Waiting For Righty

 

WAITING FOR RIGHTY

A CHRISTMAS PLAYLET

(WITH A TIP OF THE MAGA CAP TO CLIFFORD ODETS)

 

SCENE: The sweatshop of one Santa J. Trump, maker of fine toys and keepsakes for the discerning simpleton at The North Pole Towers, New York, NY. Time, the night before Christmas.

              At rise eight little hobgoblins, Eric, Garrick, Derrick, Barrack, Ferric, Xeric, Merrick, and Don Jr. are slaving away at various lathes, table saws, sewing machines and what-have-yous. A fine Craftsman What-Have-You available at the Sears On-Line Catalog. The fruits of their labors pile up on stage right. The air is filled with the hum of productivity, because, unfortunately, productivity has forgotten the words. Note: The parts of Eric, Garrick, Derrick, Barrack, Ferric, Xeric, Merrick, and Don Jr. are interchangeable and can be played by non-union labor, available in front of most any Home Depot or anywhere fine non-union labor is sold.

 

GARRICK: (shaving a steak extra thin with a band saw) Bourgeoisie dialectic spewing swine. Making us work on Christmas Eve while he’s nowhere to be seen.

DERRICK: (bitterly) Save it for Twitter, commie. We’ve got work to do.

GARRICK: (winterly) I can’t. They blocked my account for retweeting an Elon Musk tweet. Apparently, that counts as hate speech.

DERRICK: (inertly) Nerts to you, Karl Marx. You should have known better. (They square off and break into a sissy boy slap flight, with shades of a gang war from the Perkins School for the Blind Production of West Wide Story. Quickly exhausted, the two hobgoblins take a knee)

XERIC: (libertly) The National Anthem better not be playing, or I’ll lay barehands on the two of you!

ERIC: (inwardly, with a touch of the extortive) I have it! The perfect stocking stuffer!

FERRIC: Trump Bath Bombs? I came up with that last year.

ERIC: No.

BARRACK: Trump All-Day-Sucker? So, six years ago.

ERIC: No.

DON JR.: Trump Vodka? We already tried that. It failed in 2011.

ERIC: No.

DON JR.: Trump Mortgage, LLC? Did it ’06. Shut down a year later.

ERIC: No.

GARRICK: Trump Airlines?

DERRICK: Trump Water?

BARRACK: Trump The Board Game?

FERRIC: Trump Fire Sports Drink?

XERIC: Trump Magazine?

MERRICK: Trump University?

ERIC: No, no, no, no, no, and no.

DON JR: GoTrump.Com, the travel website? Old news. That failed in 2007.

ERIC: No! This isn’t any of those silly fly-by-night scams. This is pure brilliance!

DON JR.: OK, Wilhelm Rontgen, what have you come up with this time?

ERIC: Pfffft. This will make German mechanical engineer and Nobel Prize winning physicist Rontgen’s discovery of electromagnetic radiation in a wavelength range known as the X-Ray look like a booger.

GARRICK: Ixnay on the Obnel Prize-ay. You know how the Old Man gets when you mention that word.

ERIC: Pashaw! This idea will even put a smile on his rotted Jack o lantern-like puss.

DON JR.: Well, what is it?

ERIC: Santa J. Trump Virtual Trading Cards! Each card will feature Santa Trump in a different tableau. Like hunting a lion or stripped to waste ready to take on the terrorist.

BARRACK: I like it! He could be dressed up like a cowboy!

XERIC: Or a policeman!

DERRICK: Or an Indian Chief!

ERIC: Hell yeah, he could be all the Village People rolled up into one.

BARRACK: How about shirtless, riding a bear?

ERIC: Na, too Putin.

BARRACK: Yeah, I guess… but I’d love to see it though…

DON JR.: OK, it’s a good idea, but how are you going to get them made before the Old Man takes off tonight?

ERIC: That’s the beautiful part, we don’t actually make them. They’re virtual. People give us money and we send them a link to a picture.

DON JR.: Come on, no one is dumb enough to fall for that.

ERIC: Donny, this family made it’s fortune by never underestimating the gullibility of a Trump Rube.

DON JR.: You’ve got a point. (The jingle of sleigh bells is heard off stage followed by a manly voice yelling out, ‘Whoa Dasher, whoa Rudy, Whoa Lindsey’ and the sound of hoof beats coming to a stop. A door opens and Santa J. Trump enters in a puff of white asbestos retrieved from the Trump Tower’s ceiling that passes for snow.)

SANTA J. TRUMP: Ho, ho, ho… (he runs out of breath by the last ho).

DON JR.: What’s a’matter, Santa? You look a little pale.

SANTA J. TRUMP: Really?

DON JR.: You’re just not your regular, glowing, ruddy orange self.

SANTA J. CLAUS: Sez you.

ERIC: He’s right, you have more of a cantaloupe hue.

SANTA J. TRUMP: What!

GARRICK: No, I’d say, kind of an apricot.

DERRICK: Or peach.

BARRACK: Maybe tangerine?

FERRIC: I’m saying carrot.

XERIC: Or even salmon.

MERRICK: I’ll have the turkey club.

ERIC: What?

MERRICK: Aren’t we ordering lunch?

SANTA J. TRUMP: (angrily tossing a plate of katsup against the wall) All you all, shut up! I’ve got an important announcement to make. I’ve seen my doctor and –

DON JR.: (cutting him off) Type 2 Diabetes, right? I knew it.

ERIC: Or maybe High LDL cholesterol, isn’t it?

GARRICK: Hypertension?

DERRICK: Coronary Heart Disease?

BARRACK: Stroke?

FERRIC: Gallbladder Disease?

XERIC: Sleep apnea?

MERRICK: So, we’re not ordering lunch?

SANTA J. TRUMP: No, the doctor said I’m the healthiest jolly fat man that ever lived, but I need to get out and play more golf.

DON JR.: How is that even possible for you to play more golf? There aren’t enough hours in the day.

SANTA J. TRUMP: Exactly! So, after I’m reelected President, day one, we add four more hours to the clock so I can sneak another 18 holes in every day. Simple.

ERIC: Good thinking!

DON JR.: But won’t adding four more hours to the clock mean there will be eight more hours in every day?

SANTA J. TRUMP: You ever tried to play 18 at one of my dog ass courses? You’ll need the extra 8 hours to get a round in. But my point is, I need to focus on my reelection so I’m going to need one of you kids to take over my Christmas Eve duties.

DON JR.: Oh dad, that’s so cool! I haven’t been this happy since our first trip to Epstein Island.

SANTA J. TRUMP: Shut up, you knob. I’m not picking you.

ERIC: Shot score! Thanks pops. I’ll be sure to take good care of the sleigh.

SANTA J. TRUMP: Not you either, numb nuts. I’m giving the last line of defense against the War on Christmas to Byron or Barron or whatever his name is. He’s the only one of my kids I haven’t spent any time with, so I don’t hate him yet.

DON JR.: Awww, what a gyp!

ERIC: I don’t even think Barron is yours.

SANTA J. TRUMP: It doesn’t matter now. It’s a done deal. Now the two of you get outside and feed the reindeer. You know how Christie gets when his blood sugar gets low.

BOTH: Yes sir…(exit)

SANTA J. TRUMP: And the rest of you get back to work, or you’ll get one of these… (Santa backhands Merrick across the face and then blows a whistle. The exertion causes him to bend over and try to catch his breath. Responding to the whistle, several Brown Shirted Trump Rubes storm the stage and feverishly start trolling the Hobgoblins on-line as they get back to work. A beloved Christmas Carol, in the public domain so we don’t have to pay royalties, comes up as the lights fade.)

 

CURTAIN

 

 

Don Is Dead!

Has Donald J. Trump been killed and replaced by a double?

In February Donald J. Trump said the “torture works” and that he would bring back waterboarding and ‘a hell of a lot worse’, and when it was reported military officials would disobey an unlawful order from the commander-in-chief, Donald J. Trump responded, “Frankly, they’ll do as I tell them”. A month later Fake Trump said, “I will not order a military officer to disobey the law”.

In Donald J. Trump’s 2000 book The America We Deserve he argued in favor of an assault weapons ban and ‘a slightly longer waiting period to purchase a gun’, but Fake Trump’s recent position is “I’m a very strong Second Amendment person” and is in favor of eliminating gun-free zones in schools and loosening gun laws.

In 2012 Donald J. Trump called Hilary J. Clinton “a terrific woman” during a Fox News interview. Fake Trump has opined Clinton was “the worst secretary of state is the history of the United States”.

In February Donald J. Trump said in an interview with the AP that he was going to be very neutral in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, but earlier this month Fake Trump told the annual meeting of the American-Israel Public Affairs Committee, When I become president, the days of treating Israel like a second-class citizen will end on day one”.

Donald J. Trump said he would like to see Japan and South Korea obtain nuclear weapons. Fake Trump told The New York Times last week “Biggest problem, to me, in the world, is nuclear, and proliferation”.

Donald J. Trump called for a ban on all non-American Muslims from entering the United States of America. Fake Trump, just the other day, said his ban would not apply to Muslims already living in the US and would allow Muslim government officials, foreign leaders and business executives in too.

Donald J. Trump’s tax plan reduced the tax rate for hedge-fund managers, but then Fake Trump told Fox News they should have to pay more than they do in taxes.

Donald J. Trump was against raising the minimum wage because it was already ‘too high’ and ‘bad for business’, while Fake Trump told CNN he was "Open to doing something with it”.

Donald J. Trump told CNN in 1999 that he believed in universal health care, much the Canadian system Bernie Sanders was proposing for the US, while Fake Trump said a single-payer system like the one in Canada was appropriate for the United States.

In 1999 Donald J. Trump also told NBC “Look, I’m very pro-choice,” but Fake Trump proclaimed, “I am very, very proud to say that I am pro-life”.

And most telling, Donald J. Trump was banned by Twitter. Fake Trump was welcomed back with open arms.

Then there is the photographic evidence. Donald J. Trump is a fine specimen of an older gentleman at the peak of physical conditioning. Fake Trump? Well…

The only conclusion that can be draw is Donald J. Trump was assassinated while his guard was down, at his beach house in Palm Beach perhaps, and replaced by a Fake Puppet Trump, or he is just a lying piece of shit.

THE MAN WHO KNOWS

 

THE MAN WHO KNOWS

 

Here in Massachusetts, there are four Questions on Ballot this year. One on taxes, one on healthcare, one on booze and one on transportation. I may not be the smartest person you know, but in some cases I’m the only person you know and, you are too lazy to do the work, so let me tell you how to vote.

 

QUESTION ONE: Additional tax on income over one million dollars. Don’t believe the TV commercials that say it raises taxes on all home sales. If you clear a million dollars profit on your home sale there would be an additional tax, not if you sell that piece of shit, wheelless trailer you’re living in. Why are you listening to TV. Next thing you know, you’ll be letting Magnum P.I. steal your mother’s house too.

 $24.7 million dollars have been raised to support Question One passing, to the only 13.6 million to oppose the passing. Big shock, the Mass. Teachers Association kicked in $11.3 million of that because the income raise is subject to appropriation for public education and roads. Even bigger shock, Billionaires Jim Davis ($2 million), Paul and Sandy Edgerley ($2 million) and Bob ‘Rub and Tug’ Kraft (a piker at $1 million) have all kicked in to fight Question One.

If Kraft is against it, my natural reaction is to think it is a good thing.

VOTE YES ON 1

 

QUESTION TWO: The Regulation of Dental Insurance. Basically, stopping administrators of dental benefit plans from kicking profits upstairs their Home Offices and force them to invest instead in members’ dental expenses and quality improvements.

Backers on both sides are running at an almost financial dead-heat, 7.8 million for, 7.6 against. The American Dental Association and litigious dentist/suspected Mass Health cheat Mouhab Rizallah are the principal donors fighting for the question, and the insurance companies are the ones releasing the hounds against its passing.

Rizallah is kind of a dink, but if the insurance industry is against it, I’m for it.

VOTE YES ON 2

 

QUESTION THREE: Expanded Availability of Liquor Licenses. On the surface, it’s a no brainer. More booze, bring it on. Basically, it means the limit for the Maximum Number of Licenses any one retailer could own would go from 7 to 18 by 2031.

The Question would also allow out-of-state driver’s licenses to finally be accepted as ID for booze and it would change the fine structure for stores that sell to minors. The fine would now be based on total sales for the store rather than just alcohol sales. So, if Cumbies sells beer to kids they are going to get a much bigger fine than if The Bunghole Liquors did, because they don’t sell as many Slim Jims as Cumbies.

Just under a million was raise to support passing this question and $12.50 was donated to oppose it. You read that right, less than the price of a pair of Men’s size 7-13, Dr. Scholl’s Comfort Double Air-Pillo Insoles has been raised to fight the passing of Question 3. Which is interesting because Mass Fine Wines & Spirits LLC has allocated more than $2.1 million to fight the questions but thanks to some creative independent expenditure rules, they don’t need to reflect those numbers in the committee totals.

Oh, by the way, Mass Fine Wines & Spirts LLC is better known as Total Wine, they have 243 superstores in 27 states. Hardly the Mom & Pop Shop you see in the commercials.

I say pass it. If Total Wine wants to sell beer to high school kids, let ‘em eat the fines.

VOTE YES ON 3

 

QUESTION FOUR: Basically, driver’s licenses for undocumented aliens (thus making them documented). Should they have them? Ah, why not. The T sucks, how else are they going to get to work?

Part of the reason you may not have heard much about this question is, only $185,000 has been raised to fight Question 4, while 2.2 million has been raised to pass it. Most self-respecting TV or radio sales reps wouldn’t touch either side for the commission on that Chump Change. Who are we kidding? There are no self-respecting TV and radio sales reps., I think most the money was wasted on direct mailing.

The Service Employees International Union and Arbella Insurance are kicking in the pocket change to support this Question, while Republican political hack John Milligan, former Political Director of the Massachusetts Republican Party and Jesse Brown’s handler for his Congressional bid in the 9^th District, is behind Fair and Secure Massachusetts’ $185,000 whip around. He’s one of these Geoff Diehl ginks, and while I hate to side with Insurance companies, I hate siding with Republicans even more…

VOTE YES ON 4

That’s YES on everything, my friend. Easy to remember, just pretend you’re at the buffet at The Golden Corral.

I have spoken.

 

SOMA SOMA SOMA CHAMELEON

 

“This Halloween, don’t be a Nosferatu, be a Yesferatu…” – Lance Norris, After-Life Coach

Among my many hats, the one I wear with the most aplomb is that of After-Life Coach. There’s a lot more to being Dead than just laying around, if you want to do it right. Of course, sometimes the Dead are just dead tired and that’s understandable, but you’ve got make the effort if you want to make it a Happily Ever Hereafter.

‘You do what now?’ – Let me give you some examples:

How many times have we seen the Dead (I won’t use the pejorative ‘Zombie’ out of an abundance of respect for my clientele, and more importantly, potential constituency) stumbling down the road, across the foggy dell, dragging themselves from a dank grave; with torn, frayed, or other desultory clothes? The threadbare and unkept cadaver is one Trope we can do without, thank you very much.

Little known fact; 63% of Old Navy’s Brick and Mortar customers are the Dead, so why not stop off and get yourself a sharp pair of Built-In Flex Modern Jogger Pants and a Dobby-Stripe Short Sleeve Camp Shirt or maybe a Gender-Neutral Distressed Non-Stretch Jean Jacket and loose-Fit Chest-Pocket Rotation T-Shirt before you set out in search of brains (Pro Tip: you won’t find a whole lot of them behind the counter at Old Navy)…

And what is with the diet? Brains, brains, brains, maybe a neck tendon ripped out on the way to more brains. Sure, the mammalian brain is rich in DHA, a salient omega-3 fatty acid, but so are trout, eggs and yogurt. Heck, toss some nice Garlic Butter Shrimp at yourself, just for a change of pace. There are plenty of omega options.

Also, depending on the diet of the person you harvest the brain from, the cerebrum can be very high in cholesterol. You’re already dead, you don’t need a stroke on top of it.

Any Trump Rube can moan, lament, and grunt a monosyllabic vocabulary across their cavernous embouchement. Set yourself apart from the peck with the palaver, cant and phraseology of a Yale Man, or at least the word-hoard of a Harvard undergrad. There are more Dead Ivy League Alumni than there are Alive, and there is no reason your lexicon couldn’t allow you to be confounded for one of their number.

And what’s with the skin, buddy? Dry, withered, desiccated dermis. Pallid, ashen, occasionally viridescent somewhere between blue and yellow tegument. It’s the skin you’re in, my friend. Just because you’re lifeless it is no time to give up on your skin care regiment. In fact, that’s the time to step it up. Hydrate, moisturize, clean with lukewarm water and a mild soap, dry with a microfiber face towel and for the love of God and all that is Unholy, invest in a humidifier.

Of course, one issue all Dead deal with is the stank. Bacteria is breaking down your flesh and skin care can help, but you’re going rot. That’s just a fact of the After-Life. The good news is it is a temporary condition. Eventually you will become what we in the trade call a ‘Dry Dead’, that is, the bacillus have eaten all they can, and what is left of you is a dry, brittle husk that is relatively stankless. The trick is to get through that initial putrefied corpse phase.

Over-the-counter deodorants are not going to cut it. Baking Soda or Apple Cider Vinegar might help, just don’t use them at the same time, you’ll foam up like a kid’s half-assed science project. You’re facing enough hurdles as the perished, you don’t need people thinking you’ve got rabies too.

The best advice I can give the expired on the stank is, use a couple dabs of oil, sweet almond is my favorite, but any good essential oil should help. You will be the Dry Dead soon, just hang in there, and whatever you do, don’t use pajuil oil. Your loved ones have suffered enough on your account. Don’t add pajuil on top of it.

I also find that the Dead always seem to have boundary issues, other people’s not their own. Just because you’ve departed that doesn’t mean you no longer need to be self-aware. Know your worth (if you’ve taken care of yourself a human body can be worth as much as $550,000, striped down for parts) and value other people. Always get consent before you rip into someone’s flesh with your teeth and respect their decision. No always means No!

This is hard work because you, as the Dead, are prone to indiscriminate violence. Now lamented, you no longer have the capacity for consciousness or remorse and your emptiness drives you, but that’s just hunger gnawing away at where your stomach used to live. Drinking Green Tea or even just plain water can act as an appetite suppressant. Maybe a little deep breathing, or some exercise will help. Of course, that brings up a whole different issue, The ‘Zombie Walk’.

You would think that there is some kind of international undertaker’s conspiracy to place sticks up the ass of all of the dead the way you people walk. Nothing but laziness is all it is. Loosen the gate, pal. If you have to, warm up first. Try a little Yoga or even Pilates. Walk in a slightly crouched position, keep your body compact and distribute your weight evenly so you’re not so clunky.

And finally, the Dead are rather aloof. I mean, who wouldn’t be, the day you’ve had, but that is no reason to be emotionally unavailable. Make time for your partner, make their needs and feelings equal to your own. Take responsibility for your emotions and above all, communicate.

If you are having trouble communicating, this is on you, and you have to work on yourself. Do not, and I repeat, do not seek out some charlatan housewife from New Jersey who claims to talk to the Dead as a short cut for yourself. It’s a sham. They do not talk to the Dead. They just want to con you out of your money. Come on, you’re dead not dead stupid.

HAPPY MEAL HUNTING GROUND

 Mahlo, my manservant, had just fastened my gaffer’s nappy, as the British are fond of saying, and I was about to settle in for an autumnal drowse, as I was fond of saying, when my servitor presented me with a handful of Baby Aspirin and a smirk. The Aspirin, St. Joseph’s Orange not that Bayer Cherry swill, I greedily chewed, but met the smirk with a strong reproach, reminding the menial that he was little more than a helper monkey in a mullet. Mahlo seemed flattered that I had noticed his new hairstyle.

As my eyes started to close, visions of Sugared Plums and Pop Tarted Strawberries danced in my head. Strawberry Pop Tarts with frosting of course, because ultimately, frosting on the Pop Tart is all that separates us from the animal kingdom. Well, some of us. As if to prove my point, Mahlo cleared his throat and stammered something guttural.

“I take that back,” I told the stuttering drudge. “A helper monkey could bang away on a lap top computer and eventually write Shakespeare, or at least a very special episode of Two Broke Girls, but you, sir, will always be a sub-verbal factotum,” and I amplified my point by spitting a chewable aspirin in his direction.

“Yes, sir,” the dogsbody offered. “I just wanted to remind you that tomorrow is Friday.”

“And I told you,” I snapped. “My pocket cash is tied up in a Pog Buy-Back Scheme right now, but you will receive your wages in good time.”

“Oh, it is not that, sir,” the domestic assured me. “Friday is the day McDonalds is rolling out the new Adult Happy Meals.”

“By Mayor McCheese’s Whiskers, you’re right!” I exclaimed and sat bolt upright in my bed, bumping my head into the upper bunk. No time for Neosporin, a Mederma Scar Treatment, Dermoplat No-Sting Spray, or a healing peck from Mahlo surprisingly curative lips on the offended welt, I threw off my Mandalorian covers, taking time to muse that this wasn’t the first time Pedro Pascal lay crumpled on a stranger’s bedroom floor and sprinted to the outer room, modesty be damned, leaving my Lands’ End Fleece Hooded Robe behind.

“Quickly.” I ordered the lap-spittle. “Get my backpack and stock it with Lunchables and Fruit Roll-Ups. If we hurry, we can still be the first in line.” In all my 60 years I’ve never been more excited about the roll-out of a food-like product by a major chain restaurant, but then never before had McDonalds come out with an Adult Happy Meal, if you ignore that time in 2004 when they offered that ‘healthy lifestyle’ Happy Meal with a salad, fitness DVD and a pedometer.

Salad at a McDonalds? When pigs fly commercial, I ruminated.

Mahlo, as if to demonstrate that he had evolved beyond his simian stablemates, took it upon himself to nuke up some Hot Pockets in the microwave as I was dressing, without direction. It could be a long night, after all.

Mahlo tugged the Velcro on my sneakers too tight again, but I persevered, and hobbled out to my waiting car. I gave Calloway, my driver, curt instructions and settled myself into the backseat when a sharp pain shot through my spine. Momentarily blinded by the paroxysm, I reached rearwards into my booster seat looking for the author of my tears. The offender revealed itself to be the rogue Fidget Spinner I had reported as missing to the staff almost three days earlier. Heads would roll, but not right now. I had to get under the warm glow of the Golden Arches before anyone else queued up.

We arrived seven minutes later, Calloway ignoring red lights and baby carriages at my instruction. The McDonald’s parking lot of surprisingly still, even for this hour. The 24-Hour Drive-Thru Window was empty, save for a demented Pillow Salesman in a Datsun being served a summons by the FBI and three Quarter Pounder Meals with a Diet Coke.

Mahlo, with the agility of a Tibetan Sherpa from the Chawa Clan, had fallen behind as he ran after our car, but finally caught up and grabbed my camping gear from the trunk, establishing our base camp on the sidewalk in front of the glass doors in record time. The night manager approached us, but silently backed off when Mahlo brandished the tribal khagga sword I had won at a silent auction at the Museum of Natural History. I had splurged and bought the weapon for myself after I got out bid by Mark Cuban on the skull plate of Dhyani Buddha.

Reposed in my camp chair, I opened a Fruit Roll-Up and sat back to await the unfolding of the Gates to McHeaven, a scant four hours away, peacefully… Too peacefully. Where were the other collectors and fatty foods enthusiasts? Surely an event like the debut of the Adult Happy Meal would drag Johnny and Jill Lunch Pail away from their Reality TV and Ersatz Family Bosoms for one night.

I checked my analog Swatch Original to make sure Mahlo had gotten the day right, but there is no date function on the 80’s Swatch, perhaps the oversight that drove that cut-price horologist, Franz Sprecher, out of the trade, and I hoofed it back to my car to check the date with Calloway, a Timex Man from way back.

The date was correct, Mahlo had not screwed up, but I had. In the 43 seconds I was gone from the doors five ragamuffin and a woman of questionable repute had jumped my claim. Rather than going to the trouble of explaining the Etiquette of The Vigilant and the Concept of Dibbs, I had Mahlo rush the offending sextet while I ignited an Enola Gaye Two Vent: Burst Wire Pull Smoke Grenade with a 20 second plume duration.

We lost Mahlo in the skirmish that followed, but the upshot was, I was indeed the first to get an Adult Happy Meal, two in fact. I got the Big Mac and the 10-piece Chicken McNugget Meals. The toys were a Grimace and Hamburglar, in case you were wondering.

THE JUNE MOON SWOONS OVER CAMP LEJEUNE

 

A Summer Playlet

 

SCENE: The Office of Camp Lejeune’s Commander, General Inane Beef. Time: Circa August of 1953 through December 1987.

     At rise, Marine Private Dewy Cheatham stands before the General Beef’s desk. Beef’s hand rests on the metal desktop. It is a cold, hard, and gleams in the in the daylight sun from a recent spit polish. So does the desktop. Beef pulls a kid leather glove onto his shining hand, as if embarrassed by its opulence, and clears his throat.

   Beef: (sitting back down in his swivel chair) What do you want, Private?

   Dewy: (standing at attention) May I sit, sir?

   Beef: No! My father’s name is ‘Sit’. I work for a living. You call me ‘sir’, Private. Is that clear?

   Dewy: Yes, sir.

   Beef: Now, what is it?

   Dewy: May I be frank, sir?

   Beef: As long as you call me ‘sir’.

   Frank: Thank you, sir.

   Sir: Don’t mention it. Now what do you want?

   Frank: Well, sir… It’s the water, sir?

   Sir: Can’t swim? Don’t worry. We’ll beat that out of you.

   Frank: No, sir. It’s the drinking water.

   Sir: Not getting enough? Have all you want. It’s free. Comes right out the tap. The pipe runs right over to a lake or something, right behind the ammo dump.

   Frank: Um, no, sir. It’s the taste.

   Sir: The taste? What taste? Water doesn’t taste like anything.

   Frank: Ideally, sir, yes, but the water here has an odd taste to it.

   Sir: Odd? How so?

   Frank: It’s hard to describe, sir. I’m not a medical man, but if I were to guess, I’d say it taste like adult leukemia.

   Sir: Excuse me?

   Frank: The water tastes like adult leukemia, sir.

   Sir: (curtly) I see.

   Frank: Well, not every day, sir, just –

   Sir: (cutting him off) It’s very simple, Private. Just drink the water on the days that it doesn’t taste like adult leukemia. Problem solved.

   Frank: Yes sir, it’s just that… on the days it doesn’t taste like adult leukemia it tastes like bladder cancer, sir.

   Sir: (standing up) Bladder cancer! Well, that’s serious.

   Frank: Yes sir, that’s why I thought I’d bring it to your attention.

   Sir: Well, I’m glad you did. (into the intercom) Corporal, get in here.

   Intercom: (off stage) Yes sir!

   Sir: We’ll get to the bottom of this, I’ll tell you what.

   Frank: Thank you, sir.

(Lance Corporal Lance Corporeal enters. He is a stunningly beautiful man, as most men named ‘Lance’ are.)

   Lance: Sir?

   Sir: Corporal, this Private tells me the water at Camp LeJeune taste like adult leukemia.

   Lance: Fiddlesticks, sir.

   Sir: It taste like Fiddlesticks?

   Lance: No sir, I’m saying the Private is full of hooey. The water here at Camp Lejeune has a bit of a Parkinson’s disease aftertaste to it, but it’s not so bad.

   Sir: Parkinson’s? Well, that’s not so bad, is Private?

   Frank: Well, sir, I do taste the Parkinson’s, sir, but usually only on Wednesdays.

   Sir: You’re saying the taste is day specific?

   Frank: Um, yes sir. Mondays and Thursdays adult leukemia, Tuesdays bladder cancer, Parkinson’s on Wednesday as the Corporal noted, Friday aplastic anemia and other myelodysplastic syndromes, and Saturday is kidney cancer with a hit of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.

   Sir: Are you forgetting something, Private?

   Frank: Oh, sorry sir. ‘Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, sir’. Sir.

   Sir: No, what does the water taste like on Sunday?

   Frank: Umm, water, sir.

   Sir: Well, there you go. Fill your canteen on Sundays and make it last all week. Dismissed!

   Frank: Thank you, sir. I know you would have the answer.

(Frank and Lance head to the door)

   Sir: And Corporal, if anyone else bitches about the water, send them over to Viet Nam and let them drink rainwater out of rice patty for a few months. They’ll be happy for a little good old, all-America adult leukemia when they get home.

   Lance: Yes sir.

(Frank and Lance exit as Sir removes his glove and admires his shining hand again.)

                                                      CURTAIN

BROTHER CAN YOU SPARE A DRAMAMINE?

 

The well-considered man of letters and abstruse counter of numbers, S. J. Perelman, reposed 43 years ago on the morrow. Although the exact date is hard to pin down with a Lepidopterist’s factuality because Groucho Marx kept digging Perelman up to micturate on the storied essayist. A feat even more impressive when you consider Groucho had a prostate the size of Margaret Dumont’s mammilla and pissing on anything had been a Herculean task for the old vaudevillian for almost a decade. Plus, Groucho himself had passed two years earlier.

 To say the two old men’s relationship was a cabalistic complication would be an understatement of Emperor Hirohito-ish propositions, although neither man had Hirohito’s experience on the business end of a nuclear warhead, but not for lack of trying. 

A fan of Perelman’s first novel, Dawn Ginsbergh’s Revenge, Groucho had commissioned Perelman to cobble together a radio script, which evolved into the screenplay for the pre-code movie Monkey Business in 1931, as well as a flagstone walkway in his garden, which evolved into a disused stack of debris and abatis. Groucho considered Perelman’s script (written with Will B. Johnstone) to be too intellectual for a Marx Brother’s movie and brought in three gag writers to dumb it down. The gag men were also told to remove the flagstone and Perelman’s bicycle from the property; although Groucho then retained Perelman, along with Bert Kalmar and Harry Ruby, to compose the brother’s next film, Horse Feathers.

Perelman demanded the return of his two-wheeler, which never happened, but he was later gifted with an Oscar for his diegesis Around the World in 80 Days, which felicitous actress Hermione Gingold prudently consummated for him, informing the assemblage that Perelman only wrote the script under the express understand that the film would never be shown. 

Groucho also procured an Oscar in 1974, abet an honorary one. His speech could best be incarnated by a Professor Wagstaff quote from Horse Feathers, which may or may not have been written, sans bicycle, by Perelman, depending on who you believe, ‘Well, I thought my razor was dull until I heard his speech. And that reminds me of a story that’s so dirty I’m ashamed to think of it myself’.

As time passed like golden water through a spavinedly envious penis, both great wits gathered dust on the mizzen shelf of the zeitgeist, replaced by the mentally dexterous aptitudes of your Tracy Morgans and your Jimmy Fallons, spinning flaxen feuilleton to the waiting masses.

Who know from whence the ill will between Perelman and Groucho came. By all accounts, and countesses, all the Marx Brothers could be a royal pain in the mizzen shelf to work with, but then, so could Perelman. Peradventure Perelman was just plan ennuied of questions about the Marx Brothers in every catechism he gave the press, while having only worked with them not more than a jot of his prodigious oeuvre. Not impossibly, did Groucho impute Perelman for the Algonquin Round Table misprizing him while infolding his brother Harpo? 

Perhaps an inkling, or even a full-grown ink, to the riff can be found in a section of what was thought to be a long-lost Neil Simon play, Bissel Zatz. Written in 1972, between The Prisoner of Second Avenue and The Good Doctor, Simon’s Bissel Zatz concerned the misadventures of a hoary vaudevillian struggling to be relevant in the modern theatre, and reaching out to an old friend, a writer, to help him excogitate a new act and move some furniture to the crawlway.

The theatrical manuscript was deemed irretrievable when beloved thespian Marsha Mason set the first draft ablaze in a fit a jealousy while still in Simon’s typewriter. She then climbed out of the typewriter after expressing to Simon, Doc to his friends, that he was spending too much time with his wife. In Simon’s defense, his wife was dying of cancer at the times, and while Simon was not a real Doctor, undoubtedly, she appreciated her consort’s comradery at her bedside.

Rather that start all over again, Simon scrapped the project and began work on The Sunshine Boys. A carbon of a partial scene in the first act of Bissel Zatz was recovered when Simon’s papers were being turned over to the Library of Congress in April of 2022 and a slight charred page fell out of an intern. The library hadn’t asked for Simon’s papers, but Doc’s wife at the time of his passing, Elaine, needed the room in their apartment for her Peloton Bike.

The chanced-on page contained a soliloquy by the main character, Zatz, given, as is the nature of the Simon folio, on the telephone to his mother, and opens a door to what might have been the nature of the relationship between Perelman and Groucho. Neil Simon had written in his notes that Agnetha Faltskog of the band ABBA might be approached to play Zatz on Broadway, which made no sense because Agnetha was a willowy, Teutonic blond woman and Zatz is described clearly in the play as a 70-year-old, short, fat Jewish man, but like all of American in 1972, it was obvious Simon had also fallen under the spell of ABBA insanely danceable sweet meats of music, and the chanteuse’s skin tight cat suits.

SCENE: The apartment of Zatz, on West 10^th, between 5^th & 6^th with a view of Central Park afforded by angling three mirrors just right. Katz is, a 70-year-old, short, fat Jewish man wearing a silky white cat suit that leave little to the imagination. With nothing to imagine, he picks up the telephone and barks into it.

 

Zatz: Hello?.... Hello, Operator? Get me Gevalt 3-3847… What do you mean you don’t use prefixes anymore? Oy Gevalt! Just get me J.J. Pearlstein on the blower… Well, his number was Gevalt 3-3847, but apparently that was too convenient for Ma Bell. Just get me J.J. Pearlstein, please… What do you mean, you’re not an Information Operator. You work at Ma Bell don’t you?... Well, ask around the office. I’m sure someone there has J.J. Pearlman’s phone number. He’s an Oscar winning screenwriter for crying out loud. You know, I have an Oscar myself? No, it’s not a saltwater tank. What the hell are you talking about?… Yes… I’m aware an Oscar can be fish, yes, but in this case I’m talking about the penultimate award an actor can receive from the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences… What?... It is so a science… How do you think they get all the people in front of the camera inside the camera? Science… No, I don’t know the exact way they do it, but it’s science, with chemicals and guys in white coats and everything. Speaking of guys in white coats, did you take your medication this morning?... Yes, I am cracking wise, but I’m out of practice. That’s why I need to get ahold of Pearlstein… J. J. Pearlstein. Could I spell it? Which part, the Pearlstein or the J.J.? You know what, forget it. Just get me my mother on the horn.

 

The rest of the page was, unfortunately, burnt beyond readability, but as you can clearly conceive from that passage by a playwright that had a working knowledge of the existence of both S.J. Perelman and Julius ‘Groucho’ Marx, the Gauromydas heros in the ointment of their friendship, as it all too many times is, was a lack of communication.

The Big Lie

The two greatest lies perpetuated by Hollywood? Well, I’m glad you asked. First and foremost, the myth that Opening Weekend Box Office is any indicator of how good a movie is. Box Office is all about marketing not filmmaking. The Fight Club, The Big Lebowski, The Iron Giant, The Shawshank Redemption, The Thing, The Master, The Hudsucker Proxy, The King of Comedy all stunk up the box office like Matthew McConaughey on a hot summer day in Texas. Although, upon further review, maybe it is the article ‘The’ in the title that kills box office. Nine out of the ten top lifetime grossing films don’t have a ‘The’ in the title. 16 of the Top Twenty don’t have one. 40 of the Top Fifty! … and the Number Two Dirty Little Hollywood Lie would be that Gwyneth Paltrow can act. Perhaps we should start calling her, The Gwyneth Paltrow…

Name Above The Title

 

As Chris Licht attempts to clean house and transform CNN from a Let Us Tell You What to Think About The News Outlet to a Here’s The Facts as We Know Them News Outlet, I have a small suggestion for him. Kardashian’s aside, there is no royalty in America; wars were literally fought over this, so cut it out with the titles for life.

 

Cabinet Secretaries, Senators, Speakers, even the President, don’t get to hold on to the title for life. When they are out of the job the honorific is collected at the exit interview along with their parking pass.

 

I get why the dopes at CNN continue to call empty suits like John Kasich ‘Governor’ even though he hasn’t had the job for over three years, it has a lot more cachet than the alternative of calling him ‘twice failed presidential candidate Kasich’, but given the network’s well deserved hatred for all things Trump, it is embarrassing to hear talking head after talking head refer to The Donald as President Trump, only to catch themselves and add a ‘I mean, former President Trump’.

 

The problem stems from their misuse of former titles for all former government employees. It is not proper to refer to Hilary Clinton as Secretary Clinton these days, when, as Miss Manners points out, her obvious and preferred honorific is ‘Carpet Munching Carpet Bagger Clinton’. Get it right, people.

 

Licht, or as the kids call him ‘Even Smugger Seth Rogan’, is said to be poised to send the morning show the way of CNN+ and bring in the Sultan of Smug, Joe Scarborough. Who knows. Will it help? Who knows. Does anyone care? Who knows… CNN’s brand has got a definite stank to it these days, and it’s going to take more than opening a couple of windows to air it out. The first step is, enough with the titles for life.

This Just In!

  

2022-23 AWARDS SEASON CALENDAR

August

27: LMGI Awards (Location Managers Guild International)

28: MTV Video Music Awards

31: Venice Film Festival (through September 10)

September

2-5: Telluride Film Festival

3-4: Creative Arts Emmys

8-18: Toronto Film Festival

19: Country Music Honors

October

9: Humanitas Prizes

10: CMA’s Atta’ Boys

10: Venice Golden Lion ceremony

12: Primetime Emmys

13: Country Pickings Top Picks

24: New York Film Festival (through October 10)

28: News & Documentary Emmys

November

2-6: AFI Festival

7: Country Association Conferral

13: Critics Choice Documentary Awards

15: Grammy Awards nominations

16: Country Music’s Better Than The Grammy Awards Awards

19: Governors Awards

December

11: Inaugural Children’s & Family Emmys

16: Country Music Bestowals

24: Country Music Best Christmas Song Prize

January

5: Palm Springs International Film Festival Awards

9: Art Directors Guild Awards nominations

10: National Board of Review Awards Gala

10: Cinema Audio Society Awards nominations

10: DGA Awards TV/commercial/documentary nominations

11: DGA Awards film nominations

12: DGA Country Music Appreciation Dinner

12: PGA nominations

15: Critics Choice Awards

16: The Hillbilly Handouts

19-29: Sundance Film Festival

February

5: Grammy Awards

7: Country Music Adoration Meeting

8-18: Santa Barbara International Film Festival

18: Country Music Bonsela

18: Art Directors Guild Awards

18: DGA Awards

20: Country Music Allotted Self-Praise Night

25: PGA Awards

25: Country Music Animadversion and Google Words Evening

26: MPSE Golden Reel Awards

26: Country Music’s Golden Throats

27: Country Music’s Golden Showers

March

4: Cinema Audio Society Awards

4: Crunchyroll’s Anime Awards

5: Country & Western Music Exaltation and Encomium

10-19: South By Southwest Conference and Festivals

12: Academy Awards

May

11: Academy of Country Music Awards

JUST BECAUSE SHE SAYS IT, DOESN’T MEAN IT IS TRUE….

 Alright boys, get the little lady out of the kitchen and huddle around the internets, because it’s time once again for another episode of Mansplaining with Lance. Today: She-Hulk.

There is a meme floating around, most on Mansogynous sites like YesSheCan, with a cute little speech from the half hour Disney comedy, She-Hulk: Attorney at Law. In it, Jennifer Walters explains to her cousin that she, like most women (and unlike most men), is an expert an controlling her anger; but is she?

I mean, the speech is nice, and makes a point, but let us go back to the night before the speech when Jennifer is standing outside a bar after being ‘tarted up’ by four random women in the Ladies Room.

 

SHE-HULK stands on the bar porch. Three YOUNG MEN exit the bar ad-libbing good-byes to the people in the bar.

                MAN 2

Ladies Night was a bust.

                MAN 3

So, where are we going, fellas?

 

MAN 1 notices She-hulk at the end of the porch.

 

                MAN 1

Hey, s’up? How you doing?

                SHE-HULK

Fine.

                MAN 2

You with anyone?

                SHE-HULK

I’m waiting for my ride.

                MAN 2

What’s your name?

                SHE-HULK

I think my boyfriend is just…

 

She steps off the porch.

 

                MAN 2

Aww, come on…

                MAN 1

Hey, we’re just being friendly.

                MAN 3

Are you too good to talk to us?

 

Her rage bubbles over. She screams and turns green. Her cousin comes from nowhere and knocks her unconscious before she can do any damage.

 

Sure, the guys are a little douchey, but did Jennifer display a reasonable and measured response to their pathetic attempts at starting a conversation with her?

The four girls in the bathroom were more aggressive towards her than those boys, but she wanted to use them for their phones, so she suppressed her rage, didn’t turn green and didn’t beat them into submission. The boys had nothing to offer her, so she felt justified in using physical violence against them.

It should be noted that when she transformed into the She-Hulk in front of the bar, two of her ‘attackers’ sought solace and comfort in each other’s arms, suggesting that they might not have been the sexual threat that she thought.

Remember, female empowerment is not as much about equality as it is ‘It is my turn, Jack’ and nine of out ten women will kill you in your sleep, given half a chance. Of course, ten out of ten men will kill you too, so what are you going to do?

JARED THE WONDER HORSE

 Jared was getting lippy. He was like that when he was under stress. The Donald was not happy. First Jared scored a seven-figure book deal for a warts only ‘tell-all’ without The Donald’s blessing and now the Rubes were starting to ask too many questions ahead of the mid-terms. Frankly, Jared The Wonder Horse hadn’t brought a lot to the table lately.

This new speech in front of the gathering of tribe in Texas could be a major turning point. Jared tapped the pages I had handed him with one of his dry, cracked, bleeding fingers and sucked his strain swollen lower lip.

   “Hmmm,” was the best he could offer. Ten minute earlier his wife had been reduced to tears before she even got through page one of my poetry, and that was a feat. Ivanka’s tear ducts had been permanently fused shut after a rhinoplasty mishap in 2005 and the salty water had to go somewhere. Unfortunately for her, it drained into her sinuses and out her nose, washing out, not only her emotional response to the speech, but over $1,000 worth of pharmaceutical grade cocaine.

Ivanka shoveled the tears into her mouth with a slurp and ran from the room mumbling something about how she should have married Tom Brady when she had the chance.

These had been good days for Jared, watching his old nemesis Steve Bannon slowly roast of a spit, Chris Christie lay in a New Jersey hospital bed attached to  machines that would breath for him and maintain a constant flow of KFC gravy directly into his blood stream, and John Kelly was reportedly chained in a dank cell under the Mukhabarat compound on the Balad Air Base awaiting trail on charges that he removed the tongues of several Iraqi laborers without making the proper bribes. All of Jared’s enemies had been driven before him. These should be his ascendancy.

But The Donald wasn’t happy, and at the end of the day that was Jared’s only job. Jump for a peanut, Gracie. The emperor needs a laugh.

   “Maybe you could put in more references to sodomy?” Jared half asked, handing the pages back to me.

   “I could, but your father-in-law specifically said no more of fan fiction from you,” I said.

   “I see… I see..” he mumbled and started thumbing the copy of a graphic novel he kept on his desk. Bone, I believe. “Maybe if you read it out loud to me…?”

I cleared my throat and waited for the clatter of Ivanka throwing a hand cream jar at her domestic in the next room to subside.

   “People, people, people… Keep it down” The speech started. The Donald Like to take a folksy approach to the open. “We gather here today not to discuss issues and ideas. I’m just here to gin you up with some select passages from the bible, a book none of you have read, but a few have seen the movie, so here we go:

   “Matthew 5. And seeing the multitudes, he went to the tractor pull, climb atop the Monster Truck, his disciples came to unto him and he opened his mouth, and taught them, saying,

Blessed are the half-witted: for theirs is something good, I just can tell you about it yet.

Blessed are they that mourn: for we shall drink the wine of revenge from goblets made of the skulls of those who offended them.

Blessed are the Skull Goblet makers: for their wares are available at TrumpStuff.com, and at a good and fair price.

Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for the concession stands at the back of the hall are now open.

Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for their name is Trump. Am I right? Have you ever seen anything like this, folks? CNN? More like C U Later, am I right?

Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and mock you for your Maga Hat, and your Trump Store Summer Collection, including a Chenille Crew Neck available in Blue or White, priced to move at $110, Sand Printing Trump Rubber Flip Flops, a steal at $45, and here’s a tip, save that little plastic clip from your bread bags and use it to hold that part of the flip flop that goes between your toes when it pops through the shoe after the first time you wear them, and Trump Stripped Beach Towels, $65 today only. No ‘prison stripe’ jokes, please, I’ve heard them all…

Remember, agree with thine adversary quickly, whiles thou art in the way with him. It will throw he off balance and he’ll never see the knife coming when you plunge it in his short ribs.

Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not commit adultery, but I say unto you, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart… and if you’ve already committed adultery in your heart, what can it hurt to actually seal the deal? I am I right or am I right?

Ye of faith have heard it hath been said. Whosoever shall put away his wife, let him give her a writing of divorcement, but I say, should your ex-wife pass before you, bury her at one of your golf courses so your buddies can walk past her grave on the way to the 10^th Tee Box and said, ‘I wonder what’s par for that hole?”

Be ye therefore perfect. The most perfect, beautiful, thing… And that’s when the chant of Four More Years to start…”

 

Jared, his nose in the graphic novel at this point, waved his free hand in the air and said, “Sounds good. Get that to CPAC in Texas ASAP, and ask Ivanka if she’s seen my Neosporin Chap Stick”.