This weekend finds the last of the detoxing millennials making bail and departing the New Years drunk tank ready to make amends — which is to say, ready to pay their bar tab and get their drink on anew — woohoo! — the very prospect of revisiting the scene of their crime giving a lift to the grounded jailbird or sullen hound dog, who suddenly get their swagger back like jailhouse rocker Aaron "Elvis" Presley, hips a-swivelin' through the barred gate. Alas, unlike the absurdities portrayed in the (pictured) shows of the previous millennia, few exiting jailants have a movie or record contract awaiting them — they have an actual police record and a string of visits with probationary officers to look forward to. Reason enough to celebrate? Apparently so! Yes, 'twould seem to Yours Truly Dooley® that the latest generation is seizing the day with one hand, whilst lunging for the liquor bottle or bong stick with the other. So bloody be it. I was young once. “I get it,” as the arsewipes like to say. Alas, you won't be young forever, Citizen Cell Mates, and one look at your sorry reflection in the fetid waters of a holding cell commode ought tell you that you're no Elvis "Aaron" Presley, either; you don't possess the fetching snarl, the jellied pompadour, nor the keys to Graceland Ranch, so you best proceed with caution or you'll be "cryin' all the time" upon your return to the pokey. As to the online disorderly conductors in our midst — the blog stalkers, identity thieves, conspiratorial theorists, genitalia flashers, medicinal hustlers, folk song posterers and recipe over-sharers — in other worlds, all those on the station house's Internet watch are Dooley Advised™: "You ain't no friend of mine." I have your number: It's 2020. "Let's rock," lowlifes. Wednesday, January 5
Jailhouse Crock
This weekend finds the last of the detoxing millennials making bail and departing the New Years drunk tank ready to make amends — which is to say, ready to pay their bar tab and get their drink on anew — woohoo! — the very prospect of revisiting the scene of their crime giving a lift to the grounded jailbird or sullen hound dog, who suddenly get their swagger back like jailhouse rocker Aaron "Elvis" Presley, hips a-swivelin' through the barred gate. Alas, unlike the absurdities portrayed in the (pictured) shows of the previous millennia, few exiting jailants have a movie or record contract awaiting them — they have an actual police record and a string of visits with probationary officers to look forward to. Reason enough to celebrate? Apparently so! Yes, 'twould seem to Yours Truly Dooley® that the latest generation is seizing the day with one hand, whilst lunging for the liquor bottle or bong stick with the other. So bloody be it. I was young once. “I get it,” as the arsewipes like to say. Alas, you won't be young forever, Citizen Cell Mates, and one look at your sorry reflection in the fetid waters of a holding cell commode ought tell you that you're no Elvis "Aaron" Presley, either; you don't possess the fetching snarl, the jellied pompadour, nor the keys to Graceland Ranch, so you best proceed with caution or you'll be "cryin' all the time" upon your return to the pokey. As to the online disorderly conductors in our midst — the blog stalkers, identity thieves, conspiratorial theorists, genitalia flashers, medicinal hustlers, folk song posterers and recipe over-sharers — in other worlds, all those on the station house's Internet watch are Dooley Advised™: "You ain't no friend of mine." I have your number: It's 2020. "Let's rock," lowlifes. 