Little Dicked Hater

Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ to stiff-arm saluting stain on humanity, Adolpho Hitler, who entered a state of extended rigor on April 30, 1945, thanks to the steadied, point-blank firing precision of his single-action Colt 45 handgun, ending an otherwise uneventful game of Russian Roulette with his clueless, cowardly wife of two days, Eva Brawn. (Mrs. Hitler would also die at her own brawny hands, thanks to the quick-acting, life-cessating cyanide tablet that scientists designed for the dislikes of her.) Hitler was a mama's boy at heartless, a bad seed who grew to become a malcontented teen fascinated with the unfounded notion that he was some sort of supreme Aryan being. (Spoiler alert: He wasn't.) After dropping out of technical school, the chronic self-abuser spent a year locked in his bedroom ejaculating into his grandmum's stockings whilst growing a sad toothbrush moustachio (pictured) which he thought would endear him to the hipster crowd in Vienna, but it backfired pathetically and sent the tormented loser packing for the German Luftwaffle® — well, army, but we rather like saying Luftwaffle® — after which, he became an unlikely, outspoken member of the Nazi party and, in time, a brown-shirted jackbooted Deutschbag™ without peer — or friends — somehow rising through the ranks until he was the rotting head of a bloodthirsty beast responsible for the genocide of many millions of innocent men, women and children. Nice goin', little dicked hater. European Jews far and away suffered the majority of losses in Hitler's Holocaust — upwards of 6 million — but others were targets of his misanthropy, including homosexuals, gypsies, Jehovah's Witnesses, the handicapped, and any aproned German who couldn't make a decent shnitzel. Homely and homophobic, Hitler was also a failed artist, a tedious memoirist and a sexual fetishist given to arousal by urination. We celebrate this anti-Semitic deathmonger's deathday by pissing on his grave.

Ellen Comes Out!

The news aggravators are reporting that television's Ellen “came out” on this day in history (April 29, 1997). No word on how long she'd been inside or what she was up to during that time — whether she was home-schooling the Walton grandchildren or tending to a sick mister driven mad from delirium tremens or whether she had taken to her own bed, peddling the monthly cycle as 'twere. Whatever she was up to, the thin details afforded the citizenry with the revelation "Ellen Comes Out" hardly shed adequate candlelight on the matter and 'tis why this uniformed official remains vigilant on his watch. Methinks a more substantive Twitternet™ reporting — from the inky quill of Yours Truly, Dooley® — would paint a picture with decidedly more detail: “Ellen came out today! She was wearing a cheerful, season-appropriate housecoat, a straw hat and carrying a pitcher of lemonade to her sonny and his woodworkers in the mountain garage. The neighbors were thrilled to see Ellen come out and waved as she headed downhill gayly into town for afternoon tea and a visit to Ike Godsey’s store to pick up some milled flour, salt water taffy 'n the weekly broadsheet. On her return home, Ellen stopped at the Baldwin sisters for some of "the Recipe" to sooth her mister’s ills. We have no knowledge of what tomorrow will bring, but Ellen did, indeed, "come out" on this day!” Bloody good for you, Ellen! 'Twas an outing worthy of a Time® magazine cover and one that marked the beginning of continued outings, with others fearlessly following you out into the village square and we're all the better for it. Come out, come out, whomever you are!

A Rose By Another Name

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas 30 years ago on this day — April 28 or 29, 1990 — that Sweet Child O' '50's rock 'n roll legend Don or Phil Everly, Erin Everly (pictured right, or possibly left) married scrawny hair metalian Axel F. Rose (pictured left, or possibly right) of the band Hollywood Rose — later, Guns ‘N Roses, later Velvet Revolver, later Slash’s Snakepit, later Duff McKagan’s Loaded, later Izzy Stradlin’ and the Ju Ju Hounds, later the Chinese Democracy or possibly Guns N' Roses 2.0 — in a civil ceremony in the land of lifetime unions, Las Vegas USA — aka, Paradise City, where the grass is green and the girls are pretty. The bride wore black spandex, which was no reflection on the status of her virginity — status denied — but rather the right choice for someone of her skin tone, especially alongside her tattooed and shirtless intended. A former Wilhelmina Model who’s legs-up-to-here and firm backside appeared in many print adverts for saucy jeanmaker Jordache®, Erin, the apple of Don or Phil’s eye, would soon become the tomato cherry of Rose’s evil eye. According to Rose, Erin had a smile that seemed to remind him of childhood memories where everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky. When he saw her face, she took him away to that special place, but if he stayed too long, he feared breaking down and crying. (Bloody hell, Axel.) Rose went on to say that Erin had eyes of the bluest skies as if they thought of rain, but he hated to look into those eyes to see an ounce of pain. Her hair reminded him of a warm, safe place where as a child he’d hide and pray for the thunder and the rain to quietly pass him by, until Pa come home drunk from the factory again and kicked his lazy Hoosier arse out the door to get a job. Alas, ‘twas “Bye Bye Love” a mere nine months into their blessed union as Axel F.’s attention turned to Victoria’s Secretive™ model Stephanie Seymour or possibly actress Pamela Anderson or maybe Heather Locklear, both of whom were married to Tommy Lee or possibly Richie Sambora. Today, Erin Everly has two or three sweet childs of her own, all likely unaware that mum was featured in the music video for “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” which has been removed from YouTube because the account associated with that video has been terminated.

A Bump In The Rocky Road

Today in “Ask An Internet Patrolman™,” Flora Burkhart of Arkansas, USA writes, “Dear Constable Dooley, last night at 10 p.m. or there 'bouts, I was headin' home from the Kum & Go off Highway 59 with a pint of Edy’s® Slow Churned™, when I sorta sideswiped a pick-up parked near the foothills of the Ozark Mountain. The driver and his lady friend were hollerin' mad, but  I didn't see nuthin' wrong with the truck that weren't already wrong with it — there weren't no bumpers hangin' off it or nuthin' — so I figured "no harm, no foul" — as we say at the mattress factory — and hightailed it outta' there. I swear on a stack of Mama's best bibles that I weren't hittin' & runnin', I just wanted to keep the Rocky Road ice cream I bought — for my girls, my boyfriend and his son from his third marriage — from melting all over the goldarned seat covers. Well, wouldn't you know, the owner of the truck tracked me down and is fixin' to sue my ass, and the police hauled me in and suspended my license. Was I wrong to flee the scene?” Thank you for writing, Flora. Rest assured, you were not wrong to hurry home. Indeed, you did the right thing in attempting to salvage the sweet, cooling dessert treat! Delivering all the real cream taste of regular ice cream, but with half the calories, Edy’s “Slow Churned, Rich & Creamy®” is the real deal. Top shelf all the way, darlin’! Compared to the low-calorie “ice milk” offerings in the days of yore, Edy’s Slow Churned is a delightful rarity not to be squandered. Furthermore, a quick scanning of the Google™ informs me that all Edy’s products at Kum & Go stores are “Buy One Get One Free” this week, which means you were likely concerned about a second pint in the car melting. Perhaps this was a flavor — say, English Toffee or Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough — you had hoped to keep to yourself. Maybe you were sampling from the pint — and who could bloody blame you — as you came around the bend and clipped the pick-up thoughtlessly parked in your path. Methinks those two "hosebags" — I believe is the term you use for Miley Cryus and her ilk — were up to no good at that hour — hollerin' prior to your arrival, if you catch my meaning — and are lucky you don’t sue them for public indecency. Tell 'em to sod off and if they give you any more business, I’ll approach the local authorities on your behalf. Happy Trails, which is to say, “Rocky Road,” darlin'! Yours Truly, Constable Dooley®.

Cat, Scratched

If Memory Swerves™, ‘twas on this day in music history (April 26, 1967), that Yours Truly, Dooley® found himself policing a legendary, if oddball, assemblage at the Capitol Theater, 'cross the way in Cardiff. Concerts at the Cappy were ragtag 'n bobtailed as it 'twere 'n 'twas 'specially so this evening. The Fabulous — if forgotten — Walker Brothers — jugglers or acrobats, I can’t bloody recall — opened the affair, followed by a trio of unspectacular buggerers we hustled off stage in short order. Next up was geetar sensation Jim “Jimini” Hendrix, a likeable, left-handed gunslinger playing with his teeth, bloodying his gums in embarrassing fashion and such. Headlining was the unlikely, golden-throated British army brat Arnold George Dorsey — aka, Englebert Humperdink, go 'n look it up — a crooner as famous for the manly endowment in his velvetine corded trousers as the velvety tenor of his vocal chords. But before the swiveling mutton-chopped hipster took the stage, Marleyborne, London's own Stevie Georgiou — “Cat Stevens” — had his turn in the spotlight. I first met Stevie when he was a young Catholic or possibly Muslim schoolboy, as his family operated a Greek restaurant on Shaftesbury Avenue and they were always kindly to a hungry foot soldier walking the beat. I had promised Stevie’s father Stavros to look after the lad at the big gig and so I did, knocking on his dressing room door before show time. Stevie was hit with terrible stage fright and told me with all certainty that he would be leaving the music business to become a food broker. I knew him to be a lad of some musical talentry, so I hoped to dissuade him of that dismal food servicing notion and offered counsel to that end: "It's not time to make a change, Stevie,” I began. “Just relax and take it easy. You're still young, that's your fault, there's so much you have to know. Settle down, find a girl — possibly American actress Patti D'Arbanville — if you want you can marry. Look at me, I am a old, but I'm happy." He began to strum his guitar and his eyes got to twinkling. "I was once like you are now, my son,” I continued with something of a paternal spirit, “And I know that it’s not easy to be calm when you’ve found something going on. But take your time, think a lot. Why, think of everything you’ve got, young citizen! For you will still be here tomorrow, but your dreams may not.” And at that, master Stevens was up and out the door, Cat-like, and proceeded to steal the show in remarkable — which is to say paisley-topped, bell-bottomed — fashion.

Resurrecting the Shuffle

Random Memorandum™ to the beleaguered, quaran-teamed citizenry 'round the globe: Perilous times are upon us; no matter one's religulous affiliation or political fibrillation, the Corona® brand viral contagion has had a devastating impact on our health and economies. Indeed, only the quality of our curb-sided, non-contact carryout restaurant service is carrying on unabated. The resulting dispirit amongst the working ranks is evident. As a uniformed official charged with policing the vast and serpentine Misinformation Superhighway®, I see the melancholy etched on the weary faces of your dating app profiles and the despair inked on the distended bellies and halter-topped bosoms of the holstered Tom, Dick and Harriets sitting out front their houses on social media, whilst perfectly good public houses remain shuttered, their video gaming machines unplugged, their toilets unclogged. 'Tis concerning business to be sure, but whilst there is little Yours Truly Dooley® can do from a vaunted perch at a faraway station house, I cannot sit by idly and allow a deathly pallor to march unchecked across the visage of your once great lands. It appears nothing short of Resurrection will be necessary to put a proper Shuffle back into your step, ‘tis why I propose a mass revisiting of the steady beat and jaunty rhythms of the great “Resurrection Shuffle,” by one-hit-wonder-whatever-became-of Ashton Gardner and Dyke. If you were fortunate to have seen these randy lads back in the day, you surely included them on your list of "10 Concerts You’ve Attended and 1 You Spent Outside The Facility, Sans Billfold and Ticket Stub, Heaving Strong Drink on the Pavement." Messrs. Tony Ashton, Chauncey Gardner and Van "Dyke" Parks were Brits, but their raucous foot-stomper enjoyed a lengthy stay atop the Billboard® charts on all sides of the bloody ponds. These fulsome mustachioed horn-and-dope-blowers were packing more than visible maleness in their skin tight Velveteen™ trousers; they had a groove you could dance to and a lead long-hair who provided detailed instruction: Blow a little kiss to the woman next door, put your hands on your hips, being cautious not to let your backbone slip, thrust out your arse end, stick out your tongue, step on the pedal, throw your hair back and flash a peaceable sign like you just don't care, as you're already "nice and high" or something. On and on it went, whatever it meant, haha! Methinks a careful examination of this exuberant 70's novelty will surely resurrect your country's flagging morale, if not morality. Go now: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VFCoaNjZqUM 

The Olson Sister: Mad Woman of the Mad Men Era

Random Memorandum™ to Madison Avenue copy wrangler Margaret “Peggy” Olson of advert agents Sterling, Cooper, Draper and What's-His-Name: We've been following your career trials and errors on the youTube reality TV streams with great interest, Citizen Ad Crafter. As an esteemed alumnus of Miss Deaver's secretarial school, you are living proof that a taskmistress of modest beauty and above-average talentry can make it in the Mad Man’s world! (Watch your back, Mary Wells-Rich Greene!) With the exception of your one-week marriage to bespectacled oddity Fred "Armistead" Maupin of Portlandia, your steely, hair-sprayed resolve have served you — and all the fartisans at the firm, excepting the doddering, shoeless chieftain Bertrand Cooper – well! Your keen selling instincts on behalf of Fleischmann's Oleo margarine and Topaz hosiery continue to impress, while your Heinz Beans® efforts in seasons prior remain of particular interest to Yours Truly Dooley™, a “porkened” bean man from back in the day! We oft enjoy beans on toast here at the station house, the toast providing a hearty “stage" for the “bean ballet” commercial you so elegantly proffered — If Memory Swerves™ — to one Teresa Heinz Kerry. A note of caution, however: As delightful as your storyboard appeared, methinks there is potential for confusion between baked kidney beans and Mexican “jumping” beans, the ill-tasting cousin of the bean family. ‘Tis not a “leap” of logic to envision the lowly bean relation “jumping” into the chorus line of beans, an impostor infiltrating the saucy mixture at commercials' end. I have no doubt that you’ll find a way to "dance" around this obstacle — perhaps a reworking of the opera “Porky and Bess”? — as your brains and bodice have never failed you, nor the fashion-challenged blind dates and neighboring dolts who fall into your loving arms. A doff of the pillbox hat to you, Peggy Olson. You put the "ad" in ladybird, online lady friend!

Great Julius Casear's Ghost!

Bust out the musty period costumes, strike up the minstrel band and commence to awkwardly misquoting and misinterpreting Sonnets 1 through 154! 'Tis bloody Shakespeare’s birthday! The original Will. I. Am., William Shakespeare was born April 23, 1564 in Stratford-upon-Avon. While some University types suspect that this is not the actual, factual date of his birth, but rather an observed one, I say: What bloody difference does it make to a man four hundred years dead? We’re having a party and the court jesters are atop their unicycles, set to juggle! The birthday boy was born the son of a successful glove-maker, back when glove-making was still a popular major in the school syllabus and promised one gainful employment. The third child of eight, young William showed an early interest in animal husbandry, but he grew to take a human wife, who later protested being a writer’s widow when Shakespeare set up shop in coffeehouses for days on end, availing himself of the free transistor radio signal — the WIFI™ of the day — and scribbling incessantly on college-ruled parchment paper. A versatile, prolific poet and playwright whose works have been the inspiration for at least one horrifying Franco Zeffirelli film and have been translated into every major language, Shakespeare has long been considered the greatest writer in the pre-Twitternet™ era, an honour that now falls to the innumerable bloggers, phony memoirists and would-be authorists looking to self-publish their material on Kindle®. To the conspiracy theory types — such as straight-jacketed Australian tough guy Mel Gibson and deranged-but-thankfully-deceased cable news screwball Andrew "None too" Brightbart — who posit that there was no actual William Shakespeare, but rather, a collective of writers in a shared Regus® office space with a soulless conference room and bogus receptionist, I submit ‘twould have been news to mother Mary, who endured a lengthy labor sans epidural, given only a wooden bullet to bite on, and who was said to have exclaimed, “Beware the Ides of March, or possibly April!” as the Bard exited her body.

Fired Writer Now, Magically, Freelance One

Employment-challenged citizens on either side of the pond could do worse than follow the lead of our stateside representative in Chicago, who's experiencing something of a career rebirth in the Twitternet™ bored room known as SlinkedIn®. The recently terminated inkspiller has almost magically transformed himself from “Fired Writer” into “Freelance Writer” with a series of otherworldy strokes on the keyboard. “I’m writing my own story now,” the curriculum vitae conjuror tell his long-suffering missus between life-sustaining pulls on his CamelBak® Water Chute. Brilliantine, Citizen Terminato! The fired-which-is-to-say-freelance writer’s nuanced resume boasts time with various and sun-dried advert shops in his beloved Second-Tier City™, yet abbreviates or altogether buries his tenure at less-heralded, which is to say, sub-urban ones. "Don't ask, don't tell the truth," he adds before having another go at his profile page, cunningly neglecting to mention the year he graduated from University, though no one is falling for that one! At any (day) rate, in his capacity as "Freelance Writer" at the “Home Office” — “Guest Room, if you will, but I won't” — the once-salaried earner readies himself to brave a freelance hellscape of trade ads, carousel ads, pre-scroll ads, e-mail blastings, corporate videos and soul-crushing social tedium, all whilst banging out his oddball satiric blog, which he "publishes" under a curious non de plume. “I think it’s a good strategy to have my best writing attributed to someone other than myself,” he says of the blog. In addition to “Freelance Writer,” the overly-seasoned scribe has experimented with such inventive titles as “Creative Partner,” "Creative Content Lead" and even “Executive Creative Director,” a position that has proven elusive to the sometime CD, yet one he couldn't bring himself to claim, even on SlinkedIn, a sort of OldFaceBook™ for all manner of growed-up arsewipes. The award-winner-in-a-previous-millenium has begun launching his portfolio slink out into the recesses of the creative recruitment vortex and unabashedly contacting former agencies and associates about project work. “Rates are negotiable,” he says on the advice of several SlinkedIn influencers, themselves noted resume fabricators. Alrighty almighty, then, Chumley! Perhaps a friend in our vast and serpentine network will hear of your plight and toss you a MilkBone® via private message here at the station house. In the meantime, matey, do remember that a proper working gent — networking or otherwise — is always at his hygienic best. Whiskers waxed, nostrils plucked, choppers brushed and ballsack trussed. GodSpeedo®! 

Fire In The Bumhole

“It is universally well known, that in digesting our common food there is created in the bowels of human creatures, a great quantity of wind. That the permitting of this silent but deadly air to escape into the atmosphere is offensive to civilized gatherings of mixed, unmarried company where pleasantries are exchanged and moist Sara Lee® crumbcakes are served. That well-bred citizens — which is to say, those not residing in British industrial havens and the entirety of the American south — desiring to avoid giving offense, forcibly restrain the efforts of nature to discharge or 'break wind' until they find themselves in an area of sufficient open acreage — downwind, if you will, and why bloody wouldn't you? — at which point emission is encouraged and, indeed, applauded when set to flame.” — A Random Memorandum™ from U.S. Founding Father and gastroenterology enthusiast Benjamin Franklin, with a flatulatory assist from Yours Truly Dooley®.

Ironic Fucker's Hat

Random Memorandum™ to redneck celebrity calling card, the Ironic Trucker Hat: Forgive the belated nature of my correspondence. I had hoped your fashionista cred would be short-lived, but apparently you’re here for the duration. Let me start this sit-down by saying that the company you keep — the hipster dipshits and greaseball douchebagalos — do not impress me. The “bros and hos” in your “posse” are about as likeable — and random — as the dogshite droppings out 'round the trailer park. Furthermore, your pithy, filthy slogans — “Free mustache rides” and “Spank my monkey” — may strike a chord with carnival ride operators, but not decent citizenry at large. Having said that, Ironic Trucker Hat, I must admit to being admiring of your roots. Your beginnings as a promotional head-covering of tractor-pullers and long-haulers is a point of pride. Many a seed n' feed company spread the word about their operations by assigning their branding marks to the cushioned foam above your bill. Your breathable mesh backing provided welcome relief from the heat, whilst protecting the craniums of hard-working Joes — and Jethros — from the elements. 'Twas honourable work. One can't blame your forefathers for butt-wipes like Kid Rock, Anthony Kiedis and Asstain Kutcher. If you could see your way to disassociate from the aforementioned butt-wipery, I'll stand corrected. Until then, Ironic Trucker Hat, bugger off. P.S. Tell your mates — the ironic T-shirts, motor chopper belt buckles and confederate flagkerchiefs — to sod off, as well. Yours Truly, Constable Dooley.

Paging Mr. Spock, or rather, Not Spock

Yours Truly Dooley® has been tasked by that "Four Weddings & Two or Three Funerals" buggerer, Notting Hill bookseller Will Thacker, to list the "Ten Books That Have Stuck With Me (Like Dogshite on The Boot Heels of My Police-Issued Dr. Martens)". Whilst I'll confess to preferring an evening at the picture show to the tiresome task of plodding through a storyline on the printed page, there has been the occasional read that has left something of an impression on me, not unlike the indentation reading glasses leave atop one’s nostrils. Alrighty Almighty! Here, then, is our Top 10 to the bloody best of our recollecting:

1. Ulysses — James Joyce (Haha! Just joking!)

1. Green Eggs and Honey Ham Off The Bone — Theodore Geisel
2. Encyclopedia Brown Shoe, Boy Detective — Donald J. Sobol
3. Doctor Doolittle, Doctor’s Wife Dooless — Hugh Lofting
4. I Am, Or Was, Or Was Not Spock — Leonard Nimoy
5. How To Win Friends and Influence Shapely Female Associates — Dale Carnegie
6. The Hobbitt — John Ronald Randolph Robert Reginald Reuel Tolkien
7. Driving Miss Daisy, Stopping to Make Water — Hoke Colburn
8. Marmaduke: A Dog’s Life — Marmaduke, as told to Brad Anderson
9. (The Naughty Birds of) Peyton Place — Grace Metalious
10. Jonathon Livingston Seagull — Johann Sebastian Bach

Shameful!

Today in “Ask an Internet Patrolman™,” a query has rolled in on the station house wire from none other than avowed film memorabilia collector and retired Archbishop of Capetown, South Africa, Desmond Mpilo Tutu, who writes, “Your Eminence Dooley: Was the retribution paid the prostitutes “shameful,” as posited in the grindhouse classic, ‘Olga’s House of Shame’?” Brilliant question, your Bishopship! Indeed, the forced submission, ill-fitting leatherette costumes and poor quality Dollar Store® restraints all had a bloody shameful element to it. But methinks rightfully so! The ladies in Madame Olga's employ were brazenly servicing johns on the side and cutting her out of the take. Who did they think was keeping the lights on in the abandoned warehouse brothel? Who was paying to run the unvented space heaters in the all-but-barren bedrooms? Who was it that hung the pest control strips, toweled off the sheets and Febrezed® the pillowcases once monthly? Bloody Olga, that's who! While I — as you, my churchly brutha from another mutha — am troubled by the sinfulness of the profession — the dirty shenanigans and gravity-defying couplings — I'm guided by the universal truth that lets the punishment fit the crime. These bird were biting the hand that feeds. Shame. On. Them.

Thight For Thor Eyes

Celebrating a Deathday™: Fair-haired heavy-metal seafarer and long-winded key-stroker Thor Heyerdahl sailed off to that leather-appointed tiki hut in the sky on this day, April 17, 2002. Born in the faraway land of Larvik, Norway, the son of a bloody brewmaster named Thor, Heyerdahl got it in his head from a young age that he was somehow descended from the loins of the hammer-wielding Norse God of Thunder and Lightning. I don’t know what it is about blokes named after mythological creatures — Adonis, Hercules, Elvis — but it always triggers flights of delusion and bravado befitting a goddamned Jean “Clawed” Van Damme movie. ‘Twould be one thing if a lad named Thor grew up to become an actual hammer-wielder, which is to say a union Norwegian carpenter, but no, they’re always of the mind that they’re on an avenging conquest to save — or sail — the earth, whilst heading up a heavy metal band and “role playing” with their tattooed galfriends during the rainy season. I would caution any fathers-to-be flipping through one of those infernal baby-naming books to resist the temptation to bestow upon your offspring the name Thor. Not unless you hope to see him take leave of his senses and to the high seas on a series of rickety bamboo rafts, risking life and limb as a real-life Captain Bloody Nemo, albeit one given to snapping Polaroid Instagramatic™ photos and pounding away on a Smith Corona® portable for a propering record of the trip. Somehow Master Heyerdahl and his studded banana hammocks survived his underworldly adventures and he self-published a series of tomes, including "Kon-Tiki," "The Ra Expedition" and "The Adventures of the Bubba Gump Shrimp Company," along with a vinyl record album entitled "Thrust." He lived to a ripened — which is to say, leathery — old age and enjoyed recognition from GoodReads®, That Metal Show™ and, naturally, boating enthusiasts in the Pacific region, with the likely exceptions of snooty Frenchman Jacques Cousteau and Lloyd Bridges, Sea Hunter and captain of the Argonaut. Happy Anni-Hearse-ary®, well-oiled and endowed Citizen Seaman!

Cover Yourselfie™

Halt! Hold it right there, Old Navy® blue headbanded insurance industry spokeswoman! I don’t know who put you up to this — or what you hope to gain by it — but I won’t have you flashing your exposures on my watch! Have you no sense of the decorum demanded of an advert mascot? Ask your bare naked self, would Palm Olive® dish soap figurine Madge the Manicurist™ have unbuttoned her smock for the leering eyes of 70's era self-abusers? Would toilet-tissue titan George Whipple have dropped his drawers and exposed his frontal assemblage for the shoppers in aisle number nine? Would the Marlboro Man™ have trotted into the valley in a pair of arse-less chaps? Bloody hell if I know, haha! If they had come of age in a time when everyone and their hoochie mama is compelled to photograph themselves stepping out of the bath, maybe they, too, would've shot the moon, so to speak. That said, young Florence, your assertion that you have "nothing to hide" is an opinion some will take exception to, therefore our web administrator Sheffield has taken the liberty of covering your, shall we say, flesh pupils. After the photo shoot, we suggest you cover yourselfie™ more properly, or at very least, don the white apron and the blue Chuck Taylor® All-Stars so the lads can have a look as you walk out the door.

Making Life More Taxing

Random Memorandum™ to Messrs. Henry & Richard Block: Tip top of the  Tax Day morning, gents. The station house formally congratulates you and your stable of certified — which is to say, high-school graduated — number-crunchers for surviving another perilous tax season counseling the single stupidest assemblage of men and women in human history — math-challenged American citizens, haha. We have it on good authority that when the last of the donuts are devoured and the very last of the 1040 Forms are shipped to the Industrial Revenue Service (IRS) at 5 PM (pencils) sharp, your pop-up Preparation H&R Centers will undergo their annual transformation into Party Central, as staid, accounting wallflowers commence to tapping the domestic beer kegs, spiking the punch bowl, kicking off their heels, dropping their drawers and photocopying their bare derrieres with "wreck less" abandon. Which begs the question: What happens after bloody April 15th, after the last of the paperwork is filed and customers are no longer lined at your door? One needn't be an associate-degreed taxation authority to surmise that when operators hang "Gone Fishin'" signs on stripped mall doors, cash-flow spigots are monkey-wrenched shut until next year. Many months of squandered income-generation doesn’t sound like a business plan to Yours Truly Dooley™, so allow me to offer a suggestion: If the H&R Block brothers were to seamlessly transition from tax-ation to tax-idermy experts, your coffers would be filled year ‘round! Think of it, lads. You’ll still be in the “tax” business, so you won't be "watering down the brand,” as the marketing dimwits would have it. But rather than stuffing envelopes, you’ll be stuffing animals. Whether it’s a dead doggie, a birdie that flew into the plate glass or the weekend hunting kill, taxidermy will breath new life into the deceased and into the H&R Block business! I await your response to my query promptly on the 16th of April. Bravo and Brilliantine, Citizen Numerologists!

All O'er Board!

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history — April 14, 1912 — a mere four days after the U.S.S. Titanic departed on her maiden voyage from New York City (“The Big Apple”) to Southampton, England (“The Boiled Potato”), that a besotted passenger spilling his guts o'er the rail spotted the tip of the iceberg — as it 'twere — and attempted, mid hurl, to alert the Pinochle card-playing crew, who commenced to point and laugh and, alas, at 26:20, or twenty minutes after 14 o’clock (Ocean Standard Time), the ship commenced to plummet, culminating in the deaths of a near “boatload” — nautical for fifteen hundred — including two knuckleheads out on the bow and a small string band playing on deck for dramatic effect. Overlooked in the telling — and bloody retelling — of this infamous maritime disaster is the fact that seven hundred seafarers — primarily women and children, if you can imagine the racket on those lifeboats — found their way to safety, including “Stowaway” child star Shirley Temple, who went on to become a U.S. Senator or something. A fictionalized account of the event was brought to the screen in the Irwin Allen film-edy “The Poseidon Adventure,” starring Carol Lynley, a comely blond who stole our hearts in a tame-by-today’s-standards Playboy "nude-torial," Shelly Winters, a shrill, scene chewer-upper who drowneded in dramatic fashion to thunderous audience applause, Stella Stevens, from TV’s “Love, American Style,” happy/sad clown Red Skelton or possibly Buttons, barking French actor Gene Hackman and Navy stalwart Ernest "Marty" Borgnino in the role of Lt. Commander Quinton McHale. Not to be outdone, film director James “Cameron” Swayze recently resurrected the fallen vessel, or a 3-D replica of it, along with some bloody amulet off the ocean floor, for “Titanic II: Beyond the Poseidon Adventure,” a 2012 release starring large-headed actress-dater Leonardo DiCaprio and pint-sized, oft-married British annoyance Mary “Kate” Winslet. The sinking of the Titanic was also immortalized in the song “The Wretched Sir Edmund Fitzgerald,” sung from the point of view of the shite-face passenger by Canadian Tire® singer salesman Gordon Lightfoot or possibly Terry Jacks.

A Strapping Hung Man

Random Memorandum™ To A Post-Apocalyptic Zardozian® Warrior: As you gird your loins, don your thigh-high suedes and load bullets into your space-age six-shooter, know that there will be some among your radiation-scarred citizenry — the very Tomorrow People® you endeavor to protect — who’ll take exception to your appearance. They'll scoff at your ma-cheese-mo military ensemble, while admiring your statuesque form with envy. They’ll measure their own inferior offering against your visible prolongation and accuse you of wearing a sort of “strap-on.” They’ll examine the generous length and fullness of it and swear it’s a synthetic appendage — phony “baloney,” if you will. ‘Tis bollocks, of course. They will not have seen you showering in the soldier’s bathhouse, Softsoaping® your manly expanse and conditioning your Samson-like tresses with Aussie™ 2290 conditioner. They will not have witnessed you in full frontal and rear-ended exposure, for if they did, they would see 'tis not a manufactured, ersatz extension, but rather, A REAL BLOODY PONYTAIL! The braiding and cascading of it necessary to keeping your arm movements free — for proper karate chopping — and your sight lines clear. Pay the enviers no nevermind, futuristic fighting man. Bravo, Ponytail-Gunner™ of Tomorrow!

Coal Miner's Laughter

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day (April 12, 1932), that Lorettie Lynn was born a coal miner’s daughter in a cabin, on a hill, in Butcher Hollow. They were poor, but they had love, that’s one thing Daddy made sure of. He shoveled coal to make a poor man’s dollar. Daddy worked all night in the Van Lear coal mines, all day long a-hoein’ corn. Mommy rocked the babies at night and read the Bible by the coal oil light. And everything would start all over, come break o’ mornin’. Yes, she was proud to be a coal miner’s daughter! Daddy loved and raised eight kids on a miner’s pay, and when Lorettie turned 15, he walked his virginal-but-not-without-adolescent-sinfulness daughter down the aisle — which is to say front hall and into the parlour — and gave her hand and hymen in marriage to Tommy Lee Jones, who they called "Doolittle" cause he done little and who was later known to come home a-drinkin’ with a-lovin’ on his mind. (You ought know better than that, Doo!) The couple was blessed with three babychilds by the time Lorettie was 19 — six in all — and she became a grandmammy at age 29. In between milkin' them babies, feedin' the pigs and darnin' Boo's undies, Lorettie took to strummin' a geetar and scratchin' out song lyrics on the back of recipe cards. Next you thing you know, Lorettie was onstage at the Grand Ole Opry and Boo was gettin' busy with that floozy in the parking lot. Somehow the two kept it together for nearly 50 years, though not without lockin' horns and launchin' fryin' pans 'cross the kitchen of their love nest. Doo was turned away at heaven's gate in 1996. Lorettie Lynn, coal miner's daughter, songstress and fetching former child bride, is 88 years bold today. Happy birthday, darlin'!

Angel in the Centerfold

As I Understand It™, today is International Pet Day®, a day which celebrates either the four-legged, two-winged or blue-gilled loved ones in your life — boring, snoring! — or the enchanting swim-suited pin-ups — "pets," if you will, and why wouldn't you? — that men of moral fiber have for admired for generations. (We'll go with the latter, pin-up pets, householden pets be bloody damned, thank you very kindly, your arse.) Truth be well told, back in our day at the Academy, center-folded pets were pinned in lockers up and down the line and 'twas always on the up and up. The angels in our centerfolds were clad, never scantily-so, as you wouldn't want to see your sister in the altogether on your mate's wall, why would you expect it from someone else's? A shoulder bared, a calf flashed and a come hither look were all it took to compel a respectful urging — one might say, surging — but you didn't cross the line then, nor do gents today. The station house extends its best to all pets and their would-be heavy petting admirers.

Good God It's Friday

As I Understand It™, on this day in history — the day the Citizens Faithful call Good Friday® for reasons unbeknownst to me, as no day would be a good day for hauling a cross-beamed instrument of one's own death up a bloody hill — his majesty Jesus H. Christ was arrested at a local garden center in Gesthemane and sentenced to be crucified by Pontius Pilates, the original activist judge. Never one to pull punches, Pilates — the fifth Precept in the Province of Judea in the Court of the Crimson King — was said to have been reluctant to condemn Jesus and, indeed, washed his hands of the matter with a cheap, Amway® cake soap before giving over the hunky, hirsute Son of God and/or Man to the unruly crowd, whilst letting off the scoundrel Barabbas with a penance of ten “Hail Marys,” ten “Hour Fathers” and ten “Bless Us, Oh Lord and These Thy Animated Gifs.” Methinks that barmy bastard Pilates should have himself been fitted with a proper crown of thorns and nailed to a cross for his cowardice, but rather he continued his judgeship and later starred in a reality show that had plaintiffs and defendants sparring in the coliseum for coin and Goat's Head Soup. Today, the supreme weasel and eternal shame of the court system is best known for his namesake Pilates™ fitness system, a form of isometric exercise that he developed to help slaves concentrate on core body strength as they built the bloody pyramids or something. Meanwhile, ole' Jesus would have the last laugh — and the last of the center cut ham — by rising on the third day in time for a lavish champagne Easter brunch, upstaging the Peeps® Bunny himself. Bravo and Brilliantine™, Mr. Christ!

The scrubbing of the feet, the rubbing of the bum

As I Understand It™, today is Holy Thursday — a Holy Day of Obfuscation™, as the Catholicists would have it — a day that memorializes the washing of the feet prior to the Last Supper of fishes, loaves and watery Traitor Joe™ wine. The New Testamental Washman was none other than Citizen Savior Jesus of Nazarene™ and the hygenic offering was indeed a humbling gesture for the King of the Pews™, down on his knees giving the Gangster Disciples a cake-soaped scrubbing about their calloused, knobby extenditures, which went a long way to impressing them before they turned him over to “Punch Us” Pilate who nailed the poor bugger to a cross. In any event, the washing of the feet continues to symbolize servanthood and commitment to this day, as evidenced by the legion of jarheaded males who've taken to warshing the feet of their virgin-esque brides prior to carrying them 'cross the threshold for the ceremonial dropping of the trousers, rubbing of the bum and so forth and so on, or rather in. As I think of it, a hot soaking of this Internet patrolman’s bi-pedals would be just what the doctor ordered, assuming he or she is a podiatryst, the only doctors worth their Epsom salt on this blessed day. Feet don’t fail me now!

Chicago, Chicago, that toddlin' band and/or town

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history (April 8, 2016) that the Chicago Transmit Authority® — later, simply, "Chicago" — was inducted into the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Old Flames™. Never in the history of popular recording has a more unlikely assemblage of train conductors, railway signalmen and trolley car drivers gathered together with such sustaining musical efficiency as these hippy-haired horn blowers and pigskin pounders. They redefined what a brass band could be and their multi-textured song offerings and gigantine album packagings would take to the Billboard® Charts with singular — if not double or triple-plattered — aplomb for years. That they would return to the world stage for the ceremonies in Cleveland was a much needed (handgun) shot in the arm to their namesake Second-Tier City™, a toddlin', windblown township that was seeing bad news arrive on its doorstep with every afternoon delivery of the Chicago Today® broadsheet. To wit: Their bi-annual overtures to host the Special Olympic® Games were dismissed with a snicker by the United Nations, their hair-hatted Mayor Rahm Blagoyavich, a once and future foul-mouthed U.S. Senator, remained under big house arrest, and their hopes that a space-age, lake-fronted museum would supplant the hideousness of Soldier’s Memorial Field were about to be dashed. Then there were the ongoing failings: Their professional sporting teams were an altogether embarrassment, the culinary skills of their restaurateurs had been savaged by the Michelin® Ma'am and the dismantling of their advert agencies proceeded unchecked, with creative directors taking to the pavement with their absconded portfolio cases and ponytails en masse. If someone were to somehow trumpet the return of The City of Big Shoulders, Stumochs and Hind Ends™, who better than the bloody blowhards in the bland? Original members Mangione, Peterik, DeYoung, etCetera had welcomed a new crop of trombonists and tubateers to the fold and the stage at the Bar-Kays® Center on the gig night was "jammed" to full capacity for a anticipated jam session alongside other lone-monikered state-sanctioned inductees Kansas, Boston and Baton Rouge. Today, the grizzled, soul-patched road warriors in Chicago journey on. 'Tis “only the beginning” for these journeymen noisemakers. 25 or 6…to more, gents!!

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in sporting history (April 7, 1951), that Chesterfield® cigarette spokesman
Ben Hogan won The Masters golf tournament with a 72-hole score of 280, a tally that is remarkably on par with today's fancy-panted vest-wearers, especially considering that the chain-smoking Hogan's vision was likely obscured by near-constant plumes of tobacco smoke curling up into his eyeballs, that his clubs — fashioned from hickory sticks — were primitive at best, and that his golf balls had liquid — possibly molten lava — centers that would explode on impact if he had an unfortunate “slice” in his swing. Contrarily, today’s floppy-haired saddle-shoed golf messiahs wield graphite-shafted, titanium-headed monstrosities with names like Big Bertha™, Great Big Bertha™ and Great Big Bertha’s Mammoth Cousin Mathilda™. A simple flick of the fashion-plated prima donna’s wrist launches a Zectron-centered Cab Calloway® golf ball 500 yards at a poke, sending the drunken, suburban male golf crowd into delirium. “You da’ man!” they shout, blood vessels throbbing in their hairless skulls. “It’s in the hole!” they howl, when anyone with modest vision can discern otherwise. Methinks if Master Ben Hogan were around today, he'd be chewing Nicorette® gum en-route to another Masters run and he'd administer a proper hickory stick beating to any adult male stalking him for the entirety of 18 holes, hooting and hollering at every scratch of his bloody backside.

To Sirs, With Love

Random Memorandum™ to "Brooke," the "bored and untoward" madam  seeking anonymous coition: I received your unsolicited posting and must inform you that I will not — under any circumstance — entertain your indecent offering. Mind you, I am not unsympathetic to your desiring of companionship. As a uniformed foot soldier walking a proper policeman’s beat in my youth, I made the acquaintance of many a lonely, work-widowed housewife. I met their suggestive stares from behind the lacy curtains in their bedroom windows. I read their minds utilizing a similar telepathy to that employed by puffy, anti-semitic adman Mel Gibson on thin-lipped adwoman Helen Hunt in "What Nora Ephron Thinks Women Want." I've known what it’s like to be an object of a stranger's desires, but as a married man and duty-bound official, I properly rejected these advances. I knew that no good could come from wanton, casual couplings, as they rarely have a happy ending — so to speak — as that seen in the 1970’s sex farce “Looking for Mr. and Mrs. Goodbar.” Today, in my capacity policing the passageways of the Arnold "Al" Gore Memorial Misinformation Superhighway™, I've witnessed a shocking rise in said couplings, the details of which would make one's pubis hair stand on end. In other words, you are not alone in your digital solicitations, Madam Brooke; however, the bald-faced tenor of your Twitternet™ subject line — “BROOKE WANTS SEX!!!” — is singularly off-pudding. Honourable men — decent chaps who can capably perform an act of sexual congress for longer than six seconds — aren't nearly as submissive as your demand would deem. So while your clever use of the term F*CKBOOK for FACEBOOK and your pale pink hoop skirt give this red-blooded patrolman pause, I suggest that you rethink your online query, whilst ceasing and desisting altogether with further intercourse-pondence with the station house. Yours Truly, Constable Dooley®.

Leave It To The Beaver Shooter

Halt! Hold it right there, e-Citizen Provocateur™! Just who in bloody blue blazes do you think you are, defiling the blessed womb of Mother Earth® with your tawdry, selfie-centered portrait? I couldn’t be more repulsed if you were naked as a stray turd — sans the hemp uniform — up on all fours with your scrawny arse to camera. Perhaps your inner John Birch barometer is confusing spelunking for spreading eagle or maybe you’re one of those deranged deity types who believe themselves to be the risen Lorde® and your disgraceful pose — bushy business exposed — is revered in the eyes of your brain-scrubbed flock. Whatever the case, ‘tis time you close up shop — that is, your legs — and steer your purple shoes to the nearest KOA® shower stall for a proper douching, as I can smell you from here. Do it while I’m still of a mind or I’ll cite you and the sister wives in your compound.

Muddied Waters

If Memory Swerves™, on this day in music history — April 4, 1913 — American blues legend Buddy "Guy" Waters was born in Sweetholm, Chicago. Long recognized as the godfather of muddied, blues-based rock n' roll — excepting Scandanavian death metal, which he disavowed publicly, but still enjoyed in the confines of his aluminum-sided Westmont, Illinois home — Buddy was also the brainchild of “Rollin’ Stone,” a music broadsheet that other musicians laughed at, and which he sold his interest in for a Hohner® harmonica and a stack of used Marshall Brodein amplifiers. Unlike other blues contemporaries, Muddy was a teetotaler who neither drank champagne when thirsty, nor smoked reefer when he wanted to get high. Though he died in 1983, his mojo is said to still be workin’. Bravo, Bud Man!

Wooly, Mammoth

Well, as I live and breathe dangerous levels of airborne toxicity! If it isn’t adored and pompadoured Steven Patrick Morrissey! In the fleshy! Bravo, Citizen Shirtless! Hey Mozzer, ole' man, did you know that 'twas many years prior on this day — April 3, 1994 — that your ode to Britain's storied Vauxhall Motors ascended to the top of the UK charts? Number One with an Internet Patrolman's bullet! Brilliantine! If memory swerves, "Vauxhall & I" was one of those rock operettas released on the "phonograph" format — a plasticine platter designed for "oblong play" on a "turning table" of sorts — and featured a host of vehicular-inspired ditties like “The More You Ignore Me, The More Recklessly I Drive,” “Used To Be A Sweet Boy Before He Got His License“ and “My Heart is Full, But The Tank is Perilously Close to Empty.” Critics called it “somber and emotional,” but to my ears was every bit as cheerfully sing-songy as such Smiths classics as “Horse Meat Is Murder,” “Heaven Knows, Mister Allison, I’m Miserable Now” and “Stop Me, Stop Me (Before I Strangle You With My Bare Hands)." Say, squire, why not bring your hunky, if chunky, low-rise panted self ‘round the station house soon for a wedge of celebratory crumb cake? Regale us with tales of how a frumpy geezer can still bring fawning lads and lassies to their knees with a twirl of his microphone cord and a slap on his stumoch.

Froiled Again

Random Memorandum™ to the Mirro Aluminum Co. of Manitoba (Canada? Wisconsin? Is there a bloody difference?) : I'm writing this e-missive in regards to the attached "carousel" advert for your new Mirro-Matic WHIZ-GRID Speed Grill. Let me start by saying "Good Show!" to your engineering and marketing teams for the inspired product innovation and skillful communiqué. The attention-grabbing photography and capitalized lettering stopped me in my tracks, the playful word dance of “Mirro-Matic WHIZ-GRID” — say that fast 5 times! — put a smile on my face and the prospect of orange-gold or avocado-toned cookery tickled my fashion fancy. Of course, ‘twas the promise of time-savoured, full-flavoured steaks, burgers and something called a “Reubenesque” sandwich that set this Internet Patrolman's mouth to watering! However, I must take issue with your contention that you “invented” the word “froiling.” ‘Tis wholly without merit, sirs. Truth be well told, Yours Truly Dooley® first employed a dual-mode food prep I nicknamed "froiling" when I was fresh out of the Academy. In a moment of inspiration — with the aid of Grandmum’s collection of cast iron skilletry — I mapped out a sequence that took the skillet from the fry top to the broiler with swift, culinary aplomb and I commenced to "froiling" fast and flavorful chicken, fish, beef and bangers finger-lickedly-split. In conclusion, caution the lowly tattooed men and spectacled young birds on the business totem pole — the hipster advert doofuses — to inject more originality into their oft-for-naught, PhotoChopped™ creations and I predict the WHIZ-GRID will be the WHIZ-KID on either side of pond!

April Foolishness

“There’s no fool like an April fool,” Mum was fond of telling me on this day — April 1 — and she would know better, for today was the day that she bore down on the stirrups, applying just the right amount of pressure below the belt, as it 'twere, to propel Yours Truly — Dooley® — out the chute feet first, for a proper dismount — upright and saluting! “Crikey, he stuck the landing!” cried the attending midwife, to which Dad replied, “Look at the tallywhacker on the young Olympian!” We'll suppose that Mum had expected to hear something on the order of “It’s a boy!” but apparently liked the plucky enthusiasm displayed in the birther’s room and celebrated by baking a cake when she arrived home — Mrs. M.V. Filbert’s mayonnaise cake! ’Twould become something of an annual birthday tradition at the Johns household. “The bun’s out of the oven, the cake’s on the 'sill,” Mum would say, and we’d all have laugh, though I wasn’t sure why. “Eat your bloody mayonnaise cake, Dooley,” Dad would say, and so I would, helping myself to as much chocolatine goodness as I could stumoch. Blessings from the Birthday Boy, Mum and Dad. Bravo, Ladyship Filbert!