. Make sense? or Cents? One Cent..a Lincoln penny for your thoughts?) It was actually Santa who did the deed. Lincoln reportedly told Virginia, yes, there is a Santa Claus and was about to release his secret identity breaking the Presidential oath of Omerto. A contract was put out on him by John “Jingles” Gotti. Santa sneaks into the presidential box and whacks the guy. He then leaps to the stage, drops his candy cane and someone in the audience shouts out..."Leave the candy canes, take the fruitcakes!!" Lincoln is gone....in his wake he left us taxes, the draft, the rise of the Ku Klux Klan, the Indian Wars and a penny that ain't worth a plug nickle...freedom? All relative..but damn...he was Lincoln..the Man, the Car and the Tunnel!!!
Santa also roamed the hills of Hollywood causing murder and mayhem. The Black Dahlia is one of Hollywood’s most bizarre and infamous murders along with the assasination of mobster Bugsy Siegel. Both unsolved to this day, both committed by Psycho Santa!
The most infamous of all Santa slayings has to be The Ripper Killings. Some claim it was a member of the Royal Pain in the Ass Family who did the nefrious deeds, while still others say it was a skilled surgeon with a scalpel with a hatred of soiled doves...OK, hookers. New facts have emerged showing that Santa was rolled one night in the East End of London while on his toybag rounds and three hookers turned him down for sex. He said he knew who was naughty or nice and had a list and would turn them all into Scotland Yard if they didn’t comply with his sexual desire to have them pose as reindeer hitched to his sleigh while they were to be mounted by Donder and Blitzen. All went well until Rudolp stuck his electric nose in one of them and gave them a red glow and a shock as he short circuited while going up their chimney!! Santa, now enraged began a campaign of murder and soon on the prostitute laden streets of foggy London Town...not a creature was stirring...not even a mouse.
Psycho Santa was a deranged demented demon. He was devil but did not wear Prada...he wore a red suit and an Edmund Gwinn beard. One other thing...as he whacked each victim he is known to have said to them as they took thier last breath...It WAS a wonderful life...Merry Christmas to all...you died by my knife!
Bagpipes and Monica Lewinsk
Bagpipes are the Car Alarm of the music world. They seem to go off by accident and until the piper is piping hot it’s a cacophony of sound without a purpose, except to announce that manly men in kilts and fair lassies with short plaid skirts are about to appear in a nightmare on Riverdance Street! It is the Freddy Krueger of instruments. Aerophones to be exact played when one person takes the high road and one takes the low road and one gets to Scotland a’fore ye. I wish people still talked like that.
The inner workings of a bag of pipes uses reeds fed from a reservoir dog of air in the bag. The most common method of supplying air to the bag is through blowing into a blowpipe, or blow stick. In some pipes the player must cover the tip of the blowpipe with his tongue while inhaling, so that eliminates former President Bill Clinton. Remember he never inhaled...but Monica Lewisky was a virtuoso with his blowstick! In effect, the bagpipe is a terminal windbag patient relying on an intravenous feed of air to keep it alive until it expires!
Blame it all on the Irish and the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame U? Nope...bagpipes predate the civilizing of the Irish when the Celts hit the fan. They first appeared in places like Turkey, the Persian Gulf and North Africa.
Although most frequently used at funerals of the Donut Eating Minions but there has been an avalanche of folk music revivals and festivals not to mention flat out the influence of Michael Flately and the highland high stepping hijinx of his River Dance dancing Babes. Films….bagpipe overdose in Braveheart with Mel Gibson mixing it up with Celts in kilts.
Now, being of Canadian extraction me’sef I hate to admit that in Canada curling is king and the bagpipe is the OFFICIAL instrument of the World Curling Federation and played during the procession of teams before major curling championships. I mean it’s not like hockey where a good machismo filled puck can penetrate your net.
Today bagpipes are proliferating like Tribbles in Captain Kirk’s bedroom and it may surprise you to know that the world’s largest producer of bagpipes is Pakistan!! No wonder we invaded them. Forget Bin Laden which translated from Arabic means, Bagpipe Gansta!
Hell, in this the E Age there is a new evil bag force called the Electronic Bagpipe developed in Austria...the same people who gave us Arnold Swarznnager and Adolph Hitler!
Remember the Sixties? Clear your fogged up brain and fear not. It got by us somehow but it began to insert itself like a junkies needle into rock and roll and is still here today used by musicians from Paul McCartney to AC/DC. Thankfully in my LSD dazed days I didn’t load up on Mr. Owsley’s acid at the Fillmore listening to White Rabbit or “Are You Experienced” on bagpipes. We did have bags of course, dime bags of weed, and hash pipes too but not the same..closest we had was a multi-stemmed hookah similar to a bag pipe without a bagpipe playing caterpillar doing a rendition of Piece of My Heart with Joplin doing a Wild Turkey Highland Fling. Thankfully there were no bagpipe solos at Woodstock by John Sebastian!!!
The Day Santa Got Whacked
Who really pulled the trigger that wintry day? It’s hard for anyone who was alive that fateful December space in time to not know where they were, what they were doing and the impact of the day Santa Claus was assassinated while riding in a one horse open sleigh. The Secret Santa Service wanted him to borrow the St. Nicholas Pope Mobile with bullet proof bubble but Santa wanted to work the crowd that day as he rode through downtown North Pole unaware of what lay ahead as shots rang out, some say from the Nanook of the North Book Suppository Building by a sharpshooter armed with a modified official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle by alleged lone assassin, Lee “Ralphie” Oswald.
The whole event was captured in glorious black and white on 8mm home movie film by Tiny Tim Zapruder who at the time put his crutches aside and was sitting in a shopping scooter with basket while filming from a handicapped parking space at the nearby Walmart. The film is still as disturbing today as it was then when supposedly a single bullet did the most amazing ballet moves that would dazzle Barishnikov by going to and fro, back and forth, in and out, up and down, sideways and backwards as Tiny Tim screamed as shots rang out, “Duck and Cover, Everyone!”
Santa and Mrs. Claus, had already been to the New York City Macy’s Day Parade on Thanksgiving where there was an attempt by a giant Felix the Cat balloon to smother the jolly old elf but the attempt was deflated, so to speak by a Macy’s cashier. Following that appearance, Santa arrived for the Detroit parade where he was sleigh jacked and during the fracas ended up in Henry Ford Hospital emergency room from gunshot wounds sustained in the parade attack. But that day at the North Pole…..will forever haunt us….
Some speculate that Ralphie was a Christmas Story patsy for the CIA and the purposely set him up to take the fall. He was arrested originally for distributing disturbing literature for an organization know as Fair Play For Cubans Living in the Yukon. (When arrested he was told by arresting cops “You’ll shoot your eye out kid!”) He was reluctant at first to accept their offer until J Edgar Hoover met him in a changing room at Victoria’s Secret during orientation and issued the dreaded J. Edgar Triple Dog Dare.. At first it was merely a standard double-dog-dare. What else was there, but a "triple dare you"? And then, the coup de grace of all dares, the sinister triple-dog-dare.
Some witnesses on the scene that day say shots also rang out from the Grassy Polar Bear Knoll by an unknown accomplice. Conspiracy theorists speculate there were actually two shooters and the Grinch was the gunman in place to make sure Santa went down faster than a bowl of jell-o down a chimney lubricated with WD-40.
There is so much written, produced, speculated, studied, that it is as blown as far out of proportion as a condom on a fat mans head. Lee “Ralpie” Oswald who was never actually convicted of the crime was himself killed in a police igloo station by Jack “Ruby Red Slippers” Frost owner of an Eskimo Strip, Laplander Lap Dance and North “Pole Dancing” Club. So how did he get into the back room of the igloo holding area with cops on either side of Ralphie? Ralphie then on live national TV is whacked by a pimp with a gun..or as Lenny Bruce described Jack “Ruby” Frost as "A Jewish Billy the Kid riding out of the west"
Strangely, the cops found Ralphie with in hours and knew to look in a movie theater where he was watching “Polar Express” and “Penguins” Let’s face it, cops today can find a donut shop without a GPS but an assassin? They’re are always on TV asking for "our" help in locating such and such, but those North Pole Polar cops ...right on the ball and case closed and suspect killed within days..now that is police work!
So who really whacked Santa? Was it a cartel of Cuban elves pissed off over the whole Cuban Mistletoe Crisis? Hoover’s FBI Sugar Plum Fairies? CIA Wet Works Leprechauns? Scrooge Mobsters from Chicago or a merely a lone gun man with an Daisy air rifle...The only one whoever really knew, Ralphie, was shot dead before he could speak.
There was an investigation into the murder and the eight tiny reindeer were brought before a Congressional Hearing as they were the closest to Santa over the years...hauling his fat ass around the globe. Some theories advanced claim it was an inside job orchestrated by Rudolph “The Red” who kept to himself and never played in any reindeer games. A loner by nature he did have a close relationship with Jingle Bells Hoffa, head of Reindeer Teamsters Local 509 who mysteriously disappeared. Many think his body is buried in the iceberg that sunk the Titanic. Others claim he was killed by disgruntled union elves over Santa’s plan to ship toy manufacturing overseas to Chernobyl so toys would glow in the dark. Things went well until the big bang Chernobyl boom and some deranged individual kept yelling, “It’s a wonderful life Mr. Potter...Mrs. Potter….Harry Potter..and all you little pothead Potters!”
One mystery that keeps surfacing is that Santa made a deal to subcontract with the Unabomber to mail out excess Christmas packages over the holiday season. He said it would be a real blast! Each package came with card, manifesto and detonator.
Investigators also looked at Santa’s family especially his brother Ted who once was involved in an accident when a woman was drowned after his snowmobile hit soft ice and went under water at Chappaquiddick. Police searched the murky waters but Mary Jo was never found. The good news though is that they found Amelia Earhart. Ted since has been trying to get a bill passed in Congress requiring all cars and other vehicles to come equipped with air bags and Life Preservers!
Many witnesses who may have had information died mysteriously.....Coincidence? I think not. There is a new Santa in town..Santa the serial killer..and he’ll be traveling with three "ho’s" named Ho, Ho and of course, Ho as accomplices …. so beware...he knows who’s been naughty or nice, leather and lace and this year when he comes down your chimney Christmas Eve...remember...this time … he’s armed and dangerous!
Tuba Nation Tuba Ligation
I have assaulted the world of music in the past discussing disgustedly about the blandness of Canadian music as mere elevator Muzak...the effect of folk music on felines addicted to catnip and the mass hysteria of fear caused by the accordion...a musical weapon of mass destruction that can turn any classic rock or classical music piece into a proletarian roll out the barrel polka fit only for consumption by bratwurst inhaling tailgaters wearing Ace Hardware retro bowling shirts making Milwaukee famous or making Green Bay Packer Backers ravenous for a meal of Chicago Bears while wearing triangular cheese hats.
Now it is time to discuss the terror wrought on the music loving population by the reign of TUBA TERROR!!! It has to be one of the most horrific musical instrument of all! It is time to perform a tuba tubal ligation or in symphonic parlance a TUBA ligation to stem the flow of tuba music from impregnating the world of music with Germanic oom pa pa spermatozoa.
A classical symphony is a garden of sound. A plethora of pleasing elements blended in a mix master compost created by a composer with orchestration brought to fruition by the maestro with baton and tux. Bernstein fully in charge of flutes and violins..it is a work of beauty...french horns...timpanis…piccolos...all coalesce in a colorful melange of surreal aural imagery. The symphony as such is classical beauty...Lauren Bacall….Ingrid Bergman….Katherine Hepburn...add tuba’s and you have Roseann Barr!
There are some symphonies written with the tuba cast as a leading man...more Sydney Greenstreet than Humphrey Bogart I grant you. Take Mahler’s Symphony #2... please! There are parts for rogue tuba insertions from Berlioz to Dvorak...bear in mind morphine was plentiful and available in their day. If they had known of lava lamps then you can imagine a performance by the Grateful Tuba Dead band circa 1703. How do you say Truckin’ in Austrian? Do Austrians truck at all or do they not even give a truck?
Beethoven wrote “Fur Elise” which includes a tuba solo. A tuba solo? Bear in mind he was deaf and inserting tuba solos was his way of striking back at the fickle finger of fate and make the audience suffer as well, and in fact wish they too were deaf!!!
The tuba is an example of pure dueling banjo southern inspired musical inbreeding….it’s genealogy can be traced back to 1590 with the creation of a curving puzzle of a monstrosity called “the serpent” which went through many changes and offspring including the Sousaphone...which came marching along with John Phillip Sousa as he gave it a martial march machismo that became….Military Music..bear in mind...Military Music is to music what Military Justice is to justice. “Stars and Stripes Forever” is tuba heavy. I can imagine the bugler waking us up in the army with a goddamned tuba instead of a bugle...he would have been fragged before breakfast!
Today there are tuba festivals in Canada (figures!) Ann Murray singing “Snow Bird” accompanied by a tuba with a Canuck accent. Gordon Lightfoot could sink the Edmund Fitz with one blast of a tuba!!
There is an international tuba competition held in Georgia every year. Great..dueling banjos...hell, I’d drop my Ned Beatty pants and squeal like a pig just to get them to stop!! Macy’s annual Thanksgiving Parade is almost here...be forewarned...many high school bands will march along the route with a massive display of tuba hardware..so much in fact it will resemble a Cold War Soviet Parade of armaments and missiles. All Kruschev needed was tubas in Cuba and we would have made a deal...Imagine a tuba aimed at Washington D.C. ...DEVASTATING.
Tubas somehow had a little help from their friends and have even infected pop culture with it’s virus as one appears in one of it’s horn incarnations on the Sgt Pepper album just to the left of the centered drum. I remember when I first saw the album cover in the day stoned on acid...I thought it was a bong! WRONG...somebody spoke and I went into a dream…
Beware too...Hail to the Chief tuba solos every time he steps to a podium...it frightening for two reasons..one he’s a damned politician...and two he’s accompanied by Marine Tuba players….shouldn’t they be storming a beach somewhere instead...oh well….Sgt Pepper taught the Marine band to play for the benefit of Mr. Kite...who ran off with Lovely Rita and Lucy..and left his tuba next to a drum on an album cover….
Why Folk Music
Folk music! The tranquilizer of all music. Hell, you can’t dance to it. Imagine slam dancing to “Puff the Magic Dragon”..OK, maybe you can do the Locomotion to “Bottle of Wine” but drinking a bottle of wine with that special person with candlelight by a fire will only lead to disaster if Barry McGuires “Eve of Destruction” replaces a Sinatra wee small hours ballad on the turntable.
Today Folk or Americana as some refer to it is rearing it’s ugly head once again. Fiddles and dueling banjos (if you hear banjo music coming at you...RUN or you’re pants will end up around your ankles while you end up doing a Ned Beatty “Deliverance” imitation squealing like a pig.
Where did it all start? In Canada? No...there is no such thing as “Canadian Music” ...Muzak Yes...Music, No. Maybe it had it’s genesis in those ribald salty sea shanty’s sung by sailors who were at sea so long they actually thought manatees were potential sex partners.
Today’s so called folk music is vanilla...even Michael couldn’t row his boat ashore to it’s message...or get a ticket to be leavin’ on a Jet Plane….
I blame it on the Beat Generation (Let’s leave Woody Guthrie out this for a moment)
The Beat Generation with it’s finger poppin' Sal Mimeo Bongo Beat Babes and coffeehouses gangs were getting all folked up on poetry in a petri dish with babes in berets & turtleneck sweaters with Keely Smith vacant looks and Maynard G. Krebs look a likes carrying around Sartre on a dented tray by a dented waitress where sputniks sputter and beatniks litter the downtown walls with ghetto manifesto's looking back they see kerouac sailing along the narrows of Burroughs setting a Corso course with winos filling the flophouse landscape with stained mattresses and the broken dream glass of a life missed by a mile downhill from now on, now off, on again until the light fails and the filament fails and breaks leaving the light of blind darkness to lead the blind seeing eye dogs....the beat...it goes on..and on..om and om… folk music blended with poetry in the coffeehouse circuit of the East Village in New York to North Beach in San Francisco.
One can only imagine the after hours port, prose and poetry conversations that were held there lasting long past the night and into the morning...record players scratching out a jazz beat...voices flowing with a symphony of ideas..drifting out into the ultra cool San Francisco nights.
Beats were perfecting an imperfect alignment as black holes in the impermanent firmament of inner and outer space with spoken word performances marking the Mason-Dixon lines between hipster cool and uncool squares where the unbeat ‘burbs flock to the scene to enjoy the obscene they hope will inject them with hep cat cool lurking in those dark wino alley corners hiding hi-fidelity infidelity while the magnificent Magnavox looks for a fix of RCA plugs to input-output and output again as the writer writes and the RCA plug provides the input of words to the page until the reader reads the words and the RCA plug now becomes the output once again.
It was coffeehouse chic tongue in hipster chic joints where mental misfits dwelled in their underground below street level dens of beat and holy degradation where booze and drugs were the conversational fuels of choice. These new gathering places were not restaurants by any stretch of the imagination unless cheesecake and sandwiches are your idea of dinner at the Waldorf.
Folk music in the Sixties were laced with doses of lyrical protest. The Eve of Destruction dawned across the land, you know, the land that is my land, your land, made for you and me. Folk music blended with poetry in the coffeehouse circuit of the East Village in New York to North Beach in San Francisco. Folk music was making statements with music and lyrics. Tame at first in the Fifties, by the Sixties, the merely pleasing vocal harmonies of folk groups were changing, they were coming of age and the new riders of the purple rage were riding the range.
The bards and the poets of peace, love and understanding were on the march for civil rights in the south, American involvement in Vietnam, ban the bomb and nix the nukes. Women’s Liberation was in full bloom and bras were burned joining the raging bonfire of draft cards and American flags. Bare breasts could now show off their purple mountains majesty from sea to shining sea from B Cups to D Cups.
Where is Puff when we need him...where are the piles of protesting bras…..where have all the flowers gone...the answer my friend...is blowing in the wind...pseudo folk music is coming….it’s here in fact….there may be a folk singer under your bed dressed in a Mama Cass dress...or worse...in a recording studio fully armed with a banjo, fiddle and guitar and a jar of vaseline….
Vikings, Cajuns and Accordions: Mama’s Got a Sqeezebox
When the first chords of Dvorak’s “From the New World” symphony begins its ethereal journey to the moon of your soul (Neil Armstrong took a recorded copy along with him on Apollo 11 in 1969) or when you get carried away and dive for the first Napoleonic foxhole during the explosive crashing cannonade of Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture” your senses are carried aloft to a surrealistic cloud of orchestration as you tiptoe through the timpani tulips.
Enter now the twilight zone of musical instruments and fear as you come face to face with those damned accordions as music begins its trek from orchestration to musical castration.
It is the black sheep of the famiglia musica, classified as a “free reed” instrument of pop culture mass destruction developed in China, called a “sheng” still in use today in secret Bruce Lee films never before seen by human eyes even in Hunan.
As it made its way to post Roman and post Celtic Europe it was modified and replaced, through selective inbreeding on a smaller scale, it’s equally reprehensible brother...the phallic looking pipe organ. If the pipe organ resembled a musical erection, then the accordion and concertina, both sometimes referred to as a “squeeze box” with its pump and pull bellows action was pure masturbation with polka beat.
I have a theory regarding the disappearance of the Viking culture of Greenland. During one of their rape, pillage and plunder “let’s get Nordic” vacations in post-Roman European Austria, one of the horned helmeted hipsters grabbed an accordian...by mistake...no one would steal one on purpose. Even a Detroit crackhead looking for a fix.
One night in the Viking colony on Greenlands coast as revelry ran rampant and the need for mead was at its peak...the Unknown Nord produced his instrument and began to play a medley of REO Speedwagon and Styx’s hits. It was at this point that the decision was made to unload Olaf whereby he was banished from the enclave to the surrounding mountains where he could pump his bellows in private. The music however cascaded down the mountain to the village of pillagers prompting them to abandon Greenland altogether and set a course for Canada.
As European immigration in the 19th and early half of the 20th Century was underway, Ellis Island became a clearinghouse for the family accordions that were the first illegal instrument aliens. They spread their musical terror from Acadia in Canada to those crafty Cajuns in Looooosiana. From German colonies on Texas the crossed the Rio Grande in Mexico. Soon the musical mating season was full tilt boogie! In Texas it became tejano music...in Cajun country it was zydeco. Both are strange, but I have to admit, delightful in sound unlike the clomping headache producing polka rolling out the barrel...give me Flaco Jimenez and Joel Sonnier and damn….ya’ll got mas musica!
You can still feel romance with accordion music believe it or not on a moonlight gondola ride in Venice or sipping your burgandy at a bistro on the River Seine in Paris. Give an accordion to a German and it’s time to lay siege to Stalingrad! Give it to a Polish polka band and you’re in a back alley in Milwaukee!
No accordion band took to the stage at Woodstock, but imagine if Jimi Hendrix got a hold of one...or Pete Townsend...or Alvin Lee...all abandoning the guitar for DAS BELLOWS!! The Led Zeppelin Polka! We’d be doing “air accordions” instead of playing our invisible air guitars. Imagine a Jimmy Page Polka album...on second thought…
So if you are confronted by a girl who says she has a “sqeeze box” just smile and thank a Viking...or Weird Al Yankovic..and ask her to come over to your place for dinner, candlelight, and Viking role play and while she’s rolling out your barrel it’s time for some sqeeze box action!!!
<>Flash! Bulletin! This Just In from the Mike Marino News Network! Howdy Doody Exposed!!!!!!! The MMN Network has just completed an exhaustive investigation into the bizarre story of the Doodyville Horror! (Photo: Doody Attacks Clarabelle!)
Of all the inhabitants of Doodyville...Boy Howdy had them all fooled. Looking as innocent as Ron Howard as Little Opium on the Andy Griffith show he hung out with degenerate clown named Clarabelle who never spoke but loved playing with his bicycle horn...he was a cross between Harpo Marx and John Wayne Gacy.
Doody went missing one day...and soon went on a bizarre mass killing spree that eliminated his competition! The group called the Doody Family viciously carried out a carnival of carnage at the home of ventriloquist puppeteer Edgar Bergen.
Howdy was living in Haight Ashbury at the time and started using acid and speed and hanging out with a perverse gang, we know today as the Doody-Manson Marionettes. Howdy was involved in the brutal slaying of famed dummy Charley McCarthy and others who were at the Bergen mansion one night. Edgar was out of town in Europe staying in Roman Polanski’s villa at the time fighting extradition on charges of unlawful sex acts with an underage hand puppet, Lambchop,
When they arrived at the mansion the Doody Family was unaware that a party was going on and also in the house were hand puppets Kukla and Ollie ….all found beaten and stabbed and the few marionettes present had their strings cut, thereby rendering them helpless to defend themselves. Many speculated the whole,attack was set up by Kermit the Frog as he was jealous of the fact that Jerry Mahoney was getting more “hand puppet” from Miss Piggy than he was...
Later during the Summer of Puppet Love in San Francisco...Doody was also involved in the rape of Doodyville prom queen marionette Princess Summer Spring Winter Fall. Howdy had a real hardwood woody for her but she refused Howdy’s doody so he decided to wax his woody in her pinewood forest. At one point she did have a restraining order taken out on him but as you can see when a puppet has rape on it's little wooden head, his woody will win every time.
Sexually, Howdy was a bi-doody and had raped prison soap on a rope style Clarabelle the Clown who had also moved with him to the Haight working the streets as a rough trade clown hustler who hung out with the notorious Pennywise.
In a relentless search for clues to Doody’s whereabouts, US Marshall, Buffalo Bob and his Peanut Gallery Posse closed in on Doody along with his new gang which included three circus performers and a mime who were engaged in a crime wave in clown costumes based on tip from a midget detective posing as a talking dummy to solve the murders at the Bergen Mansion.
Recently released government documents have revealed a plot formulated by the CIA proving that Doody also assassinated JFK with an Italian rifle he had purchased from notorious Italian international arms dealers Topo Gigio and Pinocchio. The buy was made in Hoboken, New Jersey and arranged by a mysterious figure in the underworld known only as Senor Wences. Doody escaped capture and was last seen in Detroit...around the same time Jimmy Hoffa disappeared. Many theories are floating around like a Pennywise balloon but most believe Hoffa’s body was disposed of at a construction site in the Sesame Street Industrial Park being developed by real estate tycoon Mr. Rogers on a beautiful day in the neighborhood.
I kid you not! Even I can't make up this stuff! Corn on Macabre stuff to be sure.
So Hey kids...what time is it? It’s Howdy Doody time you little bastards
Elvis as Moses!! Flash! Bulletin! Just in from the Mike Marino Investigative News Network! Our team of investigative journalists broke into the film vaults in Hollyweird, Cali and discover a treasure of never released films.
CB DeMille produced two versions of the “Ten Commandments” ...one in 1956 and the first on the pre-talkie silent era as well. We found a third version of the film, called the Top Ten Hits by Hal Wallis featuring Elvis Presley as Moses Presley and featured a boffo performance by a young sexy Ann Margret as a red hot Burning Bush! Elvis as Moses asks the Pharoah played by Ernest Borgnine to release his people from Betty Page bondage...at least those that wanted to. Different strokes of the whip for different folks.
He leads his people to the River Jordanaires after the Red Sea escapade where Elvis runs into a bevy of bikini wearing sheperd girls (“GIrls, Girls, Girls!” and “All Shook Up”) lwhen he runs into Noah’s Water Taxi Service. Noah played by Wilford Brimley, who looked old at birth, asks Elvis Moses if he needs a lift. Elvis Moses waves him on as David Copperfield parts the Red Sea.
Eventually he comes across Ann Margarets burning bush...use your own imagination on this one and spends an hour serenading it with songs like “Love Me Tender” She eventually gets a restraining order on him and he can’t approach her land o’ Goshen within 100 yards.
The film is full of special Elvis songs to make you swoon!!!! As he breaks into song while hitting on Ann Margarets burning bush he also breaks into a rousing rendition of “Hunka, Hunka, Burning Love”
As he leaves the palace banished to the wilderness of the desert, he does a fantastic choreographed version of “Walk Like an Egyptian” and “Hey, Judaism” (made popular later by the Beatles as “Hey Jude” to avoid a lawsuit) after approaching the pharaoh with “You Ain’t Nothing but a Hound Dog”
Soon they arrive at their destination and the Elvis Moses we know and love kicks butt with a dance filled “Viva Mt. Sinai” as he is given a stone engraved with Elvis’ Top Ten Hits.On top of charts and on top of the Mount. Elvis Moses leads his people to the promised land...Memphis and they all start recording at Sun Studios...free at last!!
This is an Elvis Moses Film every collection should have.
The Mike Marino News Network...Flash! Bulletin! Just In! Rosemary’s Baby Meets the Son of Sam…
Startling information...regarding real estate and ancient burial grounds...bear in mind..(seriously) my Mom’s name was Rosemary and my Dad’s name was Sam so in effect I am Rosemary’s baby and the son of Sam. Weird but true.
If there’s anything I’ve learned from years of ingesting and digesting a smorgasbord of horror films it’s this...if you move from the city to a quaint Norman Rockwell village chances are you’ll be devoured by giant mutant spiders or you’ll end up hacking your family to death Amityville style then bury them in the local pet cemetery where they will rise again as the living dead with a retribution driven fuel injected mission of revenge.
If you move to mom and pop middle America, and have children...99% of the time they well end up demon possessed with spinning heads spewing language a drunken sailor or even drunker writer would wince at. The reason for all this...simple...the house you purchased, quit your cushy six figure city job for and uprooted your family for is buried atop an unknown ancient Indian burial ground….which means after your kid disappears into a television set you’ll need the help of a wise old Native American medicine man with much mojo at his disposal and perhaps a dwarf lady who says scary shit about demons in the voice of a 33 and a third munchkin played at 78 rpms.
The small rural areas also have plentiful pet cemeteries...once Muffy has punched her time card and expended her initial nine lives she can get a free pass and get a bonus life if buried in the obligatory forbidden area. However, cute little Muffy may come back as Catzilla and you become a two legged can of Happy Feast. Dogs are worse….if you’re not careful...buried in a or bitten by a bat in a hole in the ground, it can get as cranky as Cujo and will eat your kibble and bits.
The rural houses of the unholy (Sorry Jimmy Page...had to use it) may result in a room full of flies with and an ominous voice telling you to “GET OUT”... the voice of the demon possessed Amityville Welcome Wagon. Soon phones will melt in your hands, unlike M and M’s that only melt in your mouth.
In Poltergeist, the little girl get sucked into a TV set...this would not have happened if they had a decent cable system. “Hello, Cox Cable..my little girl is stuck in a netherworld in your TV.” Pause after an operator takes your call…”We’re aware of that Sir. Plenty of kids are getting stuck in there today. Use your remote and go to the Sci Fi Channel...you’ll find her there...then on your VCR button mode….press eject. If that doesn’t work we can send a midget over tomorrow between 8 am and Midnight..will someone be there?”
Another tip...if you have a teenage daughter in High School and her name is Carrie...don’t let her go to the prom under an circumstances...and never let her babysit at a home next to the Michael Myers family...hide the Ginsu knives as well.
If you are planning a Torrence family mountain vacation make sure there are no axes around or twin girls in the hallway that like to ride in blood soaked elevators...and if your son has an imaginary friend located in his index finger...cut it off before you leave home…
One more thing...if traveling late at night and flickering neon sign says “Vacancy” at a run down motel and the desk clerk looks like Tony Perkins wearing a wig and shawl...head on the down the road….FAST!!
Elections Are Coming...Time Change
The American Electoral System has given the White House to Caucasians for centuries. and now our first African American President. Soon, we’ll one day have our first Native American (Imagine all the treaties that would be rectified) our first Asian American (They own Hawaii already) and our first Latino-American (Wow! Low Rider Limo’s bouncing up and down! How cool is that!) holding that office as well...and is a good thing. A little diversity goes a long way. No, I did not forget to mention our first Female President. I didn’t mention it as Eleanor Roosevelt already has that distinction.
I would also like to see our first Hemaphrodite president...that way the president can fuck him, her, itself while also screwing the American public at the same time.
What about our first Metrosexual president. They love to sport that 5 o’clock shadow look so popular today, although it didn’t work very well for Tricky Dicky Nixon when he appeared on television with a well coiffed JFK. He came across like as a gutter wino at the ball in Camelot.
Our first transgendered female Prez would be interesting too. That way we’d have the President and First Lady in one package and instead of getting bashed by the media all the time over policy she’d instead end up being criticized by Mr. Blackwell for fashion faux pas.
Our first Gay president would have that Oval Office redecorated in a jiffy in bright rainbow colors and go on massive shopping sprees instead of playing golf. I guess we wouldn’t have a First Lady but instead a First Partner which makes more sense anyway as the First Ladies do have their say in the sack when the Prez isn’t boinking an intern.
A Lesbian President. Hell yes. Guys get off on that kind of thing anyway and with all the Millennials having girl crushes today, voter turnout might exceed 99% making for a new record for the electoral process. The first overseas diplomatic visit won’t be to the Middle East or Russia to arm wrestle with Putin but instead would shuffle off to Amsterdam to see the dikes!
Lord help us if a Catholic priest makes it to the White House. I’d keep my kids away from the annual Easter Egg Hunt and the White House playground. It will be a papal version of Pop Goes Your Weasel
!
If a Mormon gets in office, there will not only be a First Lady, but also a Second Lady, Third Lady etc...and all of them would not even be of voting age and would have a curfew of 9 ‘clock. Hell….no state dinners but a lot of proms at 1600 Penn Ave.
Vote for diversity in the upcoming election. Pee Wee Herman said it best…”My bird in my hand is worth more than a Jeb Bush or... Hillary’s bush!
Anatomy of a Suicide Contrary to the song, Suicide is not painless. It’s murder of self that can’t be explained...It can strike anyone, and fame and fortune is not a hedge against it. Hemingway, Thompson, Robin Williams...all had the world by the balls, on the surface, but in reality the world had them by the balls...It’s a steamy jungle where you can’t see 10 feet in front of you...when the bus stops to pick you up...there are no transfers...you go all the way to the end of the line..to the appropriately named..”terminal”
Could be an incurable disease that will steal life and love from you and the sense of loss of life and love wrenched from your hands against your will makes your head pound and ponder, as you wonder and wander.
Close your eyes and see the beauty of life and love..open them and you see only your own reflection..your name on some invisible memorial wall. Your walk becomes weary and your mind moves in slow motion frame by frame into a film noir sequence, dark, slow..as you swim upstream like some insane salmon with a asylum agenda...your walk takes you against the tide of life, against the downward flow of a thousand liquid rain children freely falling from the skies, falling and bouncing down the stairs and then out onto the street. You dodge them artfully as you tread deftly, as though they were, and they are, projectiles from space, fired from the moon at the behest of a beast from the outer rings of Saturn.
Your life of manic ups and downs, uppers and downers becomes crippled, battered, embattled….the mirror reflection is that of empty eye sockets and you are already in an emotional body bag in an enclosed alley from which there is no escape imprisoned in an psychological wheelchair and straightjacket while hopped up on narco midnight pills interjecting injections of sweet dreamy morphine. Drugs and alcohol inducing calm or can increase the manic desire so the self murderer can circumnavigate your own private Polar Ice Caps, past giant icebergs, round and round the Cape we go, circular explorations they are, easy to negotiate, except for those 90 degree corners of fleeting reality that appeared only as more hallucinations obscuring what they really were. Those recesses, the corners, the 90 degree forks in the emotional road, are illuminated in deep shadow by electric currents, pulsating and twitching.
A broken mirror fires back olfactory warning shots over the head trying to blast through rocks to make a tunnel through the mountain of depression..some will make it to the summit...others will plunge to their death....eating a pile of pills or loading a gun...racing to meet the inevitable anyway.
Soon the film of your life ends as you fade to black...Finis!
Fellini, Sex and Sports - Pucks and Balls!
Sports as sex, Sex as sport! Seminal Semantics? Youbetcha! I have noticed over the years a correlation between sex terminology and the lexicon of the locker room, but then again anyone who knows me also understands that I tend to find that common denominator in as simple a phrase as “Happy Meal” or “Gimme an F” or “Would you like that Biggie Sized?” Sports and sex are not strangers in a strange steroid laden bedroom of of boudoir frolic.
The Holy Bible of Jockdom, Sports Illustrated, is for the most part devoted to which college quarterback is being tapped for the Eagles or Packers, but he masses go for asses and the annual Swimsuit Edition bears or rather bares this out rather nicely. Tits and Ass will replace baseball stats every time.
We all remember the first time we made it to first base in the back seat of Buick? Even better, remember that first line drive and home run when you slide into home plate and your crowd of testosterone did the wave and your jumbotron went ballistic? Again, sports terminology got your batter, batter, batter up and you finally didn’t strike out! Lets face it these were the play offs and damned if you didn’t go for the gold for the penis pennant of victory.
Hockey is next and is a coincidence Puck rhymes with Fuck? I think not. the purpose of hockey is get the puck in the net, puck and net being erotic euphemisms for using your big stick and getting your “puck” in her “net” and as for basketball.
Move over Fellini and take your train and tunnels with you back to the Italian Alps. The purpose here is simple enough to get your ball into her basket without an assist and without too much dribbling or hand-offs so to speak..it spoils the mood.
Football speaks for itself..it has Dallas Cheerleaders and every high school has cheerleaders and the best part is they are almost legal aged! So when you hear the Beatles records play “She Was Just 17” well then, you’ll know what I mean. In football you also want to get the punt in the final down, sort of like being at the drive-in in the backseat and the film is almost over and you want her to say it’s ok and make it seem like it is actually her idea..and unlike football a turnover is actually to your advantage. Kick, Punt, Kama Sutra!!
Now we turn our attention to the roller derby queens fuel injected estros sports entertainment Hese Amazon Queens ruling with an iron fist over a population of male captives on bended knees in total submission...Betty Page’s with whip in hand...like the Maltese Falcon, these are the things that erotic dreams are made of for some, not for all, but there is something about an aggressive Female that piques the curiosity factor not mention creating massive erections stimulating and simulating a flag at full mast waving high in the dawns early light.
The Roller Derby is the modern day version of female superiority eroticism on skates.it's a rock and roll wet dreams. Terms like Hip Check (use your own imagination, mines busy right now) and of course if you really want to get down and derby on of the team is called the Jammer! I know it sounds like a massive dildo with batteries but it’s not, but, the jammer is the team member who scores helped by a couple of blockers so all in all it’s a rollerblade foreplay for a foursome.
Females love sports today and are sometimes more passionate about it but that is because of the Playgirl layout of some Czech soccer player or the bulging cup on a baseball player from the Dominican Republic or (“GASP!) David Beckman spicing up the girls in the grandstands just being ..well..David Beckman!He has added a little spicey posh panache to the world of sports. Lets face it in all the history modern media covered sports who ever wanted a carnal relationship with Howard Cosell? Beckman has them stacked up like cordwood at a cabin in the Yukon, and they are well stacked I suppose for the most part, and when Beckman beckons it’s time for the females to lower their Victoria’s Secret flags and raise their libido high enough to salute the sporting worlds flagpole as it stands at attention.
Swimming? Don’t forget your backstroke and breaststroke and yes I am a breast man so time to dive in and speaking of swimming, if you’ll excuse me, I am about to peruse my old copies of the Swimsuit Editions of Sports Illustrated, and remember that phrase “ a bird in hand is worth two in the bush?” Bullshit..your bird in your hand is not better than your bird in her bush….Play Ball! k Road was paved with not good intentions, but, with tiny little horny people with tiny little hard-ons referred to as Munchkins - the people were called Munchkins, not the hard-ons.
The neighborhood also included a leering lesbian witch with a big ruby red one that passed the labia litmus test and was always cocked and locked, ready for any action packing adventure while ramping and camping it up in Oz; behemoth bags of opium; a heartless traumatized tin man;, a salacious brain dead straw man on medication and a libidinous lion with lustful leanings...all with cavorting carnal desires and misdirected sexual intentions to “do” training bra Dorothy who just one month prior started having her periods, or as she said in later interviews, “I went from tampons to tornadoes overnight, then I met these three cheese omelette weirdos. Disgusting, rusting and dusty. Foul mouthed midgets and hot to trot horny hags. It was like being back in Catholic school with everyone trying to get a peek up my skirt to see if gingham has a G-spot.”
Her road less traveled began after touchdown from a black and white tornado from the corn fields of the Rectangular state of Kansas to a technicolor tenderloin district of of the Ninth Gate of Family Entertainment Hell, or affectionately called Munchkinland, a neighborhood of hoodlums, gangsters and pimps all controlled by a crime syndicate of snarky syncophants known as the Lollipop Guild which made the notorious Westies mob of NYC look more like the singing Beastie Boys fighting for their right to party.
As Dorothy made landfall, she was approached by the Wicked Butch Bitch Witch of Brighton Beach who tries to enlist Dorothy into a life of prostitution and hypodermic needles. “Ever make it with a little person, my dear?” she is queried as the Wicked Butch lifts Dorothy’s gingham dress to get a peek, which piqued Dorothy’s long suppressed libido. “First it was the nuns, then a priest, a cross-eyed altar boy and now this shit” she screamed!
It was at this point that confusion ran rampant. Witnesses say Dorothy pulled a Ruger ,44 mag auto pistol from her garter and pumped 6 rounds into the hideous hag, screaming red faced and in a blind fury “MAKE MY DAY BUTCH!” Munchkins dove for cover, but, later as witnesses, many reported that they heard three shots being fired from the Yellow Brick Road Sassy Knoll. It was also reported (perhaps erroneously) by Brian Williams that Dorothy swiped the pair of ruby red pumps Butch was wearing at the time. NBC declined to comment. The ruby red pumps may have belonged to David Bowie at one time or another, but that is a spider from Mars of a different color.
After the gunsmoke cleared Dorothy was as dazed and confused as a Led Zeppelin song and kept calling for Auntie Em, Auntie Em when out of the clear blue a rather fetching witch known as Cabaret Dietrich, a real manly Marlene who was the dead Butch’s sister emerged. She was simply smashing with a fabulous fedora fetish and an unappeased appetite for corn fed farm girls. Ding dong the Butch was as dead as a doornail and Dietrich wondered what kind of a whack job would kill with a gun and not the obligatory rural black and white farmhouse! It was time for revenge and Dorothy was called to a sit-down by Dietrich and Munchkin Mafioso and was told she had to get out of Dodge by sundown and to return the ruby red pumps she kept as a kill trophy.
She promises, but, later in a dark dank beer joint she meets Glinda the Bukowski barfly who kept waving a swizzle stick she drunkenly referred to has her magic wand. She sees the enticing piece of jailbait enter the Yellow Brick Dive which was part of the truckstop complex where she plied her trade. Dorothy wanted a ride, to anywhere near Wichita, and Glinda was only too happy to take her for the ride of her life, but not to Wichita. Instead, Glinda runs a tab she never intends to pay buying the young girl a burger and a brew, (you don’t need I.D in fairytales!) Then she pumps her full of a few laced drinks, a snort of coke and soon Dorothy ends up in the sack with real hot “hey can I watch” Glinda. In exchange for her sexual favors Glinda offers Dorothy an old Sunoco road map with directions to a place called Oz where she can fence the pumps for a Greyhound ticket home.
However, all that glinders is not gold, Dietrich is sulking and lurking in the shadows and at one time had also claimed Glinda as one of her cabaret conquests! She bursts into the bedroom catching them in bed with there pants down, all the while screaming s stream of filth and threatening Dorothy with penetration by 100 Flying Monkey Dildos!
In her quest to escape her erotic escapade, she runs slam bang into a rusting bulk of a hulk of a Tinman who confesses he is actually the William Burroughs Steely Dan Dildo and by the simple act of squirting a little lubrication to him and to her, in appropriate places, they can be off , running and cumming to the races down that quarter mile estros fueled Yellow Brick Road dragstrip for that wonderful wiz jizz that was jazz.
Steely Dan takes Dorothy by the hand to a seedy back alley bar to meet some friends, two more losers, you know the kind that still haven’t scored at the mall by closing time.
The dive was loud and brassy and sassy.“I guess I’m not in Kansas anymore, Toto!” she screamed orgasmically. “Seems more like a jumpin’ jive juke joint in Harlem on a Saturday night…” It was a real Warhol experience. Dig the scarecrow dude with the day-glo jacket and velvet hat in the corner blasting powder up his nose with a lion doing Lenny Bruce imitations while finger poppin’ beatnik munchkins are flying higher than Judy Garland with an arm full of junkie juice. The scarecrow cat is howling like a Ginsberg ginsu knife slicing through the night, while the lion blushes as he touches himself in an impure manner..”forgive me father for I have sinned, but hot damn it felt good! And don’t tell me you don’t diddle under your cassock you perverted Cossack!”
The lion is cowardly inwardly and outwardly, and no longer king of the forrrressssttt he said in a loud Lahr voice. “I’m a queen now and no animal is safe!” So the tin dildo, the straw pimp and the lion with tender loins began to blaz