Today's my last day at Power Trade! But instead of being nostalgic or, hey, even thinking about work, my mind is already on other matters.
For one, PIRATES.
Who else is psyched to see "Pirates of the Caribbean"? Holy junk in a junktruck, I think this will be my favorite movie of the summer. Sure, it's no "Anna Karenina". Or "Mi Vie en Rose". But heck, who needs intellectual flim flam when it's summer time and the livin is sleazy.
Plus, you got that Johnny Depp character all over the place in this movie. What is it about him, anyway? Damn good looking bastard! I have had a huge crush on him since 1987, when "21 Jump Street" premiered. It's never gone away; in fact, he looks cuter every year he ages. I saw him as the gypsy guy in "Chocolat" and realized a guy could actually look good in a vest (outside of Bono and his "self-important leather vest", of course).
Ahem. But despite all these Depp Thoughts, I know the movie's gonna rock in that fun summer movie way. They just had the premiere at Disneyland--a tantalizing state away. I would have been there, just give me a pegleg and a case of syphilis and I am rarin' to go be a pirate, too!
Here's the weird part. I was reading about the premiere this morning, and see if you don't see something "odd" about this portion of the news release:
***
"This is where the idea of the movie originated, this is where the inspiration came from and this was the right place for the premiere," said Richard Cook, chairman of Walt Disney Studios.
The film was shown on a giant screen on Tom Sawyer Island.
Olympic ice skating champion Michelle Kwan, comedian Tommy Smothers and former TV child star Danny Bonaduce also attended the premiere.
***
When I think Pirates, I don't automatically think an ice skater, a Smothers brother, and Danny Bonaduce. If you ask me, this sounds like a recipe for disaster, especially in a piratic setting. Someone's gonna be over a barrel before the night is through.
Maybe they will be modeling for new animatronic portion of the ride. Instead of having that scene in the ride where the pirates are trying to lure the dog over to their cage because the dog is holding the keys in its mouth, they'll have a new scene. In this scene, Tommy Smothers is behind the bars, wearing a pirate outfit of course, and he is wacking Danny Bonaduce (dressed like a nancy boy in a velvet suit with white lace at the collar) at the base of his skull repeatedly with a tire iron. Michelle Kwan is outside the bars, dressed like a wench, and she is sharpening a skate blade and waving it threateningly at the guys behind the bars. She is also drunk and her makeup is all runny, and she laughs every 10 seconds like a whore.
I think this would really add something to the Disney experience. Why not, you're only going to go and throw up on the teacups ride anyway. Or jump out of the boat in the "It's a Small World" ride and relieve yourself all over the satanic singing dolls. So why not warm things up a bit with a little Danny Bonaduce head-kicking action? It's fun for the whole fam'ly.
Monday, June 30, 2003
Friday, June 27, 2003
It seems that Snoop Dogg has decided he doesn't want to do any more "Girls Gone Wild" videos! Now I KNOW the world is really coming apart at the seams. And his reason is that there were just too damn many white women taking off their tops and he said in an AP report that women of color are also willing to do this, but the producers didn't cover that. White girls, in his words, "aren't the only hoes who like getting their freak on."
So there it goes. No more chance of my dream coming true. I was really hoping to go Wild one of these days. I even had it all mapped out in mind. I was going to pretend to be drunk and go hang out where there are a bunch of video cameras and then lift my shirt. I might have even yelled a little. Of course, you know they are still going to shoot these videos, but it's not worth it if Snoop can't be there. He is obviously a connoisseur of American girl bosoms, and I know I am a discriminating breast-barer.
Well, there are still other possibilities. And to be frank I didn't really want to bare any more of my skin than I already do. We Amish are a simple folk.
Tom came up with a great idea for a new series of "Go Wild" videos, and that was "Seniors Gone Wild." I think it would be good to have Coolio host this one. Coolio once hung with Martha Stewart. And he has met that nice lady Michelle Pfeiffer when they shot the Gangster's Paradise video. So you know he's trustworthy, and yet he has street cred for the kids.
We could send Coolio to the place where they keep old people (hospice? locked basement? freezer?) and he could film their antics. Like an old guy who lifts his shirt to show his sexy gall bladder removal scar. Or the old woman who gets up on a bar and promptly falls down and loses her false teeth in an ashtray. The commercials alone would be great for late night TV viewing.
"The producers of Girls Gone Wild want you to go wild with seniors! Sexy uninhibited grandmas are waiting to show you their wild side. See them get wild in the park--"
[Camera pans over old lady sitting on a park bench, wearing only the top part of a nylon running suit. She is not wearing any pants, so the camera has blurred out the strategic part. She stares blankly at the camera, confused, and says, "Where am I?"]
"Or see the wild action back in their rooms."
[A shot of an old man lying in a hospital bed, with a blurred box over his heart monitor. He sticks his tongue out, not at all suggestively.]
"With special guest, Coolio!"
[Coolio is shown holding a container of red Jell-O and trying to feed it to an old woman with smeared lipstick who is running around a supermarket in her housecoat, trailing dry cat food from an open bag in her arms. Coolio says, "That's some fucked up shit right there."]
I guess it's just a sad world when Mr. Dogg decides he doesn't want to soldier on after months of traveling to warm locales to see women bare their chests. He went without rest so the men of this country could see college girls being wild. All for the low price of $19.95. He was a true cinematic legend and he will be missed. At least we have his appearance in "Half Baked" to keep us company in the interim.
Gah. In other news, I just got a plaque from my company to commemorate my two years working here. They presented it to me at a lunch at Chili's. I have never seen my name engraved before, I think. I really usually only get paper achievement awards. But anyway, it's this huge plaque with the cover of the magazine I started on here, and then my editor's letter column from last month with my picture in it. My hair looks electric red and I have a doofy "I just ate some cheese" face on. It's funny somehow. It feels epic or something. It was very touching, though, and I didn't cry like a little bitch or nothin'.
I recalled how, when I played on a youth soccer team in second grade, they would give out these fuzzy little orange iron-on stars each time you got a goal. Well, I never got a goal. I was the girl standing around chewing her own braids and overheating when I tried to run around. So I just showed up and filled out the field, and that was pretty much it. Anyway, I only got three stars in my time on the team. And those were pity goals. Meaning, someone backed away from the goal and let me take a clear shot during practice. There were girls on the team who had about 30 or 40 stars ironed on to their team shirts. And then there was me. Three.
I wanted more stars, so I resorted to hunting around in the grass after games to find the little white adhesive backings that were shaped like stars that might have fallen there from the 'real' soccer players. I would take them home and my mom, god love her, would iron the paper onto my shirt! So I had three stars and one or two white paper stars on my shirt. I wanted so much to be cool. But I sucked at soccer, no foolin.
Anyway, my point is, I was good at this. I am an excellent editor. I know it, too. So it feels good to get something real, a commemorative something, to show I was here and I did a good job at something. And although I try not to be sappy in this blog, it's just a cool feeling and I wanted to share it. This 'award' was not a paper thing I found in the grass. I earned it.
Schweet!
BURP!
Harharharhar!
So there it goes. No more chance of my dream coming true. I was really hoping to go Wild one of these days. I even had it all mapped out in mind. I was going to pretend to be drunk and go hang out where there are a bunch of video cameras and then lift my shirt. I might have even yelled a little. Of course, you know they are still going to shoot these videos, but it's not worth it if Snoop can't be there. He is obviously a connoisseur of American girl bosoms, and I know I am a discriminating breast-barer.
Well, there are still other possibilities. And to be frank I didn't really want to bare any more of my skin than I already do. We Amish are a simple folk.
Tom came up with a great idea for a new series of "Go Wild" videos, and that was "Seniors Gone Wild." I think it would be good to have Coolio host this one. Coolio once hung with Martha Stewart. And he has met that nice lady Michelle Pfeiffer when they shot the Gangster's Paradise video. So you know he's trustworthy, and yet he has street cred for the kids.
We could send Coolio to the place where they keep old people (hospice? locked basement? freezer?) and he could film their antics. Like an old guy who lifts his shirt to show his sexy gall bladder removal scar. Or the old woman who gets up on a bar and promptly falls down and loses her false teeth in an ashtray. The commercials alone would be great for late night TV viewing.
"The producers of Girls Gone Wild want you to go wild with seniors! Sexy uninhibited grandmas are waiting to show you their wild side. See them get wild in the park--"
[Camera pans over old lady sitting on a park bench, wearing only the top part of a nylon running suit. She is not wearing any pants, so the camera has blurred out the strategic part. She stares blankly at the camera, confused, and says, "Where am I?"]
"Or see the wild action back in their rooms."
[A shot of an old man lying in a hospital bed, with a blurred box over his heart monitor. He sticks his tongue out, not at all suggestively.]
"With special guest, Coolio!"
[Coolio is shown holding a container of red Jell-O and trying to feed it to an old woman with smeared lipstick who is running around a supermarket in her housecoat, trailing dry cat food from an open bag in her arms. Coolio says, "That's some fucked up shit right there."]
I guess it's just a sad world when Mr. Dogg decides he doesn't want to soldier on after months of traveling to warm locales to see women bare their chests. He went without rest so the men of this country could see college girls being wild. All for the low price of $19.95. He was a true cinematic legend and he will be missed. At least we have his appearance in "Half Baked" to keep us company in the interim.
Gah. In other news, I just got a plaque from my company to commemorate my two years working here. They presented it to me at a lunch at Chili's. I have never seen my name engraved before, I think. I really usually only get paper achievement awards. But anyway, it's this huge plaque with the cover of the magazine I started on here, and then my editor's letter column from last month with my picture in it. My hair looks electric red and I have a doofy "I just ate some cheese" face on. It's funny somehow. It feels epic or something. It was very touching, though, and I didn't cry like a little bitch or nothin'.
I recalled how, when I played on a youth soccer team in second grade, they would give out these fuzzy little orange iron-on stars each time you got a goal. Well, I never got a goal. I was the girl standing around chewing her own braids and overheating when I tried to run around. So I just showed up and filled out the field, and that was pretty much it. Anyway, I only got three stars in my time on the team. And those were pity goals. Meaning, someone backed away from the goal and let me take a clear shot during practice. There were girls on the team who had about 30 or 40 stars ironed on to their team shirts. And then there was me. Three.
I wanted more stars, so I resorted to hunting around in the grass after games to find the little white adhesive backings that were shaped like stars that might have fallen there from the 'real' soccer players. I would take them home and my mom, god love her, would iron the paper onto my shirt! So I had three stars and one or two white paper stars on my shirt. I wanted so much to be cool. But I sucked at soccer, no foolin.
Anyway, my point is, I was good at this. I am an excellent editor. I know it, too. So it feels good to get something real, a commemorative something, to show I was here and I did a good job at something. And although I try not to be sappy in this blog, it's just a cool feeling and I wanted to share it. This 'award' was not a paper thing I found in the grass. I earned it.
Schweet!
BURP!
Harharharhar!
Thursday, June 26, 2003
Free association has led me to link the mention of "Freaks" in my previous post to Entertainment Weekly's recent "Top 50 Cult Movies of All Time." They mentioned 'The Warriors' in their list, and I just wanted to quote...
"Warriors...come out to plaaaaaay!"
And anytime you have a gang comprised of guys who wear baseball uniforms and paint their faces like clowns, you have a hit on your hands, my dear sirs.
Wouldn't it be weird if more people painted their faces? I mean, outside of sports fans and gangs? Like if you were in the carwash and as you watched the guy back out of your front seat with the vacuum tube in his hand, he's all painted up Kabuki style? Perhaps your pastor shows up with the communion wafers and he has a Braveheart face. Or if you're a woman (check it out, being a woman can be a bitchin' good time if you get a chance to try it) you're getting your annual exam and when the OBGYN raises his head above your knees, his face is painted like a mime? I would think getting a Pap smear from a mime would fucking TEAR your shit up for years and years. He'd be all frigging around with making the speculum silently "talk" like a duck and putting invisible boxes over your breasteses. You'd have to get dressed and get your ass out of there before he started pulling an imaginany rope out of your hoot-n-holler. AHHHHHH!!! Mimes, JEEZ, just stop it!
And for the men, how about if Gene Simmons gave you a prostate exam?
OK, I think I am gonna barf. No more clowns touching us inappropriately for the day! I have to stop thinking about this or it's all over for me.
"Warriors...come out to plaaaaaay!"
And anytime you have a gang comprised of guys who wear baseball uniforms and paint their faces like clowns, you have a hit on your hands, my dear sirs.
Wouldn't it be weird if more people painted their faces? I mean, outside of sports fans and gangs? Like if you were in the carwash and as you watched the guy back out of your front seat with the vacuum tube in his hand, he's all painted up Kabuki style? Perhaps your pastor shows up with the communion wafers and he has a Braveheart face. Or if you're a woman (check it out, being a woman can be a bitchin' good time if you get a chance to try it) you're getting your annual exam and when the OBGYN raises his head above your knees, his face is painted like a mime? I would think getting a Pap smear from a mime would fucking TEAR your shit up for years and years. He'd be all frigging around with making the speculum silently "talk" like a duck and putting invisible boxes over your breasteses. You'd have to get dressed and get your ass out of there before he started pulling an imaginany rope out of your hoot-n-holler. AHHHHHH!!! Mimes, JEEZ, just stop it!
And for the men, how about if Gene Simmons gave you a prostate exam?
OK, I think I am gonna barf. No more clowns touching us inappropriately for the day! I have to stop thinking about this or it's all over for me.
Wednesday, June 25, 2003
Yesterday I somehow posted twice. And I tried to correct it and it didn't work so much. Oh well. Some editor I turned out to be.
Today's topic is the TRAGEDY OF DRAWSTRING PANTS.
I can tell you from experience that there is no sadder sight to witness than a person that really, really, REALLY has to pee and they are trapped in their own pants. Sometimes a knot on a drawstring is completely impermeable. I think it can tighten up from all the Macarena-ing and Hokie Pokie people are doing these days. But however the situation came to be, when you see a grown person piss themselves because they couldn't free themselves from a pant closure-- man, it changes your life, that's all I'm sayin'.
I will now tell the sad tale of SM, who asked me to accompany her to the bathroom when we were at 4-H camp. Kristen knows this tale well. Karen, I think you do, too. But the story goes as follows: SM was a camper, and I was a CIT (counselor in training). Which meant I had clearance to escort campers to the bathroom. Normally, SM's sister would take her to the bathroom, but there was some reason she couldn't that day. Maybe we were too busy singing about Little Bunny Foo-Foo and she was all caught up in watching Frank Van Note, the accordion player, and his hair that would fly out off the back of his head whenever he got to the part of the song that went: "Help me, help me, HELP ME, he cried!!" Or maybe we were just in different groups and she didn't have permission to take her own sister to the bathroom (what kind of communist world is that?!) and I did. The reason is now lost to the sands of time.
SM and I went to the nearest bathroom. She went into the stall, and after a few seconds I heard:
SM: Lisa?
Me: Yeah?
SM: I can't get my pants undone!
(Standing outside the door) Me: What do you mean?
SM:The knot! It's too tight! I can't untie the knot! (There is a sense of urgency in her voice now)
Me: (I say nothing... my thought process is, literally, "uhhhh...?")
SM: Could you help me? Here! (swings the door open so I have access) Look! It's too tight!
Me: (I move into the stall, first checking to see if anyone else is in the room--nope) OK< let's have a look here...
SM: (Gritting her teeth) Oh, hurry up! Help! I really have to go! (she starts laughing now, half-nervous and half-panicked)
(I am trying very hard to untie this massive knot at her waist to let loose the shorts, but alas, my fingers can't seem to work fast enough. I curse the Gods through my retainer!!)
SM: Oh no, Lisa! It's coming! It's coming!
(I worked furiously)
SM: IT's coming! It's HERE!
(And, tragically, pee quickly darkens her shorts. I back up like a dog that just got a snoot full of skunk! I quietly shut the door and let this tragedy unfold for her in private.)
SM and I managed to keep it a secret for the most part. I ran and got her clean shorts and she took a fast shower, and we returned to the mess hall just in time for a stirring rendition of "Rise and Shine" (that Noah song with all the animals gettin' on by twosies-twosies--even the elephants and (clap) kangaroosies, roosies).
Of course, we all had a good laugh about this soon after. Her sister knew pretty quickly, if I recall. The great thing about SM (and her name is obscured to save her from further humiliation) is she has a great sense of humor and a whole, "C'mon, life is funny!" attitude that made this one of those classic teenage camp tales.
But, what of all the countless others that are trapped in their pants on a regular basis? You know they are out there. Right now in fact, the guy who sits in the cubicle closest to the breakroom may be in the men's room doing battle with a faulty zipper. And the pee, it is a'comin'. You cannot stop a pee train when it is barreling down the urinary tract full throttle. You know this.
I say, let us take a moment to remember those who have braved the countless liters of pee that have fallen down legs when drawstrings, zippers, even broken slide clasps, have failed us. And for the love of all things holy, never, ever double-knot your shorts. No matter how loose the waist may be, or how much fat you've lost. Fate should never be tempted in this way.
Today's topic is the TRAGEDY OF DRAWSTRING PANTS.
I can tell you from experience that there is no sadder sight to witness than a person that really, really, REALLY has to pee and they are trapped in their own pants. Sometimes a knot on a drawstring is completely impermeable. I think it can tighten up from all the Macarena-ing and Hokie Pokie people are doing these days. But however the situation came to be, when you see a grown person piss themselves because they couldn't free themselves from a pant closure-- man, it changes your life, that's all I'm sayin'.
I will now tell the sad tale of SM, who asked me to accompany her to the bathroom when we were at 4-H camp. Kristen knows this tale well. Karen, I think you do, too. But the story goes as follows: SM was a camper, and I was a CIT (counselor in training). Which meant I had clearance to escort campers to the bathroom. Normally, SM's sister would take her to the bathroom, but there was some reason she couldn't that day. Maybe we were too busy singing about Little Bunny Foo-Foo and she was all caught up in watching Frank Van Note, the accordion player, and his hair that would fly out off the back of his head whenever he got to the part of the song that went: "Help me, help me, HELP ME, he cried!!" Or maybe we were just in different groups and she didn't have permission to take her own sister to the bathroom (what kind of communist world is that?!) and I did. The reason is now lost to the sands of time.
SM and I went to the nearest bathroom. She went into the stall, and after a few seconds I heard:
SM: Lisa?
Me: Yeah?
SM: I can't get my pants undone!
(Standing outside the door) Me: What do you mean?
SM:The knot! It's too tight! I can't untie the knot! (There is a sense of urgency in her voice now)
Me: (I say nothing... my thought process is, literally, "uhhhh...?")
SM: Could you help me? Here! (swings the door open so I have access) Look! It's too tight!
Me: (I move into the stall, first checking to see if anyone else is in the room--nope) OK< let's have a look here...
SM: (Gritting her teeth) Oh, hurry up! Help! I really have to go! (she starts laughing now, half-nervous and half-panicked)
(I am trying very hard to untie this massive knot at her waist to let loose the shorts, but alas, my fingers can't seem to work fast enough. I curse the Gods through my retainer!!)
SM: Oh no, Lisa! It's coming! It's coming!
(I worked furiously)
SM: IT's coming! It's HERE!
(And, tragically, pee quickly darkens her shorts. I back up like a dog that just got a snoot full of skunk! I quietly shut the door and let this tragedy unfold for her in private.)
SM and I managed to keep it a secret for the most part. I ran and got her clean shorts and she took a fast shower, and we returned to the mess hall just in time for a stirring rendition of "Rise and Shine" (that Noah song with all the animals gettin' on by twosies-twosies--even the elephants and (clap) kangaroosies, roosies).
Of course, we all had a good laugh about this soon after. Her sister knew pretty quickly, if I recall. The great thing about SM (and her name is obscured to save her from further humiliation) is she has a great sense of humor and a whole, "C'mon, life is funny!" attitude that made this one of those classic teenage camp tales.
But, what of all the countless others that are trapped in their pants on a regular basis? You know they are out there. Right now in fact, the guy who sits in the cubicle closest to the breakroom may be in the men's room doing battle with a faulty zipper. And the pee, it is a'comin'. You cannot stop a pee train when it is barreling down the urinary tract full throttle. You know this.
I say, let us take a moment to remember those who have braved the countless liters of pee that have fallen down legs when drawstrings, zippers, even broken slide clasps, have failed us. And for the love of all things holy, never, ever double-knot your shorts. No matter how loose the waist may be, or how much fat you've lost. Fate should never be tempted in this way.
Tuesday, June 24, 2003
I was just sitting here making bored 'pop pop pop" noises with my tongue and wishing that MSN hadn't shut down the site Jason and I did for our fictional TV network. The Web site had a nice long run of about 2.5 years or so.
For those who didn't know, it was called NPBC-- the No Pants Broadcasting Company. Our network featured sure-to-be-classic shows such as:
The Junkless Horseman: Starring Steve Guttenberg (The "Gutte") as a man who had his junk torn off "so he rides" to find other people's junk. When he finds one, he cuts it off with a butter knife and brings it home to his junk drawer. It's all Gutte.
There's a Sock in My Crotch: Starring Tony Danza as a guy named Tony who is constantly finding himself in trouble because there is a talking sock puppet that lives in his crotch. On one episode, he gets a job at a summer camp and racial tension breaks out. A very tough show to genre-ize.
Junk Punchers: This was a Richard Grieco/ John Stamos vehicle that would feature the two as undercover cops that liked to brush each other's hair. JP was also one of our only shows in which the starring actors would make guest appearances at conventions, where they would work a hot dog booth and sign autographs. A "reach out to the people" show if there ever was one.
Al Roker's Neck of the Woods-- Just what you think it would be. One of the best lines we came up with (the context doesn't matter, trust me) was: "Dig in for some sweetness you wouldn't believe."
Some Terri Garr Show: Actually, I can't remember the name of this show, but it had to do with Teri Garr and her gang of Underpants Girls. I saw a picture of Teri Garr in a flying car with women in leotards and underpants and I knew we could build a hit show off of this alone. They were some kind of crime fighters, and they had to fight off an evil Charlotte Church once.
And our flagship show...
CHARLIE THE GAY NECROPHILIAC
Now listen. Before you get upset, you need to know that this show was the basis of the entire network. One night Jason and I were sitting on the roof and we tried to think of the most offensive title we could ever come up with for a show. And Charlie was born.
Charlie has had more adventures than any of our other stars. He's played by the guy who was Long Duck Dong, and some of the titles of past episodes include: *Charlie meets Richard Simmons *Good Golly, I'm Not Dead!--a humorous mix up has Charlie falling for Little Richard to hilarious results *Charlie Goes to Deutschland-- sent to uncover the missing family jewels, Charlie goes to Germany with Nancy McKeon and has some wacky times, like the time he uncovered a famous maestro's corpse and played a little "Roll Over Beethoven" and discovered the jewels hidden inside Bruce Villanch's ass.
I miss the NPBC. If, by some miracle, Jason figures out how to find our site again, I'll definitely post it here. And if any of you out there have printouts of the web pages, pleasepleasePUHlease let me have a copy.
Interesting sidenote. We were kicked out of one web address for "foul content". I have always wondered if any of the celebrities ever did a search and found our site and that's why it's gone now.
If you see Bruce Villanch, apologize for me. Hell, forget that. Kick him in the funbags!
For those who didn't know, it was called NPBC-- the No Pants Broadcasting Company. Our network featured sure-to-be-classic shows such as:
The Junkless Horseman: Starring Steve Guttenberg (The "Gutte") as a man who had his junk torn off "so he rides" to find other people's junk. When he finds one, he cuts it off with a butter knife and brings it home to his junk drawer. It's all Gutte.
There's a Sock in My Crotch: Starring Tony Danza as a guy named Tony who is constantly finding himself in trouble because there is a talking sock puppet that lives in his crotch. On one episode, he gets a job at a summer camp and racial tension breaks out. A very tough show to genre-ize.
Junk Punchers: This was a Richard Grieco/ John Stamos vehicle that would feature the two as undercover cops that liked to brush each other's hair. JP was also one of our only shows in which the starring actors would make guest appearances at conventions, where they would work a hot dog booth and sign autographs. A "reach out to the people" show if there ever was one.
Al Roker's Neck of the Woods-- Just what you think it would be. One of the best lines we came up with (the context doesn't matter, trust me) was: "Dig in for some sweetness you wouldn't believe."
Some Terri Garr Show: Actually, I can't remember the name of this show, but it had to do with Teri Garr and her gang of Underpants Girls. I saw a picture of Teri Garr in a flying car with women in leotards and underpants and I knew we could build a hit show off of this alone. They were some kind of crime fighters, and they had to fight off an evil Charlotte Church once.
And our flagship show...
CHARLIE THE GAY NECROPHILIAC
Now listen. Before you get upset, you need to know that this show was the basis of the entire network. One night Jason and I were sitting on the roof and we tried to think of the most offensive title we could ever come up with for a show. And Charlie was born.
Charlie has had more adventures than any of our other stars. He's played by the guy who was Long Duck Dong, and some of the titles of past episodes include: *Charlie meets Richard Simmons *Good Golly, I'm Not Dead!--a humorous mix up has Charlie falling for Little Richard to hilarious results *Charlie Goes to Deutschland-- sent to uncover the missing family jewels, Charlie goes to Germany with Nancy McKeon and has some wacky times, like the time he uncovered a famous maestro's corpse and played a little "Roll Over Beethoven" and discovered the jewels hidden inside Bruce Villanch's ass.
I miss the NPBC. If, by some miracle, Jason figures out how to find our site again, I'll definitely post it here. And if any of you out there have printouts of the web pages, pleasepleasePUHlease let me have a copy.
Interesting sidenote. We were kicked out of one web address for "foul content". I have always wondered if any of the celebrities ever did a search and found our site and that's why it's gone now.
If you see Bruce Villanch, apologize for me. Hell, forget that. Kick him in the funbags!
Just so you know, my father never really pushed me down in the stones. I made it up; I was a dramatic child. That's what's funny about it. Some people have expressed concern that I was abused as a youngun' and that just ain't true. My dad's cool. In fact he would let me play Hair Salon when I was little (19 years old or so)... he'll let me clip those barrettes with the ribbons into his hair while we sat in the living room watching CHiPS. He also showed me how fun it was to pour hot candle wax all over your hand and wait for it to cool off--then you could peel it off and have a bayberry-scented imprint of your own hand! Now come on, who else had a Dad that awesome? Oh, and for the record, my Dad had his own racecar! VROOOM!!
Beat that, nancy boy!
Beat that, nancy boy!
The truth is, Dad pushed me down in the stones.
I was about three or four years old when it happened. I was definitely old enough to know how to tell the truth. I wouldn’t have known how to make up lies yet. Right?
My dad had a friend named Hoke who had a used car lot. Dad and Hoke were really into cars, and would stand around with their tree trunk legs talking in a language I couldn’t understand. Distinctly, I recall words like carburetor and cam shaft as I busied myself hopping between oil patches on the cement floor of the garage. I didn’t ever really find out what they talked about; but sometimes I just wanted to be around my daddy.
Hoke was really cool. He was older than my dad, with gray hair and wrinkly, slightly-drooping eyes. The best thing about Hoke was his voice. I can still hear it to this day. He always sounded drunk. He would call the house looking for my dad and say, “Heyy, Wisa. Is yourfathahthere?” He ran words together and never completely let a word take full form in his mouth, so it all sloshed around like old coffee. The most famous Hoke quote refers to a day he called and wanted to know if my father had left a welder in the driveway for him to pick up. Only we didn’t know he said that, because he asked, “Istha wewwa inda wiveway?”
The day that It happened, Dad had taken me up to Hoke’s car lot. He probably had to drop off some part, or pick something up. My memory of this day involves me feeling very small, seeing sun sparkle through tall trees, and some sort of desire to see deer. I was convinced there were wild deer in the little strip of trees behind Hoke’s shop. In fact, I recall my dad saying, “Come on Lisa, let’s go see the deer.” And off I galloped behind him, intent on seein’ me some deer.
But then, for some reason, Dad turned and wheeled on me. With a violent shove, he pushed tiny little me down into the gravel. Then he turned and walked off with Hoke into the woods to see the deer without me.
This is what I told my Mom when we got home. She was at the sink in the kitchen, and I came in the door and showed her my skinned knees as fast as I could. Sobbing, I whined out, “Dad pushed me down in the stones.”
Years later, the truth came out; Mom knew Dad hadn’t pushed me down in the stones. And there were certainly no deer in the woods behind Hoke’s suburban shop, either. Even Dad would bring it up from time to time. “Why would I push a little girl down in the stones?” Mom said I must have tripped and skinned my knees. That sounds like a little something like a conspiracy theory to me. You cover up the family’s shameful secret. Respect the family.
I got him back. Not very long after that, Mom and Granny took me to the Wagon Wheel farm market for a Halloween event where they had something called the Talking Pumpkinhead Family. Basically, the “family” was a bunch of pumpkin-head scarecrows in family clothes perched on haystacks. Behind a curtain or wall, a market employee would talk to the children in the audience. It fooled me. I really thought that the damn pumpkins were talking to me.
One time the Pumpkinhead Family opened up the floor for questions. I had something I had to share; it wasn’t exactly a question, but I felt that they should know that I was privy to a little inside information about their family name. I remember the pumpkins saying, “Does anyone else have any questions to ask the Talking Pumpkinhead Family?” My hand shot up.
They addressed me: “Yes, the little girl in the red pants?”
And I said, “My daddy says you’re the Talking Shithead Family.” Because he did say that at dinner one night, and my Mom and I had giggled and laughed. Me, I was laughing not because I knew what “shit” was, but because I was a follower at that age and always copied them when they laughed. I had no sense of individuality. If they jumped off a bridge, guess who would have hiked up her too-long red pants and done the same? When I think of me at that age, I think, “Jeez, think for yourself, you immature thing!”
After I had made my announcement, and heard the titters around me, I felt pretty pleased with myself for getting a laugh in front of a crowd like that. Mom and Granny brought me to the car soon afterwards and we all went home.
Mom told Dad what had happened. I guess I had intimidated him—he probably hadn’t realized what a quick-thinking revenge hound I was until then—because he never pushed me down in the stones again.
I was about three or four years old when it happened. I was definitely old enough to know how to tell the truth. I wouldn’t have known how to make up lies yet. Right?
My dad had a friend named Hoke who had a used car lot. Dad and Hoke were really into cars, and would stand around with their tree trunk legs talking in a language I couldn’t understand. Distinctly, I recall words like carburetor and cam shaft as I busied myself hopping between oil patches on the cement floor of the garage. I didn’t ever really find out what they talked about; but sometimes I just wanted to be around my daddy.
Hoke was really cool. He was older than my dad, with gray hair and wrinkly, slightly-drooping eyes. The best thing about Hoke was his voice. I can still hear it to this day. He always sounded drunk. He would call the house looking for my dad and say, “Heyy, Wisa. Is yourfathahthere?” He ran words together and never completely let a word take full form in his mouth, so it all sloshed around like old coffee. The most famous Hoke quote refers to a day he called and wanted to know if my father had left a welder in the driveway for him to pick up. Only we didn’t know he said that, because he asked, “Istha wewwa inda wiveway?”
The day that It happened, Dad had taken me up to Hoke’s car lot. He probably had to drop off some part, or pick something up. My memory of this day involves me feeling very small, seeing sun sparkle through tall trees, and some sort of desire to see deer. I was convinced there were wild deer in the little strip of trees behind Hoke’s shop. In fact, I recall my dad saying, “Come on Lisa, let’s go see the deer.” And off I galloped behind him, intent on seein’ me some deer.
But then, for some reason, Dad turned and wheeled on me. With a violent shove, he pushed tiny little me down into the gravel. Then he turned and walked off with Hoke into the woods to see the deer without me.
This is what I told my Mom when we got home. She was at the sink in the kitchen, and I came in the door and showed her my skinned knees as fast as I could. Sobbing, I whined out, “Dad pushed me down in the stones.”
Years later, the truth came out; Mom knew Dad hadn’t pushed me down in the stones. And there were certainly no deer in the woods behind Hoke’s suburban shop, either. Even Dad would bring it up from time to time. “Why would I push a little girl down in the stones?” Mom said I must have tripped and skinned my knees. That sounds like a little something like a conspiracy theory to me. You cover up the family’s shameful secret. Respect the family.
I got him back. Not very long after that, Mom and Granny took me to the Wagon Wheel farm market for a Halloween event where they had something called the Talking Pumpkinhead Family. Basically, the “family” was a bunch of pumpkin-head scarecrows in family clothes perched on haystacks. Behind a curtain or wall, a market employee would talk to the children in the audience. It fooled me. I really thought that the damn pumpkins were talking to me.
One time the Pumpkinhead Family opened up the floor for questions. I had something I had to share; it wasn’t exactly a question, but I felt that they should know that I was privy to a little inside information about their family name. I remember the pumpkins saying, “Does anyone else have any questions to ask the Talking Pumpkinhead Family?” My hand shot up.
They addressed me: “Yes, the little girl in the red pants?”
And I said, “My daddy says you’re the Talking Shithead Family.” Because he did say that at dinner one night, and my Mom and I had giggled and laughed. Me, I was laughing not because I knew what “shit” was, but because I was a follower at that age and always copied them when they laughed. I had no sense of individuality. If they jumped off a bridge, guess who would have hiked up her too-long red pants and done the same? When I think of me at that age, I think, “Jeez, think for yourself, you immature thing!”
After I had made my announcement, and heard the titters around me, I felt pretty pleased with myself for getting a laugh in front of a crowd like that. Mom and Granny brought me to the car soon afterwards and we all went home.
Mom told Dad what had happened. I guess I had intimidated him—he probably hadn’t realized what a quick-thinking revenge hound I was until then—because he never pushed me down in the stones again.
Monday, June 23, 2003
AP ran this headline today on the major wires:
"Fetus skeleton stayed inside woman for 7 years"
I am a stickler for the way things are worded, and in this case, they make it sound like this was a voluntary decision on the part of the fetus skeleton. It's as if this Indonesian fetus skeleton could have moved on-- out of the vagina and on to an attractive career as a 7 year old fetus skeleton walking around the streets, begging for candy and skin.
But instead, this layabout decided to set up shop in his mother's womb. Actually, if we are going to get technical about this, it doesn't say in this headline the skeleton stayed in the woman's womb. What if it was somewhere else? Well, the possibilities are endless here for where that lil' rascal could have been camping out.
"Fetus skeleton stayed inside woman for 7 years"
I am a stickler for the way things are worded, and in this case, they make it sound like this was a voluntary decision on the part of the fetus skeleton. It's as if this Indonesian fetus skeleton could have moved on-- out of the vagina and on to an attractive career as a 7 year old fetus skeleton walking around the streets, begging for candy and skin.
But instead, this layabout decided to set up shop in his mother's womb. Actually, if we are going to get technical about this, it doesn't say in this headline the skeleton stayed in the woman's womb. What if it was somewhere else? Well, the possibilities are endless here for where that lil' rascal could have been camping out.
I was driving down Central to pick up Tracy for lunch, and I passed a guy with a chicken suit on the side of the road, waving to traffic. "What's so interesting about that," you might wonder. "You can see guys in chicken suits all the time these days."
What was different was that this chicken was only wearing the HEAD and SHOULDERS of a chicken suit, not the full furry. Being that it is about 146 degrees outside here today, it's understandable that a full chicken suit would kill somebody. But the bottom part of said 'chicken' was just a skinny guy in khaki shorts and sneakers. I've never seen a chicken in such a state.
Also, it should be noted that this character was wearing a sandwich board that advertised a restaurant downtown called, "LePeep." In and of itself, this is an interesting name. I also realized, as I drove past without waving, that this combination was decidingly unmasculine. For instance, I had no desire to consider having an affair with the half-a-chicken-guy, or see him under the glaring lights of a strip club, undulating for an oily dollar bill. Nope, rather I was thinking how "LePeep" is French for tiny marshmallow birds. And I vaguely wanted some marshmallows.
But if you're reading this, half-a-chicken LePeep man--which you probably aren't, statistically speaking-- I salute you. It takes a nerve of pure steel to stand on an unshaded Phoenix streetcorner at lunch hour, letting your head sweat profusely as you wave to traffic to extol the virtues of LePeep restaurant. You are doing a job not many of us could do.
All of this is assuming you are not a Mexican national. In which case, heed the aforementioned bumper sticker and GET OUT!--you are taking jobs from worthy Americans! Don't you know that thousands of natural borns are dying to get their heads inside that exact furry suit?
Now scram!
Buh-GACK! (that's chicken squawk to you, pal)
What was different was that this chicken was only wearing the HEAD and SHOULDERS of a chicken suit, not the full furry. Being that it is about 146 degrees outside here today, it's understandable that a full chicken suit would kill somebody. But the bottom part of said 'chicken' was just a skinny guy in khaki shorts and sneakers. I've never seen a chicken in such a state.
Also, it should be noted that this character was wearing a sandwich board that advertised a restaurant downtown called, "LePeep." In and of itself, this is an interesting name. I also realized, as I drove past without waving, that this combination was decidingly unmasculine. For instance, I had no desire to consider having an affair with the half-a-chicken-guy, or see him under the glaring lights of a strip club, undulating for an oily dollar bill. Nope, rather I was thinking how "LePeep" is French for tiny marshmallow birds. And I vaguely wanted some marshmallows.
But if you're reading this, half-a-chicken LePeep man--which you probably aren't, statistically speaking-- I salute you. It takes a nerve of pure steel to stand on an unshaded Phoenix streetcorner at lunch hour, letting your head sweat profusely as you wave to traffic to extol the virtues of LePeep restaurant. You are doing a job not many of us could do.
All of this is assuming you are not a Mexican national. In which case, heed the aforementioned bumper sticker and GET OUT!--you are taking jobs from worthy Americans! Don't you know that thousands of natural borns are dying to get their heads inside that exact furry suit?
Now scram!
Buh-GACK! (that's chicken squawk to you, pal)
I am excited as all get-out. I started my very own Blog! This is all thanks to Toole, who gave me the idea when he pointed out that Diaryland sounds like its for dickless wussies. And I am not a wussy, people! Far from it. Although I am quite dickless-- last time I checked, anyway. Ah HA!
The best part of a blog is that it has a word that sounds like mud. BLOG. Sounds like frog, log, bog...all of which often are found in and near mud. It's also sort of a throw-up noise. I think I blogged in the toilet a few times several months ago. And one time I blogged on my own shoulder. Mmm warm applesauce coupled with heavy drugs and lots of pain-- it's a combination for regurgitation wackiness. (I was in the hospital when it happened, for the Blog record.)
You know, I sometimes like to type to hear myself type. Or, to free associate without the annoying sound of my own voice echoing off the baffroom tile. I expect to do much free associating here. Why not, it is still a free country, I think.
I saw a bumper sticker once that had an American flag with the words, "Get out!" under it. I have never quite figured out what that was all about. I think it was missing part of the sticker... maybe it said "live free or..." and that part was removed. It did look like an aged sticker. What if the driver wanted the country of American to get out of his car? Cripes, I feel sorry for that poor bastard. Must suck to have the whole nation crammed into your hatchback. Anyway, it set my wheels a-turning, and that is not a bad thing.
I will update this more as thoughts come to me. As it stands now I am a worthless pile of ass today, sitting in my chair overwhelmed by the possibilities of a blog. Holy cow.
The best part of a blog is that it has a word that sounds like mud. BLOG. Sounds like frog, log, bog...all of which often are found in and near mud. It's also sort of a throw-up noise. I think I blogged in the toilet a few times several months ago. And one time I blogged on my own shoulder. Mmm warm applesauce coupled with heavy drugs and lots of pain-- it's a combination for regurgitation wackiness. (I was in the hospital when it happened, for the Blog record.)
You know, I sometimes like to type to hear myself type. Or, to free associate without the annoying sound of my own voice echoing off the baffroom tile. I expect to do much free associating here. Why not, it is still a free country, I think.
I saw a bumper sticker once that had an American flag with the words, "Get out!" under it. I have never quite figured out what that was all about. I think it was missing part of the sticker... maybe it said "live free or..." and that part was removed. It did look like an aged sticker. What if the driver wanted the country of American to get out of his car? Cripes, I feel sorry for that poor bastard. Must suck to have the whole nation crammed into your hatchback. Anyway, it set my wheels a-turning, and that is not a bad thing.
I will update this more as thoughts come to me. As it stands now I am a worthless pile of ass today, sitting in my chair overwhelmed by the possibilities of a blog. Holy cow.
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