Bolus

What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

Like all males in my age cohort, every day is a struggle to deal with the same angry, burning question: where are those jet packs we were promised in the 60's? Because let's face it: without them, the rest of our so-called modern technological "marvels" -- like nanobots, iPhones, and Roombas -- are merely the bitter fruit of Science's shameful legacy of failure.

But now, just in time for Cinco de Mayo, and on the heels of Earth Week, reader Brian Knotts forwards the latest in South-of-the-Border transportation technology: personal strap on Mexican rocket helicopters!

That's right -- honest to goodness personal flight technology from our science amigos to the south. Brian writes:

Technologia Aeroespacial Mexicana (TAM) has designed a strap-on  helicopter. Tiny rockets on the tips of the propellers eliminate the need for a tail rotor, making it possible for the device to be worn on a human body.

More about this marvelous apparatus here.

Longtime readers know that I'm an enthusiast of rocket-powered personal transportation, so you can imagine how happy I was to learn of this breakthrough. I suppose I was a tad disappointed the design utilizes a whirring, 2000 rpm rotor blade rather than pure rocket thrust, but science often involves compromise. As long as it cuts down my travel time to the liquor store, who am I to quibble?

So here's a big thank you to Brian and a grande gracias to Technologia Aerospacial Mexicana for restoring this hardbitten cynic's faith in the future. Andele! Arriba!

Hell's iPod

Over the years the music industry has provided the listening public a treasure trove of musical excrescence, but only an elite few deserve recognition as instruments of torture.   I humbly offer a few examples of these Olympian earwigs. Please feel free to offer your own suggestions in comments.

Caution: not safe for work. Not safe for home. Not safe for anywhere.

Click if you dare.

UPDATE CAUTION: NOW CONTAINS 27%  RUPERT HOLMES ADDITIVES

White Plains -- My Baby Loves Lovin'

Terry Jacks -- Seasons in the Sun

Bo Donaldson & the Heywoods -- Billy Don't Be a Hero

Captain & Tenille -- Muskrat Love

Tony DiFranco & the DiFranco Family -- Heartbeat (It's a Love Beat)

Bobby Goldsboro -- Honey

Sammy Johns -- Chevy Van

Debbie Boone -- You Light Up My Life

RUPERT HOLMES UPDATE

For whatever reason (I blame trauma), I neglected to include the astonishing cannibalism-stalking-alcoholism soft perv rock oeuvre of Rupert Holmes in the initial posting. Consider it fixed, and you're welcome.

The Buoys -- Timothy

Written by Rupert Holmes and performed by the Buoys, the soft rock pride of Wilkes-Barre PA. Perhaps the finest cannibalism ballad ever to reach the top 20.

Rupert Holmes - Him

him HIM HIIIMMMM

Rupert Holmes - Escape (The Pina Colada Song)

Babes Against Booze

Those sexy ladies of the Women's Christian Temperance Union

hat tip: Robin Rhyne from Robin's Custom Leaders and Flies.

Slots of Doom

During the winter, it takes copious doses of stupidity to keep me from going batshit insane.  That's why I and my youthful companion Hawkspawn headed north Sunday to join a group of like-minded individuals at Lucky Bob's Slot Car shop in Milwaukee, for the 3rd Annual Slots of Doom sponsored by the Primates Car Club. Believe me, nothing calms a Stage 4 case of cabin fever like high speed, 1/24 scale road rage.  Skoal!

Strangers in a Strange Land - Part III

Friday, February 15 7:30 PM

In the 1968 Blake Edwards comedy "The Party" (alternative title "Hollywood Party") Peter Sellers plays a bumbling bit part extra who accidentally gets invited to a wild Hollywood shindig. Mayhem and pratfalls ensue.

Tonight is my Peter Sellers moment.

Coop and Ruth have been invited to a party at the home of their friends George Meyer and Maria Semple.  George is a writer and producer for the Simpsons who credits include the Simpsons Movie (including the smash hit "Spider Pig"). His wife Maria is also a writer and producer who has worked on a number of sitcoms. Between them, 17 Emmy nominations and 7 wins. Maria's also the daughter of Lorenzo Semple Jr., another Hollywood writing notable who was largely responsible for creating the 1960's Batman TV series and wrote Sean Connery's final Bond movie, 1983's "Never Say Never Again." Meyer and Semple are avid collectors of Pop Surrealist art, including a few pieces from Coop. Tonight they are throwing a farewell party, as they will be moving in a few days to a new home in Seattle. I've been accidentally invited to tag along.

After lurching through traffic along the 10 and the 405, we snake up Mulholland Drive to a narrow road leading up a mountain, packed bumper-to-bumper with parked Priuses. "Maybe we should grab that spot," I suggest. "Haven't you ever been to a party with valet parking?" laughs Ruth. Hell, I've never been to a party that didn't have a plastic bucket for keg donations.

When we arrive at the top of the mountain we are greeted in the driveway by a winsome member of the Valet Girls, the troupe of hot fembot parking ninjas who are handling car management for the party. "First non-Prius of the night," she says of Ruth's Benz. Apparently the big new automotive trend in Hollywood is conspicuous non-consumption; I marvel at the irony of eco-hairshirt hybrid shitboxes being parked by supermodel servant girls. I also marvel at the valet's shapely hinder.

Then, there was the house.

This is Ursa Major, the estate built by the late Wilt Chamberlain in 1971 as a rival to Hef's Playboy Mansion. It is also the site where Wilt famously claimed to have carved 20,000 notches in his bedpost. The sheer mathematics of it beggars belief (2 different women per day for 27 years) but who am I to question? After all, he was the Hall of Famer. And with an original interior decor like this, he was obviously all business when it came to entertaining female guests.

George and Maria bought Ursa Major from Chamberlain's estate in 2002, after which it underwent a major renovation/restoration taking several years to complete. Sadly, the purple fur waterbed sex room is gone, but the house is now returned to its original structural glory.

When we enter the Brobdignagian 14-foot front door we are greeted by George; a lanky, bearded Ichabod Crane topped with a bowl cut. Warm and cordial and disarmingly goofy, he's not at all what I had expected in a big shot Hollywood producer. We chit-chatted with him for a few moments before I was distracted by a couple of huge Robert Williams canvases hanging on the wall.

After grabbing a few hors d'oeuvres we head out on an alcohol safari. On the way we soon encounter the lovely and gracious Maria. Next, Paul Reubens, better known to many as Pee Wee Herman. Coop and Ruth have met him before, and introduce me. Seems like a nice enough fella, who compliments my 1950's vintage glasses. After grabbing drinks (Rum and Coke for me) we all go off for the 50-cent house tour.

Apologies for the crappy underexposed cell phone pics, but not wanting to appear a hick tourist from Iowa I arrived without a proper camera. Okay, maybe I am a hick tourist from Iowa, but I don't want it to be any more obvious than necessary.  On with the low-resolution show.

Master bedroom, bigger than most houses, and overlooking the distant LA skyline. I remark that the very air here is redolent of Wilt DNA, but I am told that the remodeling contractors removed most of it using ultraviolet searchlights.

One holdover from the Wilt era -- the mirrored skylight ceiling above the bed, allowing Ruth to snap a quick self portrait.

We head downstairs for more drinks. While waiting at the bar behind a gaggle of gals, one strikes up a conversation. "Didn't you come here with Coop and Ruth?" she asks. "You're not one of them fucking right wing Republican assholes are you?"

I look around uncomfortably.

"I told Coop that if George Bush knew who he was, he would throw him in jail and have him SHOT in the fucking HEAD."

Discretion being the better part of valor, I explain that I am merely the wastrel son of an Iowa hog baron, here only for the debauchery.  I tip my hat, grab my rum & Coke, and head out for more sightseeing.

The wing of the house containing George's office also houses some wonderful fanboy objets d'art, like a few of Coop's ink pieces -

as well as a load of original comics and cool weirdo advertising junk. Vote Kibaki!

The real stunner was the collection of Soviet space program items, like this stenciled escape hatch door (MAN INSIDE! HELP!) and an actual control panel from an orbiter. Used by real cosmonauts, in actual outer space!

After reloading our highballs glasses we find the Wilt Chamberlain shrine. I had forgotten that a young Wilt toured  with the Globetrotters for a time before going to the NBA. On closer inspection, I discover the poster is for an exhibition in Waterloo, Iowa.

Another paean to Wilt in a hall bathroom:  high contrast 70s nudie babes. Wocka chicka wocka chicka.

Back over in the conversation pit, refreshed with more rum, Coop and Ruth introduce me to their friends Kate Flannery and Chris Haston. Chris is a photographer at NBC, and Kate's a cast member on "The Office" who started her career as a member of the Second City   improv group in Chicago. Nice conversation about the Windy City. Then, strangely enough, I spot somebody I (sorta) know -- screenwriter / blogger Roger L. Simon. We had previously talked on the phone several times but never in person, so when I introduce myself he seems rather flabbergasted. And, perhaps, nervous. Despite that, he introduces me to his wife Sheryl and we chew the fat about the blogosphere. In hushed tones, lest we provoke more rage from Progressive Entertainment Industry Lady. 

More drinks. A few more minor celebrities spotted, like Mary Lynn Rajskub, Chloe from 24. Most of the people here are writer types, from the Harvard Lampoon mafia that have controlled much of the comedy d0cks in Hollywood since the dawn of Saturday Night Live. George is a former editor of the Harvard Lampoon and wrote for SNL before joining the Simpsons. I meet several other Lampoon alumni including Michael Ferris. With all the writers in the place, a lot of the talk about the recently settled strike, and the relief. I never mention my sad little comedy blog, but my tales of life on an Iowa hog farm seem to horrify and amused them.

Suddenly, I feel the presence of a warm aura, as if I were basking in the glow of a sunlamp of pure transcendant majesty, or if I were in a hotel pool and sensed a wafting current of excellence-piss.  I turned to behold Kato Kaelin. He is remarkably well-preserved, wearing a pukka necklace adorned with porcelain titties, and accompanied by a stunning brunette who radiates studied ennui as she sits on the couch arm.

"Hey man, you're Coop."

"Yes."

"The artist with the Devil stuff."

"That would be me."

"Hey man, that's cool."

Say what you want about the man, but he has a talent for facial recognition. Which probably helps in his current career in doing whatever it is he does. Chris Haston urges Coop and I to squeeze in with Kato to preserve the auspicious, Yalta-like moment.

I fetch another drink. Coop finds a dynamite plunger and goes Wile E. Coyote . I'm guessing this photo will keep him on the no-fly list for a few years.

Another drink, and we discover a plexiglas hatch on the floor. Beneath it, the huge pool that encircles much of the house.

"Let's jump in," says Ruth.

Unfortunately, I had by this point consumed enough rum to lose most of my ability to ignore dares.

"Yaaaaahhh! Yaaaah!!" I reasoned.

Safety first, though. A quick check of the temperature and guesstimate of the depth. Feh, no prob, I was in the subzero Midwest only a few days before.

Ruth and I perform a graceful, fully-clothed jackknife into the dark watery depths.

Holy sweet mother of Mothra, that shit was cold. Gelid cold. I was looking for icebergs, and think I heard a band play "Nearer my God to Thee." My testes ran screaming for the safety of my abdominal cavity, but only got half way.

Luckily the ginormous hot tub was only a 3 minute dogpaddle away. Its steaming bubbles coaxed my nuts back to stock ride height and my vocal pitch back down to audible range. Ruth and I return through the hatch and dripped chlorine on the floor to cheers.

Eat your heart out, Peter Sellers.

Time to head out. We say our farewells to George and Maria.

"Here, have a box of lemon bars," says Maria. "We over-ordered."

Hmmm, I though. Hollywood party "lemon bars" topped with heapings of "powdered sugar."

"Thanks," I said, looking askance and winking. "I bet the 'powdered sugar' is  'delicious.' "

On the way back to Coop and Ruth's house, still dripping and guarding the lemon bars, I get a call from Tammi Jo. She's still in Palm Springs, still sick as a dog.

"How'd the big party go?"

"It was okay. You didn't miss much. No Chuck Sitzmann pig roast kegger anyway."

Back in Silverlake, before turning in, I decide to sample the "lemon bars" with "powdered sugar." Turns out they were actually lemon bars with powdered sugar.

Which leads me to my question: anybody have tips on removing lemon bar from a sinus cavity?

Strangers In a Strange Land - Part I

Wednesday February 13

8:00 AM: Special lady friend Tammi Jo and I make a beeline for the airport and Trans-Illinois Airlines Flight 1313. Destination: Palm Springs, California, home of exotic above-freezing temperatures and Palm Springs' annual Modernism Week. We sneak our way through security and onto the mighty Piper Turbo-Flathead. After dusting a few soybean fields, the plane circles west and we're on our way over the Rockies to the land of sun... the land of fun... the land of EEGAH! 

12:05 PM PST: We alight at PSP and head for the rental car counter. Plying my world class negotiating skills I score a double upgrade to a slick late model midsize Hyundai. From there, a quick hopskipjump to Hotel Zoso where we meet Mr. Coop and his own special lady, the lovely Ruth Waytz. First order of business: chili dogs! Second order of business: alcohol! For me, the Orbitron (two fingers of Patron Silver over ice with tonic and lime). Tammi Jo is looking a bit peekid, but bravely carries on through her Sapphire & Tonic. After sunset and a quick freshen-up, we reconvene at a nearby steakhouse for giant slabs of cow, crustaceans, and more tequila. World Affairs and the weekend agenda are discussed, including a Friday trip into L.A.

Thursday February 14

9:00 AM: I've got a reasonably good hangover, but my ills pale in comparison to Tammi Jo who is now battling a full-on case of the Ukrainian Tubercular Croup. I walk to Rite Aid to score her a jumbo economy pack of Mucinex. At the checkout I realize it's Valentine Day, so, being the incurable Romeo that I am, I buy her a deluxe 99c 4-piece Rite Aid chocolate assortment in the heart-shaped box. It bears a cartoon train with the Wiggumesque inscription "Choo Choo CHOOOSE me." We meet Coop and Ruth for petit dejeuner in the hotel eatery, and say our so-longs. They head back to L.A. where we are scheduled to meet them on the morrow. 30 minutes later they call from the 10 freeway to report a major freak snowstorm outside Yucaipa. We are blamed.

1:30 PM: Weather is crappy, struggling to hit 50 degrees, and snow and fog has collected on the San Jacinto peaks. With nude sunbathing out of the question, we hop in the Hyundai and go out to case Palm Springs' famously Midcentury Modern neighborhoods. Among the shacks spotted include the Peter Lawford house, a swank Rat Packian getaway where Sinatra et al. once played and where Lawford's brother in-law Jack Kennedy is rumored to have trysted with Marilyn Monroe. Our path also took us past the Richard Neutra-designed Kauffman House, the winter home of the Pittsburgh family who also commissioned Frank Lloyd Wright's Fallingwater. And my favorite house on Planet Earth. (And for sale, if anybody wants to buy me a thoughtful birthday gift.)

Here's a humdinger: Elvis Pressley's honeymoon hideout, the Alexander-designed home where E supped on fried peanut butter 'n' nanner samiches and deflowered his young bride Pricilla right afore the '68 Comeback Special. Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love, baby.

Some more random shots from our wanderings:

It was dark before we had a chance to see my second favorite Palm Springs residence - Elrod House, where Bambi and Thumper momentarily kicked Agent 007's ass in 1968's Diamonds Are Forever:

7:30 PM: Still ailing, Tammi Jo requests a bowl of matzo ball soup for Valentine's dinner. Which, eerily, happens to be the Bolus Ball of the Day that day. So I escort my little goyishe shiksa over to Sherman's Deli for a hot bowl, where we are cheerfully seated despite being under 60 and not wearing track suits. We have a nice conversation with the Weinsteins, who are in from Baltimore to see their son, the gastroenterologist in Santa Monica, who never calls.

Back to the hotel for vigorous quietude and shuteye, for tomorrow L.A. beckons.

Ingmar Bergman's "Hazardous Dukes"

Excerpts from my rejected film project

OPENING MONTAGE
Slow motion shots of the General Sundqvist '69 Volvo jumping over broken bridges and misty fjords

THEME (By the Kronos Quartet with vocals by ABBA)
Just the good ol' boys
Filled with guilt and ennui
They're bored, racked with discord
Just hangin' by the fjord
Scarred emotionally

Masking their pain
The only way they know how
Just a bit more existentialist
Than their souls will allow

Just them good ol' boys
Wouldn't change if they could
Psychically crippled
Like two planks of Danish teak wood

Yee. Ha.

SCENE 1
Interior shot of a backwoods cabin in rural Georgia. The room is tastefully decorated with Bruno Mathsson lounge chairs, Eero Saarinen side tables, a rebel flag and moonshine still. An old bearded man lies on a vintage midcentury Alvar Aalto death bed.

NARRATOR (Gunnar Biörnstrand)
Just plumb about everybody in Hazzard County has a story to tell 'bout them Duke boys and their existential auto-didactism. This one starts back at the farm, where Bo 'n' Luke are about to find out that Uncle Jesse has a little surprise in store for 'em...

UNCLE JESSE (Max Von Sydow)
Bo, Luke. Come to my side, nephews.

(Cousins Bo and Luke, scions of Uncle Jesse's crumbling moonshine dynasty, enter.)

LUKE (Börje Ahlstedt)
What is it you want, Uncle?

(Bo and Luke exchange long, blank glance; a Hans Wegner clock ticks on a far wall)

UNCLE JESSE
Death.

BO (Ashton Kutcher)
Your despair has shaken our complacency. I shall bring your jug.

LUKE
It is the same Blomvo jug that Aunt Bessie long ago bought for you at Ikea... when you were young and happy.

UNCLE JESSE
Its design is elegant; yet, like life, it brings me no joy. I am compelled to smash it, like my own existence.

BO
But you must live, Uncle.

UNCLE JESSE
Why must I live? Life is a meaningless parade of pain, and loneliness, and revenuers.

(Bo and Luke stare; close-up of ticking clock)

LUKE
You must live to see the outlaw dirt sprints at Hazzard County Speedway Saturday night. There is a $2000 prize, and Bo and I have entered the General Sundqvist.

(pan to kitchen table; close-up of Cooter bolting Holley Dominator carb to Edelbrock Torker intake)

UNCLE JESSE
Perhaps you are right, Luke. Your exegesis has taught me that the pain of life can be borne, if only for the nihilism of the dirt track.

BO
(thinking) I am the one who has brung his jug, yet Uncle Jesse can only express love to Luke.

COOTER (Sean Penn)
(thinking) I am the one who has competely rebuilt their carb, yet I remain only an honorary Duke.

(Pan zoom to cabin door, where the Grim Reaper has been observing; he silently drops sickle, smashing the clock)

NARRATOR
Well how 'bout that... looks like Ol' Uncle Jesse done stirred up the Duke social hierarchy and got ol' Death all riled up like a big ol' hive of yellowjackets!

*****************************

SCENE 4
Boss Hogg's office, Hazzard County Courthouse. Hogg lays on Verner Panton chaise talking with his psychiatrist.

BOSS HOGG (Alf Nilsson)
So y'all are sayin' that my feelin's of disconnecteness and alienation stem straight from maternal rejection from my momma?

DOC APPLEBY (Erland Josephson)
I didn't say that, Boss. I think you done came up with that all yourself.

BOSS HOGG
Hot diggity dawg! I think I just had one of them there psychotherapeutic breakthroughs! Wait'll I get home tonight and Lulu finds out I'm a-ready for some marital intimacy! I did it all mysef, and didn't need no damn $200-per-hour fancy haid-shrinker.

(close up of Big Mouth Billy Bass)

DOC APPLEBY
Well, now there, Boss, I didn't quite mean it that way. See, I was using this here Jungian self-regression technique on you, and...

BOSS HOGG
Git outta my office you overprice quack, afore I have my deputies foreclose the mortgage on your clinic!

(Boss chases Appleby around desk and out into the sherriff's office, smacking into his lackey Roscoe P. Coltrane)

BOSS HOGG
Roscoe, why is you allays in my way? Is you some sort of e-mas-cu-la-ted-ed moron?

ROSCOE (Matt Damon)
Goo goo goo... well there J.D., now, now, now, I got me some information 'bout them Duke boys that's gonna put a smile on that handsome little pudgy face of yours.

BOSS HOGG
Duke boys eh? Out with it Roscoe!

ROSCOE
Goo goo goo... well Deputy Enos, see he's been mindin' that citizens band, and it seems Bo and Luke are havin' themselves a big ol' patriarchal psychodrama over Uncle Jesse and the big Saturday nite sprints at the raceway. Even Cooter's got all alienateded 'bout the whole durn situation, goo goo goo!

BOSS HOGG
Family social network issues eh? Heh heh, Roscoe! Looks like you and me's got a rendezvous down to the Boar's Nest with Miss Daisy Duke to add a little Oedipal syndrome to this here Duke fambly gumbo!

ROSCOE
Goo goo goo!

(close up of Big Mouth Billy Bass)

NARRATOR
Oh oh Daisy... best watch out, looks like Boss Hogg is up to no good.

*****************************

SCENE 7
Inside the Boar's Nest, Boss Hogg's roadhouse

BOSS HOGG
Well well well... Miss Daisy Duke. I swear you's so lovely I'd a-ask you to come a-calling iff'n Lulu wouldn't bean me with her fryin' pan.

ROSCOE
Goo goo goo!

DAISY (Scarlett Johansson)
You repulse me. Because of you I have been reduced to a bar wench, serving glögg and fondue to an endless succession of disengaged strangers.

BOSS HOGG
Now, Daisy, from what I hear you make pretty good side tips here at the Boar's Nest.

DAISY
What is that supposed to mean?

BOSS HOGG
Oh, now, nothing in particular, I hears me lots of thing. Like I heared me that you is right popular with the Hazzard County menfolk.

(close up of rippling Hamm's beer sign)

DAISY
I neither love nor hate. I couple with men to numb my existential abyss.

BOSS HOGG
What do your cousins think of that?

DAISY
I only couple with my cousins.

(slow mo of beer pitcher crashing to floor; pan shot through broken shards)

BOSS HOGG
Both Bo AND Luke?

DAISY
And Coy and Vance... before they became lovers.

BOSS HOGG
(whispering)Roscoe, you gittin' this on that tape recorder?

ROSCOE
Goo goo goo!

NARRATOR
Mercy sakes alive, looks like ol' Bo and Luke are gonna find out some unpleasant Duke family secrets.

*****************************

SCENE 13
Hazzard County Raceway

TRACK ANNOUNCER
Welcome to the feature race tonight at Hazzard County Raceway - a 30 lap outlaw sprint dash with a winner's purse of $2000. Starting on the pole in row 1 in the orange General Sundqvist '69 Volvo #01 with the Swedish flag, it's local favorite Bo Duke!

(crowd stares blankly)

TRACK ANNOUNCER
And what's this? We have a surprise late entrant... also in row 1, in another orange '69 Volvo, it's #01 car of local favorite Luke Duke! And... what the? It's three more #01 orange Volvos, driven by Coy Duke... Vance Duke... and honorary Duke, Cooter Davenport.

(crowd stares blankly)

BOSS HOGG
Hee hee hee! Roscoe this is gonna be more fun than the Euripides revival at Hazzard Dinner Theater & Barbecue Hut!

ROSCOE
Goo goo goo!

(revolving close ups as the Dukes are lost in thought as they rev their Volvos)

LUKE
I am sickened by my own incestuous desires.

BO
Though my soul is blank, it cries out for revenge.

COOTER
I spurned my own family for the false dream of the Dukes' affection.

VANCE AND COY
We never received any of the lunch box licensing residuals.

TRACK ANNOUNCER
And the green flag has dropped!

(cut to the raceway bleachers; Uncle Jesse sits with Death, wearing a Jeff Gordon rainbow on his hooded robe)

UNCLE JESSE
I'm glad we worked things out. Want a sip of my corn squeezin's?

DEATH (Billy Bob Thornton)
Nah, I'm still workin' on my beer.

(cut to the race; spinning shot as cars furiously circle Daisy, wearing a blank expression. At once, all five General Sundqvist clones leap through the air, converging on a central point. Freeze frame)

NARRATOR
Well I seen the Duke Boys get out of some tough jams in the past, but this one looks grimmer than that ol' reaper himself...

(Unfreeze frame: the five converging orange Volvos stack neatly, one on top of another)

NARRATOR
Now just doesn't that beat all? I guess it just goes to show you -- you sure can wreck them Scandinavian psyches, but you just cain't dent their cars.

 

-------------------------------------

Originally posted here

Glory Bound

Yessir, I reckon the postin's are gonna be light fer a spell. With this damn cursid midwest bloggin' dust bowl, seems a feller caint feed his own kin on a 100 acre TypePad spread no more. So tomorrow mornin' me and Tammi Jo are fixin' to load up the old Ford and head out west. Californy, or Bust!

Good Lord willin' and the creeks don't rise, onced we get out thar we'll be sendin' back a few purty picture postcards, rightcheer on the Bolus blog. Rose Hightower's boy Roy Don says they got zucchinis out there in Californy as big as yore whole haid. I 'spect he's pullin' my leg, but I seen fer myself the big palm trees and such in the movin' picture show over to Central City.

So y'all be checkin' back here now. We're supposed to meet up with the Coopers' boy, Coop, the one who found work out there paintin' pictures of naked ladies with the big bosoms. He found him a real nice gal to marry, and they says that with the writers strike and all that, maybe I can find some pun or double entendre work at WB or UPN or somesuch, long as I don't mind being hollered at and called a scab, and have them Union boys in the picket line throw hot decaf macchiatos at me. He says them networks got plenty of jobs fer writers, long as you don't agitate fer the Union. I tolt him, hell no, I ain't no goddamn communist! I just need some gag jobs so's Tammi Jo and the babies don't have to go hungry no more. He says, well that's a good thing,  elseways the bossman'll be siccin' the studio Pinkertons on you.

Until then it don't matter. I'll be all around in the dark. I'll be everywhere. Wherever you can look - wherever there's a fight, so hungry people can eat, and there are people who want to lay side bets on that fight, I'll be there. Wherever there's a cop beatin' up a guy, I'll be there. I'll be in the way guys yell when they're mad, or drunk, or just feel like yellin'. I'll be in the way kids laugh when they see drunk yellin' guys, and when the people are lootin' the Wal Mart when the cops are too distracted beatin' up the drunk yellin' guys - I'll be there, too.

Because we are the people, and we are Glory Bound.

Note to My Adoring Fans

From the comments on my last post:

Now that's high quality entertainment. Mr. Treacher should perhaps produce more of these and sell them in book form. I, a representative of the teeming masses, would buy it.

Posted by: Larry G | February 10, 2008 at 08:52 PM

I've got great news. You can get 'em for free here!

Burge said I should post this