Who Will Be Crowned Dumbest Generation?

Monday has crept in on Bloomfield's meaty paws. As the summertime sun angles to beat down on the unmasked, farmer-tanned citizenry unabated, Yours Truly Dooley® and the station house Quaran-Team™ endeavours to carry on—as calmly as the stitched tapestry in our entryway instructs—in our locked-down Internet policing capacity. Judging from the social tedium on display this weekend in every corner of the vast, serpentine Arnold "Alf" Gore Memorial Misinformation Superhighway™, 'twould appear there's a race to the bottom for the title of Dumbest Generation; we are of a mind that Generations X, Y-The-Hell-Not and Z are all in contention for the dishonour. Indeed, our take on the endless and embarrassing spectacle of it all—the dopey hashtags and illogical invectives, the cheerless, typographically challenged political missives and embarrassing and distasteful photo shares—lead us to conclude that the lot of you haven't the sense you were born with and seem incapable of distinguishing between your arse ends, your bony elbows and your shattered cellular phone screens. If ignorance were bliss, you would all live out your days in a stuporous, shirtless reverie. 'Tis our informed belief that you don't know shite from Shinola®, Crayola®, Victrola®, Granola, Gladiola, Viola, Angola, Ebola, Coca-Cola®...and Corona®, as in the worldwide Corona branded viral contagion. Happy Monday, morons.

Blonde Highlights

It's true! Blondes really do have more fun! Or, at the very least, their lives of pamper and pleasure are never boring. Consider the late, flaxen-maned ingénue Jean Seberg, celebrating a deathday today (August 30, 1979). In addition to her starring movie turns — “Breathless,” “Paint Your Wagon” and “Lilith” — the American expatriate (France by way of Hollywood by way of Marshalltown, Iowa, home of Hy-Vee® Grocers, "Where there's a helpful smile in every aisle™." Brilliantine!!) Seberg was many times a wife, model and mother. She was also a woozy, self-medicating sort who was said to have attempted suicide on every anniversary of her daughter Nina’s death — even surviving hurling herself under a Paris Metro train! Now that's letting the good times roll! At the time of Ms. Seberg’s passing, she had attracted the attention of the FBI for her involvement with the Black Panthers™, a connection that did not serve her well in the public’s eye. (Some even believed her association with the fist-pumping ruffians attributed to her death, which just goes to show that cougars and panthers should eye one another with caution.) Alas, the platinum pixie eventually succumbed to an overdose of Barbie-tuates and pink martinis. She was found dead in the back seat of a spacious, leather-appointed automobile in a lovely Paris suburb, though her body wasn’t discovered until eleven days later. What a life...and only 40 years young! A most Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ to the original Blondie, film starlet Ms. Jean Seberg. Off to meet the great colourist in the sky.

Pretty Curious-Looking Woman

Well I’ll be an Orangutan's Auntie™! If it isn’t Osage County’s own symmetrically-faced starlet, Julianne Roberts! Let me get a look at you, Pretty — curious-looking — Woman®: Your features are, indeed, in perfect balance, the left and right sides mirroring one another with curious exactitude! Your dimples, nostrils, the arc of your eyebrows, those crow thingies around your matched,
level set eyeballs — bloody hell, there’s not an assymetrical bone about you!

Alert the Academy! I smell an Oscar de la Renta® or something!

I Have a Dreamsicle®

As I Understand™, 'twas on this day in history — August 28, 1995 — that light-skinned — which is not to say white-skinned — Senatorial candidate from the mean streets of Honolulu, Barry "Brock" Obama commemorated the 52nd Anniversary of Martin "Lutheran" King's famous "I Have A Dream" speech with an impassioned, if curious, “I Have A Dreamsicle®” effort, delivered outside the doors of an island petrol station mini mart, “I have a Dreamsicle," the bright and articulating young politico began, as he peeled back the wrapping on the orange sherbet-coated ice cream delicacy and plunged it into his piehole. "It's creamy, refreshing, I like it and I'd like to see all of us enjoying them," he said, waving the treat 'round. "I also have a dream," he continued to a handful of grass-skirted, gas-pumping onlookers. "Not a wet dream involving a consenting college co-ed or the first black Miss America Vanessa Williams or anything like that; though I will admit to occasional arousal — rigidity, sans emission — in said dream. Understand. I have a dream that one day middle class families will not be judged by the contents of the glove compartments in their high-mileage sedans, but rather the content of their character, if not the content of their children's Influencer blogs. I have a dream that freedom will ring in every state, city, village and Hamburger Hamlet™ 'round the country. There's an especially good one on Rush Street in Chicago with naugahyde leather booths. I have a dream — a different dream than Dr. King's, more like one from Gary Wright, the Dream Weaver fellow — he was British, nothing wrong with that — but my dream is rooted in the American dream that involves truths being self evident and so on and so forth." 'Twas at this point that the store manager politely shooed the speaker away. "Mahalo aka ua lohe makou i lawa, ʻo Senatoa," he said. The speechifier took it in stride, gobbling the last of his Popsicle®/ice cream bar hybrid, hopping 'board his Schwinn® branded bicycle and shoving off.

With This Ripcord, I Thee Wed

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in his-and-her-story — August 27, 1940 — that the first parachute wedding was performed, and if you’re anything like me — of strong character, cast-iron constitution and elevated testosterone — you’re probably thinking, “The FIRST parachute wedding? Have there been others?” That's a good question — next time, entertain us with an answer, as I don't bloody know. What I do know is that the first para-nuptials were conducted at the New York City World’s Fair, with minister, bride and groom, best man, maid of honor, wedding videographer, Wurlitzer® organ grinder and monkey all suspended from parachutes and Rev. Homer Tomlinson attempting to steady the swaying airborne groom Arno Rudolphi and his intended Ann Hayward as they attempted to slip rings onto one another's fingers as signs of their love and commitment, forsaking all others — if by "forsaking" you mean "lusting after." Now, if you’re like me — headstrong, whip-smart and bi-curious — you’re probably thinking, "were Arno and Ann members of the bloody Flying Wallendas or Swiss mountain climbing hobbyists or deep sea snorkelers, in other words, daredevils of the sort you see on dopey television shows like 'American Ninja'? Or was this mid-air matrimony the work of an early Bridezilla, a she-devil who got it her head that she’d be wed "descending to the ground in a white fucking parachute, no matter what your goddamn mother thinks, we either get married in the parachutes or there won't be a wedding, you can go back to the matrimonial suite and have your way with your own goddamn self.” Who can bloody say? If there's one thing I've learned in my official police capacity patrolling the Albert Gore Memorial Information Superhighway it's that people are going to do what they do and if they “do it” without a proper — which is to say, Trojan® brand — prophylactic, they will surely birth the next generation of imbeciles who will carry out their own idiotic stunts with glee. In any event, one hopes that Mister and Missus Rudolphi’s union withstood the test of time and gravity and that the two lived happily ever after, until death by parachute failure did they part.

John, Legend: Remembering John McClane

Celebrating a Deathday™: If you're anything like Yours Truly Dooley® — a nobleman of virtuous character, cast-iron constitution and elevated testosterone — you'll remember being struck by the passing of John McClane on this day (August 26, 2018). Whether you believe that a flag honouring him should have flown half mast, fully staffed or worn like a cape off the back of bloody Superman, surely we can all agree now that Detective Lieutenant McClane — "Senator McClane" to his mates on the NYPD — was a hero nonpareil. Those of us in law enforcement ‘round the globe remember John McClane as a never-say-die-hard maverick who fought the forces of evil — whether bare-chested or bullet-proof vested — fearlessly, tirelessly. Yet this brave, former POW was a human prone to frailty like any other, and when his dalliances with private investigator Maddie Hayes and news reporter Jackie Templeton became public, jeopardizing his marriage to the curlicued pixie Holly Gennero, McClane would make crime-fighting history, as his valiant efforts to win back the heart of his missus — who'd left her womanizing mister for employ at the Nakatomi Corporation in Los Angeles — landed him in the middle of a deadly terrorist takeover. McClane's mission that Christmas Eve is the stuff of legends, from the moment the harmonica-blowing, wine-cooler chug-a-lugging wisecracker first secured the services of the argyle-socked airport limo driver who wasn’t Danny Glover to when McClane stared down the villainous Hans Gruber atop the tower, risking life and oily limb to save the hostages at the Nakatomi Holiday party. Gruber and his heavily armed team of thick-accented Germanic scowlers — Gerhard, Günter, Heinz, Helmut, Karl, Klaus, Werner, Wilhelm and Uli Jon Roth, multi-scarved guitar virtuoso for the Scorpions® — along with Alexander “Good Enough” — found they had met their match in the sneak-attacking McClane, who would crawl 'round the HVAC system without a Google Map, only assorted Lethal Weapons and a butane lighter in tow! At the end of the night, the criminals got a fistful o’ McClane and John and Ms. Gennero would soon be knockin’ boots in the Nakatomi honeymoon suite. (Happy Christmas to all and to all a nighty-night!) Today, the station house extends its sympathies and respectfully honours the life and death of one of our own. A Citizen Patrolman™ laid to rest on his birthday, no less. Lieutenant John McClane was a servant of the people and serve and protect ably did he. Serving up prickly one liners with smarty-panted aplomb as well. Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ and yippy-ki-yay, Mother Trucker. Yippy-ki-yay.

Channeling Johnny Weismuller

As I Underhand It™, on this day in history — August 25, 1875 — the English Channel that wasn’t the BBC® was successfully navigated by a swimmer who wasn’t Johnny Weissmuller. The twenty-something mile waterway dividing the sovereign nations of Brittania and Franz was crossed by a 27-year-old merchant marine from Shropshire named Matthew Webb — grandfather of the famed, future American lunch-counter restaurateur George Webb®, inventor of the Patty Melt™. The Citizen Seamen™ — who'd failed in an earlier attempt that month — purposefully or possibly porpoisefully — slathered himself in fish fat for insulation and set course late in the evening of August 24 in a quasi, commando-style loin covering — buns up and feet paddlin'! He was accompanied by a row boat, with a proper butler aboard serving him biscuits and beef tea to sustain him as he went about his paces, dodging jellyfish and periscoping German U-Boats! Webb — the swimmer, not the famed diner proprietor — was hailed as a national hero, though his cadet mates remembered him as a graceless plodder, but plod he did, completing the course in 21 hours and 45 minutes. Since Webb’s heroics — in the waterway, not the kitchen, artfully melting cheese atop a toasted meat sandwich — there has been a steady stream of swimmers traversing the passage — over 2,000 at last count, the oldest being in his 70s, the youngest 11, and in-between, all manner of relay teams, free-stylers, back-strokers, breast-strokers, horse jockeys, carnival operators and golf caddies. Today, in the summer months, the English Channel resembles a bloody water park, with dolphin rides, jet ski races and brazen, sea-breezin' Match dotcom couples copulating atop pontoon flotillas. For all I know they dump bloody chlorine in the water! But on this day 140 years ago, it was one man on a mission. One man who wasn’t Olympic Champion Johnny Weissmuller, a virile and dexterous creature who once swung from tree limb to tree limb, impregnating females of various species with great ferocity, only to be plucked from jungle obscurity to win a Blue Ribbon. You can argue that today’s day is Matthew Webb’s, but there can be no disagreement that a Patty Melt is a delicious change of pace from a traditional cheese hamburger, nor that Johnny Weissmuller (pictured here, gracefully cutting through the water) was the greatest swimmer of all time, dope-blowing Michael Phelps be bloody damned.

Baked Vesuvius

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history — August 24, 79 A.D. — that Mount Vesuvius erupted in southern Italy, burying alive some 2,000 men, women and children under fiery, molten ash and devastating the city of Pompeii. On a brighter note, America's Pompeii Ristorante™ chain is bringing back — by popular demand! — “Cousin Enrico’s price-a-fixed dining a-la-carte,” which includes soup — minestrona or pasta fagiola —  AND salada, one glass of housa wine or soda, your choice of entrée — try the Baked Vesuvius® — desserto and authentico expresso for one low price of $19.95 on weekdays before 6 p.m. and all day on Sunday. Pompeii Ristorante has locations across the states, all featuring authentico approximations of real Renaissance art and cheeseball sculptures, spacious rooms for large groups of large-arse Americanos, and intimate booth seating for romancing couples drinking cheap chianti and furtively stroking one another under cover of checkered tablecloth. All pastas are prepared fresh by hand — to the best of your knowledge — and a children’s menu is available to ensure the youngsters are on the proper road to Type 2 diabetes in adulthood. Why not remember those helpless families who perished in such horrific fashion — scorched beyond all recognition in that long lost Roman city — by treating your loved ones to an evening of "gen-u-wine eye-talian" dining at a Pompeii Ristorante near you?

Less Is More. (No It Isn't.)

Halt! Hold it right there, Citizen Contraptionist! You’ve gone too bloody far this time! Necessity may be the mother lode of invention, but precisely what necessitated the removal of the circulating blades from a circulating fan? Time was, if stuck your head into a proper fan, you came out with a bloodied head, as well you should have! The loppin’ of the noggin' was collateral damage in the war on stagnant air and the karate chopping of the blades was the munition that spelled triumph, which is to say, welcome, cooling relief. To paraphrase a credo from the exterminator’s trade, if you build a better mousetrap, the world will beat a vacuumed pathway to your door, but the world will surely stride past your entryway rather than embrace this "air multiplying" imposter! As to your previous invention, the Dual Cyclone® bagless vacuum, I’ll admit to being more receptive and intrigued by the Houdini-like disappearance of the dirt. You proved yourself worthy once, Sir James Dyson, CBE (Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire) and pride of Norfolk. Methinks you best go back to the drawerering board or find yourself forever in the shadows of the quintessential electronics creationist David Oreck XL!

A Real Dogfight

As I Understand It™, 'twas on this day in wrasslin' history — August 22, 1965 — that Maurcie “Mad Dog” Vachon — the most feared man and/or canine in all the land — was defeated by Reginald “The Crusher” Lisowski in a "televised" match in St. Paul, Minnesota or possibly Canada, not that you can tell the bloody difference. Vachon, a former Olympian from the aforementioned Canuckistan® — which may as well be Greenland or bloody Siberia — was a beloved figure skater in his native, iced land until an incident with a rabid Bichon Frise turned him into a crazed, pile-driving animal who held the NWA — National Wrasslin’ Association or Niggaz With Attitude™, according to Wikipedia™, which may or may not be part of the Encyclopedia Brittanica® — in his iron grip for many years. The Crusher, a beer guzzler from the bacon-producing town of Patrick Cudahy™ — which may or may not be part of Milwaukee — was a giant of a man, standing some six feet above the ground and possessing 100 megaton biceps with which he snapped the turkey necks of many an opponent, referee or ringside fan who got caught up in the shenanigans. Forty-nine years ago on this day, the Crusher surprised Mad Dog with a number of devilish new moves, including the Eye Gouge, the Nipple Twist, the Rib Tickle, the Belly Thwack and the Nad Smash™, disorienting the Mad Dog, who got caught up in his chains and chest hair, collapsed in a heap on the canvas and was later hauled off to the pound to be euthanized.

Beatle Mania!!!

If Memory Swerves,™ 'twas on this day in music history (August 21, 1969) that Liverpudlian skiffle band “The Beatle Brothers” called it "a day in the life," packing up their moonshine jugs, accordions, left-handed cigar box fiddles, duffel bags of roadside marijuana and rose-colored granny glasses, before heading off to their respective country estates. ‘Twas quite a journey that the mop-topped "skittish invaders" enjoyed from “Love Me Do” to “Let Me Be.” Originally a pop outfit called “The Quarryman,” the lads tossed out jelly-haired troublemaker Stuart Somebody and shifted to a pure skiffle sound, recording such hits as “My Old Man’s a Dustman,” “My Sister’s a Cherry Tart” and “The Clergyman’s a Weasel.” They ran through a series of band names, calling themselves "The Silver Belt Buckles," then "The Trouser Belt Loops," back to "The Silver Belts," the "The Silver Beats," "The Pickled Beets," back to simply "The Beats," and then in a nod to Manchester's "Crickets," they became "The Beetles” and finally "The Beatle Brothers," after catching Russian trapeze artists "The Flying Karmazov Brothers" on the telly. John, Paul, George and Ringo enjoyed a brief run in America, appearing in a waist-up televised performance at the Old Ed Sullivan Theatre, opening for Captain Darrel Dragon and Toni Tennille at New York's Chez Stadium and then traveling across the country in a Chevy Van on their “Filthy Lucre Tour,” before heading back over the pond and taking permanent residence in “The Cavern.” After their break-up in 1970, drummer Ringo Starkey and his All-Starr Band released a series of successful solo records, whilst the others dabbled in lewd art, fashion design and transcendental meditation. The group briefly reformed as a three-some (pictured) for an appearance at the Old Chicago Amusement Park "Lollapalooza," but, alas, 'twasn't the same after the loss of John Lennon. Happy Anni-hearse-ary™, then, to the dearly departed “Beatle Brothers,” who famously strode 'cross Abbey Road in matching Wellington® boots and wasn’t that a sight to see!

The Wonders of Worcestershire

Does anybody remember laughter? Surely on this day, legendary cock rocker Robert Plant remembers laughter. ‘Twas August 20st, 1948, that the mystical, curlicued warbler was born in Worcestershire, home to the original Worcestershire® sauce. Long a staple in the Johns household, Mum and Dad splished and splashed the smoky, spicy sauce on all manner of dishes, hot and cold. Of course, dear old Dad, cunning linguist he, would dish up the most warmly welcomed of all, a punchline no less — "Mmm, Mother," he would say, "Wort's dis here sauce?" — leaving us properly rolling on the linoleum! But I digest. In all my years, in all the venues policed, I've never met a finer gentleman whose skin tight jeans displayed a more generous manly endowment than Bob Plant. We toast the Worcestershire Wonder on his 72nd birthday with a Bloody Marian™ dashed with our beloved Lea & Perrymans®. The sauce of kings. Jeers™!

Feeling The Burn

I’m delighted to report that pathetic, sociopathic spree killer Michael Robert Ryan is still burning in Hell® 30+ years to the day — August 19, 1987 — he assassinated sixteen innocent men, women and children in his native Hungerford, England. The cowardly, 27-year-old gun enthusiast and bloody shame to all Michaels, Roberts and Ryans gave no explanation for his actions, which is well and fine as we’d rather this gutless, friendless douchebagalo killed himself — which he did — than listen to him prattle on about how ‘twas God's will or the Queen’s fault or how the school lads laughed at him or the lasses wouldn’t dance with him or how his daddy left him or his pud didn’t work when he pulled it or how no one bought him an ale down at the pub because he was a raving arsehole, born of arseholes and ‘twas fitting that he shot his arsehole mum and took his own worthless life before the police had an opportunity to do it themselves. Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ to Michael Robert Ryan, still burning in a hellish eternity of his own deserving! In a related story, Brazilian heavy metal band Burning in Hell™(pictured here) is heading back into the studio with a new bass player (Ederson Prado), a new producer (Swedish grindcore legend Fredrik Nordström) and a new commitment to dispensing with melody altogether, in favor of an onslaught of slamming, shredding, pummeling, thrusting and grunting. All to devilishly — hellaciously! — good effect. Bravo, Citizen Hellions™!

Insanity Flea

As a uniformed police official patrolling the serpentine digital pathways of the Albert Gore  Memorial Misinformation Superhighway™, I'm exposed to horrors that I wouldn't invite upon my worst enemies. From the loathsome scat-fetish pornography of “2 Girls, 1 Cup” to the spectacle of incapacitated German balladeer David Hasselhoff eating a half-pound mushroom swiss cheeseburger on his mudroom floor, the visual atrocities that man inflicts upon his fellow man give this Internet policeman pause. However, I've yet to witness anything quite like what was on display in an Oslo courtroom on this week in history (August 18 - 24, 2012). The sight of the gutless child slaughterer Anders Behring Breivik giving his strong-armed fascist salute was beyond the bloody pale. If there is justice in the afterlife, the shame of Norway will spend eternity with his arms sawed off at the shoulders. But ‘twas another wretched image that burns in my minds' eye: That of the odious Breivik grinning in the face of his sentencing. As the families of his 77 innocent victims suffered in anguish, he smiled with satisfaction. Memorandum to the gutless assassin: The description of you as a “blonde-haired, blue-eyed Scandanavian” is an insult to blonde-haired, blue-eyed Scandanavians. Methinks the families of your victims and the citizens of Norway would all be better served if the news chatterers found a more fitting shorthand to describe you. To wit: Odious, extremist turd Anders Behring Breivik. Friendless, dickless disgrace Anders Behring Breivik. Cowardly lioness Anders Behring Breivik. Oily, masturbating mouth-breather Anders Behring Breivk. Preening, pasty-faced pussball Anders Behring Breivik. Lily-livered and unloveable Anders Behring Breivik. The sight of this scourge on humanity turns this patrolman’s stumoch. Suddenly, the thought of visiting a David Hasselhoff video performance doesn't seem so horrifying.

This Charming Man

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history (August 17, 1998) that boyish and bejeweled beefcake-in-chief William Jefferson Davis Clinton regaled a group of wide-eyed puritans with tales of sexual gymnastica never before heard in political quarters. The group — an assemblage of loose-skinned self-pleasurers called the Office of Independent Council® — was treated to a no-folds-barred kiss-and-tell from the man they called “The Penetrator” back at Masters & Johnson Technical College.™ Clinton, a former sex therapist, left nothing to the imagination as he described such devilish acts of congress as the "The Smile Driver," "The Brownsville Playstation” and "The Arkansaw Pud Crawl," which may or may not have involved the presence of a willing amphibian. 'Twas equal parts Q&A and T&A, as the tantric chieftain mesmerized the blue-balled red-staters with detailed accounts of his endless prowess administering to "governed mental bodies" who were not his married missus. After the presentation, pant-stained council leader Kenneth Starrf*cker and his team were treated to goodie bags from Kama Sutra® Lotions, Lubricants & Medieval Devices, a company that Clinton started with his hapless brotherer Rogerer. Alas, the nation's 42nd and 43rd President wasn’t nearly so forthcoming on the telly the following eve, when he shook his feathered hairdo, pointed his finger-banger at the camera and said, “I did not have labial relations with that woman from the Arsenio Hall Show."

Elvis Lives (Until This Day, Alas, When He Died)

Celebrating a Deathday™ (August 16, 1977), U.S. Federal Narcotics Agent-at-Large Aaron "Elvis” Presley died on this day, after catching his death of cold in a driving Kentucky rainstorm. The one-time, leisured-suited singing sensation and avowed peanut butter and banana sandwich “junkie” was just 42 years old. ‘Twas love of country — not music, but rather the stars and stripes themselves — that caused Presley to put down the microphone — and, presumably, his sandwich — and pick up the telephone to offer his services to President Richard N. Milhaus, who obliged his request. The mutton-chopped Milhaus and beloved sideman Spiros T. Agnew were fighting enemies in and out of the states, and Presley answered the patriot's call, which is to say a chorus of voices in his head. Presley almost single-handedly created the U.S. Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs™ and, with plasticine badge in hand, the credentialed agent went to work, testing the hallucinatory powers of various ingestibles, whilst keeping an eye on hippie elements and the scourge of America — the Black Panthers or possibly the Beatle Brothers™. Alas, ‘twas in the midst of a seven-day stakeout, thumbing for rides along the lonely Kentucky back roads, where the undercover Presley, labouring without a proper pair of galoshes in the cold Kentucky rain, would fall ill. A preacher man attempted to come to his aid, but he expired. The former hip-swiveling “Heartbreak Kid” broke a lot of hearts indeed — including a few of ours here at the station house — when he was laid to rest at Graceland Cemetery in Chicago. Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ to Aaron "Elvis" Presley, drug crime-avenging Citizen Secret Agent Man™.

The Woodstock Desecration

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history — August 15, 1969 — that a three-day “Aquarian Exposition” of “Peace, Music and Limited Toilet Stations” kicked off in Bethel, New York. Also called “Woodstock” — for reasons relating to a diminutive, cartoon bird — the Aquarian Exposition would forever change mankind, transcending human consciousness as decreed by the ancient Astrologian Aquarius, a bare-arsed water boy from Babylonia. The event was organized by one Max Yasgur (pictured here, right), a visionary entertainment promoter — and/or dairy farmer — whose promise to uniformed officials that “not more than 50,000 nude or nearly-nude people" would attend was on the bloody money! Exactly 50,000 ticket-holders passed through the gates onto the pristine grounds — 60,000 if you counted the oncoming onslaught of on-site earth-momma impregnations, which we won’t, as it would be ruinous to Yasgur’s mention in the Guinness Ale™ Record Book. The peace-loving, florally-accented exhibitionists were treated to such mind-blowing spectacles as Jupiter aligning with Mars, the moon finding itself in the Seventh House™ and love-steering stars like Marilyn McCoo, Joan Baez, Sly and the Family Stallone, Swami Satchidananda, Gloria Estefan and the Miami Sound Machine and Country Time™ Lemonade Joe and the Swedish Fish® stumbling around on stage as the bad acid took hold and set lists were set aflame. ‘Twas a mystic, crystal revelation! One of harmony and understanding! Sympathy and trust abounding! Helicopters circling overhead and submarine sandwich deliverymen parachuting down to the crowd! They sang of changing the world, if not their mud-caked undergarments, and to the best of their knowledge, they did. Bravo, Citizen Aquarians of '69!

Bombed Blonde Shell

If you can’t say something good about someone, you ought not say anything. ‘Tis why I’m not saying — but am, rather, thinking — that salvaging a warm and watered vodka tumbler to brace yourself for the grim realities of the “morning after” will only forestall the heart-pounding despair and sultry shaming that await thee, madam. You may be busting a bloody gut as you attempt to revisit the tawdry details of last evening's excess with the barroom buddy buckling his belt and angling for the door, but the last laugh surely won't be yours, so proceed with caution as you guide the party train back 'round the bender, as they don’t call you “Little Miss Trainwreck” for nuthin', darlin’.