Clair, Bared

Random Memorandum™ to the shame of Waterford, Ireland, serenading, if not masquerading, 70's songbird Gilbert "Gottfried" O'Sullivan: All the years we've been snapping our fingers and breezily shuffling 'long to what one assumed was a loving, lighthearted ode to a galfriend named “Clair,” only to discover you were serenading your manager’s preschool daughter? Have you — and Communist Senator Joseph McCarthy — no sense of indecency, sir?! What in bloody blue denim blazers was a soft pop dandy doing babysitting a young lass to begin with? Shouldn't you have been sitting in the lap of one of your velvet-panted music mates, admiring one another's neck scarves and puffing on a marijuana stick? Your wicked ruse would have gone undetected if not for an enterprising filmmaker who unearthed the startling 35mm footage — video link below — of you chasing the unknowing youngster 'round the mulberry bushes, bouncing up and down on the trampoline, twirling her 'round, bloomers to the sky, the creepy goings-on all set to your vile, suggestive hymn. 'Tis all innocent fun, you say, sugar and spice and all things nice? Bollocks. I've been around the block, sonny boy toy, and you are one towel snap away from Sandusky, Ohio. A marbled statue of limitation for your prurient misdeeds may keep you from the law’s grasp on terra firma, but here in the digital realm, you stand accused, tried and convicted. If we get our mitts on you, expect to spend ample time in the station house lockup. Alone again, naturally. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sU9fClvdo5s

The Dao Joneses

Halt! Hold it right there, e-Citizens of Sumo™! I don’t give a tinsmith's damn how informed your interpretation of the Shinto is, I know of no recognized martial Oyakata who would permit this brazen display of swordsmanship in the Dohyō and I will not have it on my watch! I’ll thank you to drop the weaponry and cover the islands of flesh about your glandular extremities, lose the giantine blue denim, don a proper Mawashi and endeavor to conduct yourselves like respectful Rikishi or — as Guantanamo Buddha® is my witness — I'll bloody well put a patrolman's boot up your Buttswanas™. Go now!

She Blinded Thee With Science

Today in Quantum Mechanics for Dumbbells®, we present — or rather misrepresent — Murphy’s Laws for String Theorists™. As with all previous constructs set forth by the eponymous, smarty-pant-suited news producer Murphy Browne, these "laws" are not legally blinding, but do offer essentially lawful — some would say awful — instruction worth noting: (1) At the very moment you solve a particularly confounding mathematical superstring calculation, the plumbing in your laboratory toilet tank will burst; (2) If your results are based on the work of other physicists — and one of those physicists enjoys a consulting role in the C.S.I. television franchise — your conclusions will prove erroneous; (3) Your most challenging string theorem will be valid in only two spatial dimensions (and one seaside Airbnb® rental property currently undergoing renovation); (D) If you unearth a previously undiscovered string model, it will predict at least one low-energy observable particle not found in nature outside a flavor boost marquee at a California Jamba Juice®; (5) When conducting a string seminar, no one will follow a thing you say after the first minute, excepting one masturbating know-it-all who'll point out a flaw in your reasoning halfway through your lecture. In conclusion, anything in string theory that can go wrong, bloody well will. *Note: We are obliged for the input of plucky, ginger-haired Cambridge physicist Joanne Hewett (pictured) who assisted with the quautumnal mechanicary detailed here.

Salty Talk

Savory snacking is not taken lightly — nor politely — at the station house. Indeed, if I am to properly reward myself with salty sustenance, it will be on my terms! I don’t give a bloody damn what anyone — not Graham nor Gordon Ramsay nor Paulette-bless-her-overworked-heart-Dean — has to say about traditional chips, baked chips, ruffled chips, popped chips and kettle-cooked chips. Spare me the tall tales of the culinary pleasurings of flatbread crisps, pretzel crisps, potato puffs, potato rings, potato sticks or stackable crisps. I am not a Spaniard, I will not eat taco chips and salsa. Ditto pita chips and bagel chips as I am not a banana-hammocked Grecian, a slender, smooth-skinned Indian or unwashed Soho hipster. Mention gluten-free chips in my company and you’ll get a police-issued boot up the arse. Am I making myself clear? There is but one chip that passes muster — as opposed to mustard, which is a pretzelman's condiment — with the palette of Yours Truly Dooley®. I've sampled countless challenger chips across the “savory spectrum” — as the marketing nitwits would have it — and I'm not having any of it! Frito Lays, Frito Jays, Jones, Tim's, Martin's, Krunchers, Herrs and Zapp’s? Call me unimpressed. If I want oil in my diet, I’ll drink Coppertone® tanning fluid. Pringles, Utz, Miss Vickies, Old Dutch, Cape Cod, Tryor Farms, Boulder Canyon, Dan Dee and Vitners? Maybe in the next snacking lifetime. English also-rans like Wotsits, Quavers, Skips and Hula Hoops? Sorry, Charlie McCarthy. Not on my table, not on my watch! The one potato chip that satisfies my every snacking desire is the very definition of savory. Salty and scrumptious, it isn’t celebrity-touted or Food Channel-approved. 'Tis the prodigal potato chip! Alive and well, back on the shelf and in my belly. The only savory snacking brand worthy of the registrar marking: O’Boisies® brand potato crisps. O’Boisies are O’Boisterous™! Bloody well right they are!

"I am a Man Who Would Slice For Your Honour."

A doff of the chef's cap to friend of the station house George — or possibly Peter — Pappa-Dappa-Something-Or-Other for steering his sturdy chuckwagon over hill and dale to surprise and delight the entirety of our squadron with his signature tzatzichi-drenched, double-meat Yēro samwiches, cottage-fried, Feta-toppled potato wedges and nutty sweet Baked Lava™ bars for dessert. "I am a man who would slice for your honour," says George or Peter. Indeed you are, citizen! Doing it all for the glorious love of salty meats, cheesy side offerings and sugary sweetened treats! The Greek Gods have surely shined upon us this day. Hope-ahhh to see you soon, Citizen SliceMaster™!

Rich Man, Pour Man

Celebrating a Deathday™: Natty, martini-swilling yuckster Arthur Bach died on this day March 27, 2002. The fortunate son of New York multi-millionaire Stanford Bach, Arthur led a charmed life, never growing out of the bubbly baths he so loved as a boy, the same baths drawn in adult years by personal valet John Gielgud — who, it should be noted, never washed Arthur’s “dick” for him despite offering to do so in direct violation of the Hollywood ratings board. The top-hatted Arthur was the original lovable lush, pounding away on his penthouse piano and nursing mimosas until proper cocktail hour — noonish — and then galavanting about Manhattan in the back of his chauffeured limousine, yelling out the window, sword in hand, slurring insults at older pedestrians with great comic effect, back in a time when getting plastered in public didn’t earn you scorn on the Twitternet® . Arthur was in line to inherit his father’s $750 million fortune, but with the stipulation that he marry upper-crusty attorney Ann Kelsey of L.A. Law firm McKenzie, Brackman. Alas, the besotted Arthur set his bleary eyes on shop-lifting Queens waitress and former Cabaret singer Linda “Liza” Marolla, which put a wrench in the marriage plans to Kelsey, who went back to L.A. to marry attorney Stuart Markowtiz. Gielgud kicked the bucket, Arthur plunged into a depression and onto a bender that Liza was certain she could pull him out of him because that’s what the love of a codependent can do for a chemically-imbalanced partner. Lo and bloody behold, Arthur’s Granny came through with the inheritance money after all, and the good times commenced to re-rolling. Arthur and Liza married and adopted a child after Liza assured the woman at the adoption agency that everything would be fine with Arthur’s drinking, it wasn’t a progressive illness, he just had a little stagger in his swagger. No sooner did they sign the bloody adoption papers that Liza discovered she was pregnant, all of which sounds like something right out of one of those infernal Hollywood rom-coms starring Richard Dreyfus and Neil Simon’s wife or Matthew McConaughey and Goldie Hawn’s daughter. Anyway, today we remember the party hearty boy Arthur Bach. He got lost between the moon and New York City and the best that he could do was fall in love. Happy Anni-hearse-ary™, Chumley.

Scream Police

Oh, for the love of Peter and Gordon, calm yourself, young citizen! Had I known the facility was inhabited, I wouldn’t have stepped from the Jacuzzi® branded bubble tub flaunting my naked exposure. Crikey, you act as though you’ve never had a stranger of some years stand before you hand-toweling his soaking wet behind and dangling extremities. ‘Tis an innocent mistake, darlin', so let's dial down the shrieking. Look on the bright side: Some day you’ll be boastin' to other, flat-iron-haired birds that you caught a public official out of uniform, in the Full Monty as it 'twere, and it ‘twasn’t all bad. Now be a dear and pass me the talcum on your way out the door. And keep your eyes up here where I can see them, luv.

Lowballed

Celebrating a Deathday™: Our beloved Bloomfield’s ballsack. ‘Twas on this day — March 24, 2014 — that we carted off the poor buggerer to go under the knife the doggie doc. The sack whacking was uneventful, as these things go — easy for me to say, as I remain in possession of my family jewelry — but whilst the procedure went off without a hitch — if not a stitch — recovery wasn’t as “lickety-split.” Not long after the anesthesia wore off, our ball-less best friend was overcome with quiet puzzlement followed by full blown despair. By the time we arrived home, he was sulking around as though he lost his two bestest buddies. Bloody hell. ‘Twas a long road back — with goodly measures and patience and encouragement — along with many readings of author Anne Welsh Guy’s "Good-bye, Testicles" — before ‘ole Bloomfield was back in the saddle, humping the leg on the davenport and dumping on the neighbor’s lawn at will. He no longer swayed below — to and fro — but his familiar swagger had returned! Thanks again to the ball cutters at Goddard Veterinarian Group in London, and a special doff of the nurse’s cap to Ms. Anne Welsh Guy for a sensitive subject, “well handled." Go nads!

Wholly Inappropriate Matrimony

As I Understand It™, 'twas on this day in history (March 23, 2013), that 8-year-old Sanele Masilela tied the knot with a South African woman 53 years his elder. No mention what kind of knot, as I can’t imagine Master Masilela possessing the skillsets necessary to tie his bloody shoelaces, let alone a proper Windsor® necktie. Mind you, I’ve got nothing but mad respect for the silver-suited Sanele, a good-looking lad who’s got more game at 8 than the average Twitternet™ arsewipe does at 20. When you got game, you bloody well do what needs doing, even if it means marrying someone half a century older than you, her husband and four children be damned. You’re a playa' and there will be no playa' hatin', nor trash talkin’, in a traditional Tshwane wedding! For her part, 61-year-old bride Helen Shabangum says she’s happy with the arrangement, a pre-ordained, ceremonial one along the lines of mullet-headed construction hotshot Larry Fortensky marrying Elizabeth Taylor or Rock Hudson taking secretary Phyllis Gates to be his bribe. Shabangum claims that her husband and grown children are accepting of the public nuptials, as they have been assured there will be no knockin' of the marital boots with young Sanele. If you’re wondering how such a union could happen in this enlightened age of "Teen Mom" and/or "Bridalplasty," I’m told the wedding was arranged and decreed by Sanele's dead relatives, which goes to show what can happen if you listen to your bloody relations, living or deceased.

Jesus H. Christ

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history — March 22,1948 — that the foremost authority on the abbreviated life and times of one Jesus H. Christ — musical biographer Andrew Floyd Webber — was born in Kensington. Webber began his churchly career as a choir castrato, shattering stained glass windows like so many Chris Martins of his day, before turning to writing and composing. Several of his trademark musical offerings have spun the heads of the fancy-pantsers in London’s West End, including the stories of Evita "Madonna" Ciccone, Morris the Cat, the Phantom of the Opera and the aforementioned tale of Mr. Christ. While the “Holy” Bible — a.k.a., the Koran — is considered to be the definitive source of all things Galilean, Webber's "Jesus H. Christ Superstar" was notable for its controversial depiction of Jesus as a guitar-playing minstrel who partook of carnal pleasures with local strumpet Mary Margaret Magdalene. In courtroom proceedings, Magdalene claimed that she "did not know how to love him, what to do, how to move him” but Magdalene’s father, prosecuting attorney Pontius Pilate, proved otherwise. As evidenced by the crown of thorns atop his flowing mane, Mr. Christ paid a heavy fine for his misdeeds. One wonders how Webber was able to bring this tale to stage without suffering the wrath of Christ’s vengeful father — Mr. God — but he threw caution to the wind, casting Deep Purple-hued heavy metal shrieker Ian Gillen in the lead role. Webber later dared to write a Utah-pian sequel of sorts to “Superstar" — “Jesus, Mary and Joseph (and the Amazing Technicolor-hued Dreamcoat)” — starring Donny Osmond, or possibly American Idol™ finalist Ace Young, in the role of Joseph Smith. A blessed, happy day to Andrew Floyd Webber, Citizen Superstar!

Ewing, Oiled

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history — March 21, 1980 — that inebriated, which is to say, annhilated, American oil scion John Ross “J.R.” Ewing was shot, resulting in a near calamitous drop in the price of Ewing Oil® stock, which in turn generated consumers fears over oil shortages, leading to long lines at petrol station pumps, even for motorists who were just stopping in for directions or to use the toilet or pick up a Slim Jim® meat stick and Yoohoo™ chocolate-flavored drink. The police manhunt for J.R.’s gunman exceeded that which followed the other infamous Dallas shooting, the tragic killing of President John F. Kennedy, and dopey Americans were held captive by the unending media coverage and street vendors hawking poorly typeset t-shirts emblazoned with “Who Shot J.R.?” The answer would come eight or nine months later, on November 21, with the gunman turning out to be a gun gal: Mary Crosby, a sometime actress and full-time mistress of the amoral Mr. Ewing was found in possession of the Smoking “no relation to the website” Gun. Complicating matters was the fact that Crosby was Ewing’s sister-in-law, which couldn’t have made his wife, former Miss Texas pageant queen Sue Ellen Shepard, or mother Barbara Bel Geddes, very happy, and likely led to all sorts of seating issues at family dinner gatherings. Crosby was also the daughter of child-shamer and orange juice spokesman Bing Crosby, golfer to the stars. Assisting in the arrest of Ms. Crosby was karate-chopping conspiracy theorist Walker Texas Ranger. 

Let's Get This Party Started!

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history — March 20, 1854 — that the GOP of the U-S-of-A-men was organized in Ripon, Wisconsin, an otherwise humble dot on the glove box Rand® still referred to as "Grande Ole' Party Central" by proud locals. The shindig was said to be a spur of the moment sort of thing, with two hung-over landowners from the north side of the tracks ringing a couple private equity arsewipes from the south to see if they were interested in pooling their monies and resources — half-drunk ale keggers, leftover beef jerky and weeks-old cheese wheels — for a party to celebrate the verbal equinox or something. As they talked over the crackling telecom wires — the telephone wasn't invented until 1876, but let's not quibble — they began to envision something bigger than the usual mid-century dust-up, rather, an affair that would find right-minded revelers gathering together to have their slurred voices heard for the good of the “republic” — every know-it-all from across the state, maybe even some funny talkers from up in Minnesota and a few flatheads from down there in Illinois — excepting Chicago, that was Al Capone territory — they'd all come together for a “big tent party” — a “real publican party” — no “naggers” — nagging spouses, one trusts — just honest-to-goodness, non-kosher-salt-of-the-earth types who all agreed the country was goin' to hell in a hand-sewn basket and what the citizenry needed was flag-wavin' camaraderie, healthy doses of medicinal barley and robust speechifying of the sort that Wm. Maplethorpe O’Reilly administered nightly at the No Spin Saloon. And so ‘twas. The party was said to be a real barnburner, back in a time when barns really did burn down, especially if things got outta hand and farm hands commenced to torching the methane releases of unsuspecting dairy cows. Alrighty almighty then! On our next trek down the rabbit hole of history, we’ll visit the birth of the "Democratic" Party®, an earnest, if insufferable, collective not unlike the Ripon-Roarin' "Republican" Party, only with more gender confusion, beverage pretension, lactose intolerance, lumberjack beards, nostril piercings, bleeding hearts, artichoke hearts and other organically-harvested vegan fare, which is to say, marijuana.

Lady, When You're With Me I'm Smiling, All The Whiling

Halt! Hold it right there! If you’ve come here looking for topless photos of our beloved Duchess of Middleton — Lady Kate — you can bloody well bugger off! Go on! Get your slobbering jollies off elsewhere — a French magazine shop would be a good start — as I will not be a party to this naughty business in any way, shape or form, no matter how appealing the form of this royal beauty and young mum 40-some years my junior — slender and shapely, endowed but not overly so, modest yet hardly prim, her knee-high riding boots inching towards her supple, exposed thighs, the curve of her hips and arch of her back so exquisite, her jawline, sharp yet gentle, her fulsome lips and apple blossom cheeks aglow, her eyes the windows to her bedroom, if not her soul. No, I will not be a party to any of this tawdry talk! And if you elect to do your civic duty and direct this Internet Patrolman (IP) to a website that has captured the comely Kate in a private moment half-dressed on the rooftop of her villa, and if there is video footage in addition to the still photography that you'd have me inspect, I will do so as it is in my purview and if I get my hands on the paparazzo responsible for this indecency and he consents to turn over the photos to me for further inspection — with my promise of immunity — I will do so in the service of Lady Kate and husband Prince Harry or William or Albert in a bloody tin can.