Writer Wrongs

As I Understand It™, on this day in history — July 31, 1703 — English ink-spiller Daniel Defoe was sentenced for the crime of "seditious libel" and carted off to the town square pillory for a dose of public humiliation — which is to say, a pelting about the face and hands with rotting vegetables, rice balls and rubber bands. This was years before Defoe established himself as one of the world's first “novel” writers — responsible for the likes of "The Swiss Family Robinson Crusoe," if memory swerves — back when he was a scribbler of “pamphlets” on topics ranging from economics to the "Kama Sutra," for all I bloody know. Pamphleteers, 'twould seem, were the bloggers of the day, the bloviating insufferables who got their material in front of the public without so much as a strike of an editor’s Flair® pen. 'Twas all bloody bollocks, then and now, and if the seditiously satirizing Defoe smart-mouthed the wrong state official, he got what was coming to him, which, as it turned out, 'twas a mere pelting of flower petals, as the public was sympathetic of the word-churning everyman, who even gained a fan in one Earl of Oxford, who would take Defoe under his employ. In any event, methinks that today’s tidal wave of WordPress® wankers — with their self-published wretchedness — deserve a taste of the pillory and not just for show-and-tell in a costumed photo opportunity. The pen may be mightier than the sword, but a properly pitched projectile at a tiresome, undeserving writer target is satisfying, indeed. Take aim, citizens! Commence to humiliate!!

All work, no play

Contrary to popular opinion, Yours Truly Constable Dooley™ did not come rocketing out of the birthing canal — sticking the landing, feet first — as a uniformed Internet patrolman. Indeed, there were many positions along the way, seventy If Memory Swerves®: Stable Boy, Toilet Tissue Restocker, Boot Polisher, Soda Jerky Boy, Balls and Shaft Washer (golf caddy), Bible Salesman (Gideon's), Bill Posterer, Night Soilman (emptier of chamber pots), Rubblerer (sorter of stones), Broomstick Bass Guitarist (in the non-invading UK band The Pollywoggs), Travelling Clothier, Steak Knife Salesman, Lamplighter, Ankle Beater, Imitation Marble Quarrier, Notary Republican, Needle Threader, Buttonholer, Loon Carver, Corksoaker, Fishmonger, Nat Thatcher (look it up), Merkin fluffer (don’t bother), Jorman, Yeoman, Ploughman, Yodeling Goatherd, Sickleman (reaper on a remote farm in Lincolnshire where Missus Buckley), Stevedore, Cereal Bowler (makerer of bowls for sugary sweetened cereal), Butcher, Baker, Candelabra Stick Maker, Knoller (toller of bells), Cajoller (seller of shells), Luthier (string tightenerer), Legerdemainist (Assistant to Marshall Brodein, professional magician), Handyman, Hankyman, JackRabbit Wranglerer (pictured), Miller, Tiller, Pubhouse Refiller, Auctioneer, Chanteuse, Interpretive Dancer, Minstrel in the Gallery, Funambulist (for an afternoon, moneys owed), Spirit Conjurerer, Rich Man, Poor Man, BeggarMan (but never a bloody Thief), Raconteur (long before Citizen LongHair Jack White), Punk Rock Band Manager (The Banana Splits®), Buckle Tongue Maker (of trouser belt fame), Tin Basher, Letter Carrier, Pond Ferrier, Keyliner, Lavatory Attendant, Vinyl Album Cover Design Drawerer, Crayola® Crayon Caricaturist, Foot Soldier, Assistant Chief Constable, Deputy Chief Constable, Chief Constable, Concert Hall Policeman, Albert Gore Memorial Information Superhighway Patrolman (i.e. Internet Patrolman), Stationhouse Brand Steward, Dustbin Dumper-Outer and, lastly but not leastly, Social Media Influencer Extraordinary. Right!

Don't Pull Your Love Out On Us, Baby

Random Memorandum™ to Messrs. Hamilton, Joe, Frank & Reynolds: When Brian Jones departed the Rolling Stones, the remaining bandmates didn't change their moniker to the Rolling Rocks™ (which is a good thing, as it's trademarked by the Latrobe Brewery in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin). When Sydney Barrett checked out of The Pink Floyd — and into the bloody insane asylum — they didn't reinvent themselves as The Pale Blue Howard. Reinvention — or "rebranding," as the marketing asswipes would have it — is tricky business, ill-advised excepting in the case of divorcing housewives, professional actors and/or wrasslers and radio disc jockeymen named Sky. "Musical chairs" is part and parcel of rock 'n roll. A line-up change ought not have had you gents rethinking the bloody name that took you so long to come up with in the first place. While 'twas sad that Tommy Reynolds packed up his drum kit and pleasant, but nonessential background vocals for ports unknown, we, your legion of fans, hoped upon hope that your inimitable soft rock stylings would carry-on unchanged. We wanted reassurance, not reformation. No slight on Tommy's replacement, Alan Dennison, but renaming the band that we so delighted in seeing atop the charts seemed an act of defiance from which we never forgave you and the band never recovered. Or did Hamilton Joe Frank & Dennison score a Billboard® hit of which I am unaware?

Olympic Meddling

If Memory Swerves™, ‘twas on this day in history (July 28, 2012) that the Opening Ceremony of the XXXYZ Olympic Games in London commenced, with Yours Truly Dooley® on hand in an honourary police capacity. The Olympics, as I understand, date back to the B.C. era (Before Chlorination) and take their name from Mount Olympus, a lavish water park and rock climbing wall on the Greek Aisles™, site of the first organized games, where beefy male cragsmen competed in “races” up a slippery, marbled slope — the original "slippery slope" — stopping intermittently to engage in fierce Greco-Roman wrasslin' matches (pictured below) for supremacy and reward — which is to say, a lifetime supply of Greek yogurt. The Winter Olympics would follow in the A.D. era (Astronomy Domine) and saw Jamaican bobsledders “lunging” down a faux snow-covered toboggan slide at treacherously high speeds, often hurtling into the car park to their deaths, much to the delight of the crowd. But that was then and this was not then — this was here and now! — where we witnessed sheer British exceptionalism on display from a patrol perch in Olympic Park or Stadium on an evening that brought a tear to my eye and a stirring — or rather, stiffening — to my loins. Knowing that the world was watching — in family rooms, wearing matching pajamas of their nations, huddled around high-definition, rent-to-own, 55-inch plasma televisions —made one proud to wear the police-issue Union Jack boxer shorts distributed at the station house the week prior, and almost made one forget the parade of British embarrassments on the world stage at the time, such as T-shirted dream crusher Simon Cowell, blabbering longhair Russell Brand, artsy fartsy public exhibitionist Banksy, standup curiosity Eddie Izzard, soup 'n sandwich bully Gordon Ramsey, dieting office floozy Renee Zellwegger, married annoyances the Osbornes and Beckhams, home-wrecking wife of royalty Camilla Bowles, cockney-accented resident-but-not-a-citizen Madonna Guccione and goofy, one-or-possibly-two-hit wonders Chumbawumba and Kajagoogoo, neither of whom, as I think of it, would have looked out of place in hand-to-hand, foot-to-nutsack team battles at Olympus so many bare-arsed moons ago. All hail — if sometimes fail — Britannia!

Dog Duty-Bound

Monday morning brings its own set of challenges, to be sure. Here at the station house, there's a perceptible malaise in the air, a resigned shuffle as we go about our paces. The likely culprits would be too little slumber and too much month's end cheer, perhaps, which are no excuse, mind you, particularly for a uniformed assemblage of public officials duty-bound to serve. One source of pride, one glimmer of responsibility, is the tireless work of our ball-less best friend Bloomfield, who picks up the slack, if not the droppings, to bring a little order to our house. Well done, Chumley. You sure clean up nice!

Eddie, Monster

Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ to human lampshade fabricator, awe natural furniture re-upholsterer and butcher/hobbyist Ed Gein. A native of the Northwoods of Milwaukee or Minnesota, Gein was a good boy who never gave his God-fearin' momma no trouble, ‘cept for sassin’ back when his Cream o' Wheat were cold and she commenced to give him an arse whuppin' that hurt her more than him. She read to her boy daily from the goodly books—the KIng Jiminy Bible and the Betsy Crocker cookbook—where he learned to make a stew of sorts—and taught him right from wrong, the perils o' drinkin’ and the evils o' masturbatin’. Her efforts paid off! Ostracized as a teen, Gein grew to be a whacked off/out loner who heard voices—likely those of his dead brother he’s thought to have killed—and who taught hisself to “dress,” which is to say "skin," unsuspecting townies and who took to diggin' up what would become a kind of textile fabric from the local cemetery. The inspiration for such memorable characters as Norman Bates, Floyd R. Turbo and Ernest T. Bass, along with popcorn movie matinees like “Psycho Killer,” “Silencing the Lamb” and “The Texarkana Chainsaw Massacre,” Gein was a depraved original. Though long the shame of the dairy state, his life was oddly celebrated in "Eddie Gein: The Musical," which played in 2010 on the Broadway of Wisconsin, which is to say, Menasha. He died on this day, July 26, 1984, at the age of 77, suckin' on a Slo-Poke® in some bloody nuthouse.

A Tiger's Tale

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in music history (July 25, 1982) that “Eye Of The Tiger” — theme song to the block-headed film sequel Rocky III or IV — bare-knuckled its way to the top of the Billboard® pop charts, Number One with a proper patrolman's bullet! As the story goes, human growth supplementeer Rocky "Sylvester ” Stallone challenged frost and tipped-hair metal Survivor® Jim Peterik to (in)appropriate the chord progression in Queen’s “Another One Bites The Dust,” yet without calling attention to itself or the copyright lawyers would sue their tiger ballsacks off. Peterik hopped into his “Vehicle” with his bloody .38 Special and fringed leather pouch of ditchweed marijuana and drove off to Chicago's Brookfield Zoo looking for inspiration, hand-spun cotton candy and 6 ft. licorice ropes. Just a man — stoned to the brass-plated toes of his lizard-skin boots — and his will to survive. With vanity chains hanging from the pockets of his leather pants, silken scarves around his neck and geetar strapped to his back, Peterik strolled the zoo grounds singing half-baked gibberish that would later become hits for Night Ranger™, before arriving at the tiger’s den, where he embarked on an epic, mind-melding stare-down with an Amur tiger that lasted into the evening and early morning hours, all thanks to a zookeeper who afforded Peterik undisturbed access in exchange for two pre-rolled pin joints. When Peterik stumbled out of the zoo at dawn, the song was completed, and the writer forever changed. Today, the mind-meld that took “Eye of the Tiger” to movie screens and chart success has transformed the former hair metallion into a tiger-striped carnival curiosity (pictured here). “So many times, it happens too fast. You change your passion for glory,” says Peterik. “But you don’t lose your grip on the dreams of the past. You must fight just to keep them alive.” Bravo and Brilliantine™, Your Tigership!

Not Who You Think He Is, Not Who He Thinks He Is

Not Bob Marley. Not Zigfield Marley. Not Peter Tosh. Not Jiminy Clifford. Not Finley Quaye.

Not Leland “Snatch” Perry. Not Shabba "The Hut" Ranks. Not Black nor Blue Uhuru.

Not Toots nor one of the bloody Maytals. Not the unwashed bike messenger delivering the medicinals. Not even that grungy, runaway-train yelper who dated actoress jailbird Winona Ryder.

Not by a long shot and/or long, lung-expanding toke. 

Marilyn's Bloomers

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on or about this day in history (July 23 or 24, 2010 or 11), that UK travel writer Nigel Somebody detailed his boondoggle to Chicago, City of Big Shoulders, Stumochs and Hindquarters, aka, the Windy, Second-Tier City. Whatever you call it, ‘twill never be New York, and neither will ever be London. Famous for its mustard-drenched frankfurters, seven-or-eight-layer salads, imprisoned celebrity jogger Ron Blagojevich, "bi-glacial" community organizer Barry "Brock" Obama, mustachioed sports mouthpiece Mike Ditka, department store chocolatier Marshall Field, musical group Aliotta Haynes & Jeremiah Johnson and advertising apple-giver-outer Leo Burnett, Chicago was taking a new look at things, which is to way upwards into towering Marilyn Monroe’s bloomers. Designed by her late husband Arthur C. Clarke or possibly Ted Williams, the papier-mâché statue was located on “State Street” — that great street immortalized in Jimmy Stewart’s winterland dash in “It’s A Wonderful Life.” Marilyn's Bloomers was just one of many artful curiosities around town, with others that include Pablomo Picasso's Iron Lady, the Bean on the Bowl Mich, Water Tower Palace, the Leaning Tower of Niles and the architectural curiosity that is Soldier's Memorial Field. The Mirror’s intrepid travel writer also took in an evening of the blues watered down for wine-drinking whities, a ride on Ferris Bueller's Wheel and a trip up the glass elevator in England’s Willis Tower, before catching a Southwest flight home.

Shite, Housed

Today in “Ask an Internet Patrolman,” Jimmy Dean Baeril of Patrick Cudahy®, Wisconsin writes: “Dear Constable Dooley, I’m 'bout to pull the trigger on a basement remodel — hello, man cave! — but costs are an issue. The lil' lady insists we add a “half-bath,” but I say — with the dough we’re layin' down for the wide screen, leath'rette couches, mini fridge, bumper pool and 'lectronic dartboard — who’s got the money — or space — for a goddamn bathroom? What's a feller to do, pray tell?” Dear Jimmy Dean, For someone named after a pork sausage maker, you seem not to have any meat between your legs. Man up, matey! ‘Tis a bloody man cavern, after all. Did you get a vote on the patterned wall border in the family room or the floral prints in the front hallway? No, you did not! She has say-so in her world, you, sir, shall have it in yours! Does a basement reno require plumbed toiletry? Not if a man is calling the shots! What a proper man cavern needs is an old-fashioned, portable commode station, something with streamlined utility as favored by our Mennonite brethren, or perhaps a style more ornate, a sturdy, oak replication of classic European design, with an enclosed chamber pot to retain your fecal soilings and a pitcher or vase nearby for cleansing; you could dress it up with an inscripted plaque, pull chain lighting, candelabra and cupholder (as shown) and away you "go," if you will, and why wouldn't you? You'll save the needless expense of underground piping and have homemade manures for the missus' potted plants. A gander at the calendar tells me you could have a decorative shitehouse in place by Father's Day. Don't sit on this matter too long, Citizen Evacuator. Yours Truly, Constable Dooley®.

The Missing Link: Lancelot Link, Secret Chimp!

Well, as I live and breathe dangerous levels of Corona® branded viral toxicity! If it isn't crime-fighting, knuckle-dragging—long arms of the law—Lancelot Link, Secret Chimp, firing up the motor chopper for a breezy ride through the Back 40. Bravo, Citizen Simian! 'Tis a reassuring sight in the midst of the troubling business witnessed 'round the globe in our Internet patrols of late. Can we assume that your same-specied sleuthing associate in the Agency to Prevent Evil (APE)—the honourable Mata Hairy—is following closely behind in a three-wheeled Kawasaki "hog" of her own and you've your sights set squarely on nemesis Baron Von Butcher and the buggerers at the Criminal Headquarterers for Underworld Master Plan (CHUMP)? Bravo, my nimble-fingered, clutchable-toed mate—or rather, primate, haha! Open the throttle and pop a proper "wheelie" like your grandchimp instructed you. Perhaps upon returning to your HQ—of undisclosed location—your Evolution Revolution band can treat the Quaran-Teamed™ Internet massives to a psychedelic romp. Right!

Sidekick Kicks Butt, Bucket

Celebrating a Deathday™: Bruce “Kato” Lee Kaelin, kung fu kickfighting associate of billionaire vigilante Britt Reid, died on this day July 20, 1973. He was just 32. Kato was born in Milwaukee and headed west after high school to have a go at acting, house sitting and perjurious courtroom duty, before securing a position as personal valet to Daily Sentinel® publisher Reid. His hand-to-hand, foot-to-nutsack combat skills quickly proved him capable of more than polishing the family jewels, and the black-masked Kato was soon assisting the green-masked Reid in his efforts to clean up the city’s soft white underbelly. Kato was the chauffeur of the mysterious Black Beauty motorcar and the administrator of many tranquilizing karate “chops,” disabling thugs before authorized police officials would swoop in to book 'em, Danno. Tragically, Lee was delivered a sudden deathly blow in his prime time, a cerebral edema brought on by a reaction to a green hornet sting. Bloody hell. Happy Anni-hearse-ary™, Citizen SideKicker.

Ziffel Piffle

Celebrating a Deathday™: Beefy barnyard hausfrau Doris Ziffel of Hooterville, USA went to the feeding trough in the sky on this day, July 19, 1969. A local yokel by appearances, Doris was actually born in New York City, as was her pompous lawyer neighbor Oliver Wendell Douglas. She had her sights set on show business as a lass and, indeed — before she went to hayseed — Doris was a bloody platinum blonde Ziegfeld girl. Alas, she met the rascally pig farmer Fred Ziffel on a cross-country train ride, and before the railcar reached its final destination, old Fred had sweet-talked his way into Doris' caboose, if you will — and he did — and it was life on the farm for her thereafter. The Ziffels went childless for many years — old Fred was firing blanks, it seemed — before their son Arnold the pig came into their life. He was adopted, but the four-legged Arnold was a Ziffel through and through. He was an avid fan of Westerns on the telly, drank his orange sodie pop from a straw out of the bottle and like his pa, he had an eye for the ladies, particularly Mr. Haney’s daughter Cynthia the basset hound. Doting mother Doris didn’t think Cynthia was worthy of Arnold’s attention at first, but was soon won over. The same can also be said of the relationship she enjoyed with her neighbor the Douglas’s, as Doris was cold to Hungarian beauty Lisa — whom she mistakenly thought had an eye for her husband Fred, but ‘twas all a misunderstanding over some tractor business, that was soon rectified. Her stone-deaf husband Fred also had trouble with the green-eyed monster, and would accuse county commissioner Hank Kimball and druggist Sam Drucker of having their filthy farm way with his missus, but ‘twasn’t so. He and Doris went on an overdue second honeymoon in Pixley, or possibly Crabwell Corners, and their love and affection was renewed. Doris was said to be no stranger to the distilled spirits and her weight ballooned in her later years, but, in the end, it was the bloody lumbago that got her. We don’t hear much about the dreaded disease of the lower back nowadays, but back then, lumbago dropped many a folk in their prime, and it was only through the efforts of the La-Z-Boy® reclining company that relief from suffering was realized. R.I.P. to Dorris Ziffel, hollering her head off in the great beyond.

The Law One: Remembering Bobby Fuller

Celebrating a Deathday™: Vintage rock 'n roller Bobby Fuller of the Bobby Fuller Four or Five died on this day, July 18, 1966. The 7-ft. 4-in. guitar sensation responsible for the hard-charging, but respectful, anti-crime ode, “I Fought the Law (And the Law Bloody Well Won),” Fuller came and went from the scene rather quickly, dying under mysterious circumstances a short time after his record had climbed the charts. Bobby was likely at his fullest when he was found dead by his mum Loraine, of all people, in an out-of-service Memphis trolley car next to the remains of half a dozen Sonic® chili cheese dogs. The coroner refused to label Fuller a victim of food poisoning, saving the Sonic family from certain lawsuits — not to mention horrible word-of-mouth, as the marketing nitwits would have it — allowing the chain to expand their retail footprint and menu line-up, which today features such inventive tube steaks as the Wholly Guacamole® dog and the Quarter Pound Fritos® Coney. Fuller’s baffling death has been the subject of a number of AM radio hits, including “American (Meat) Pie,” “Vincent (Bugliosi Could've Solved It)” and "(White) Castles in the Air." While July 18 marked the loss of this early rock great, ‘twould also signal a rebirth, as Bobby’s bandmate and brother Randy Fuller unwisely decided to carry on as the Randy Fuller Three or perhaps Four. Bloody hell, Randy. Happy Anni-hearse-ary, Bobby Fuller.

For He's a Jowly Good Fellow

Just in on the station house ticker: Snack-loving celebrity canine Scooby-Doo® is celebrating his 50th birthday today. (That's bloody 350 in human years, according to our Texas Instruments® calculating device.) Much like the Great & Glorious Dane Marmaduke™, Master Doo-Right represents all that is loyal and good in man's giantine best friends. The double-chinned sleuth served capably 'board the Mystery Van for years, 'longside non-credentialed teen policing associates Freddie Jones (banana blonde and ascotted), Daphne Blake (the hot one), Velma Dinkley (bookish and bespectacled) and last but certainly not least, his partner in crime-fighting, Norville "Shagforth" Rogers (the chin-haired dope). On behalf of the digital citizenry worldwide, we send "Scoob" our fond regards, which is to say, our wish for 350 more years, totaling 700!

Crashing The Party, Which Is To Say, The Plane

Celebrating a Deathday™: Flying ace John F. Kennedy, Jr., his wife Carolyn Bessette Kennedy, Jr. and her sister Lauren crash-or-rather-splash-landed their Breitling HP biplane in the Atlantic Ocean on this day July 16, 1999. The victims died upon impact. Bloody hell, isn’t that how life is? One minute you’re flying high, en route to the wedding of your cousin Rory, son or possibly daughter of the late Robert F. Kennedy, and the next minute the Navy divers find you at the bottom of the ocean floor? The National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) believed the crash/splash was a result of Kennedy’s "spatial disorientation and inability to maintain control of the aeroplane during a descent over water at night,” but methinks the beefcake pilot was up against something more distressing than escalating turbulence. Crikey, I barely survived a leisurely train ride with the missus and her sister, let alone keeping a plane aloft whilst two frenzied sister birds protested my wing-walking ways, hollering their heads clean off, as it were. If there’s any blessing in this tragedy, it’s that John-John (pictured here at the Stunt Pilot Academy Fairgrounds the week prior) would surely have never heard the end of it had they all survived. Unfortunately, ‘twasn’t so. On July 21, the victims’ ashes were scattered from the deck of the USS Briscoe off the coast of Martha Stewart’s Vineyard. Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ and RIP, Citizens Intrepid.

The Original TED Talker

Stop The World (Wide Web), I Want Them To Get Off™: The legion of TEDious TED talkers and stage stalkers living in the mile-high shadow of the great, ghoulish Citizen Undead Orator™ TED Cassidy, founder of the eponymous lecture series that bears his name. A towering concert harpsichordist and onetime associate of monied, madcap cryogenicist Gomez Addams, the otherwise tight-lipped Cassidy was an unlikely storyteller who began his TED® Talks as something of a lark after discovering his knack for regaling harpsichord audiences between songs with his tall tales on positivity, mindfulness and Radical Careering®. One querying catchphrase later — "You Rang?" — and TED had the corporate dullards and technology nitwits shelling out money for a velveteen seat and lining up for a photo opportunity next to the gentle giant. 'Twas all good fun for Cassidy until the over-caffeinaTED showrunners grabbed the reigns and began licensing the property to every community center with a plank stage and videographer to record the goings on. Alas, the next batch of constipaTED chatterboxes didn't qualify as authorities on anything other than arm waving, headset adjusting and laser-beam pointing, all of it captured on low resolution video and passed around the nascent Albert "Al" Gore Memorial Information Superhighway™ like a ballbag rash at sports camp. Today, the once vital, freewheelin' TED Talks have plummeted to their present state of TEDium, taking their place alongside other shameful TEDs throughout history — loathsome sorority eviscerator TED Bundy, plaid-jacketed news knucklehead TED Knight, million dollar wrasslin' meathead TED DiBiasi, mustachioed pina colada pourer TED Lange, draft-dodging, serial embarrassor TED Nugent and makeshift timebomb mailer and the hoodied pride of Evergreen Park, Illinois TED Kacyznski — take your bloody pick. 'Tis no surprise no one names their children TED anymore, but 'tis a wonder the bloviaTED imitators of the inimitable TED Cassidy still manage to find an audience, something we endeavor to put a stop to. As another legendarily massive orator not-named-TED once said, “One more word out of you and you go!”