Desert Stormed

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this night in history (September 30, 2017) that a twat in a towering glass hotel sent down a hail storm of bullets on an outdoor concert crowd in VEGA$, resulting in the deadliest mass shooting in modern American history. Sad bloody business that. The station house sends its sympathies to the families of the 59 unfortunates who lost their lives, the 500+ who were injured and the countless other country music ticketholders whose half gallon jugs of Fireball® whiskey, 32 oz. cans of Redd’s Appalachian Ale and multi-pack tins of Grizzly® chewing tobacco were smashed in the stampede out the Route 91 Festival grounds. Bloody hell. You’ll forgive me for saying, and with all respect due the local authorities, one wonders how the late, legendary VEGA$ P.I. (Patrolman Incognito) Dan Tanna would have responded to the incident, perhaps even anticipating it. The toothsome, wavy-haired Tanna was once a police-force-of-one to be reckoned with amidst the glitz, glamour and upside down crosses along the strip. As cavalier and criminally good-looking as Dan Tanna may have been, ‘twas his policing prowess that earned him the respect of no less authority than former Mission Impossible man-of-a-thousand black faces Detective Greg Morris. The Vietnam veteran Tanna was no stranger to covert operations and methinks if he had come within a dog craps table of the gutless, shit-stained assassin at any time in the week prior, he would have drop-kicked him in the nutsack and karate-chopped him down to the pile carpeting of the Howie Mandel Bay™ casino. A resident of downtown in a well-appointed warehouse bachelor bad adjacent to the Desert Inn®, nothing escaped Dan Tanna’s watch as he tooled about town in his signature VEGA® notchback with working corded telephone and answering machine inside. The go-to investigator for hair-hatted hotelier (and former Bostonian) Tony Curtis, Tanna's sterling reputation as a criminologist is on record. He was something of a young Barnaby Jones; Matt Houston without the fulsome moustache; Mike Longstreet with working eyeballs. Alas, Daniel Tanna left these mean streets long ago. Who will have the chutzpah to work under the glare of the neon lights of VEGA$ in his wake, we can’t say. The station house remembers those lost on this day and sends its blessings to the city and policing forces in the hope that they have found some closure to this tragedy.

Re:laxation

Random Memorandum™ to Latvian laxation authority Sonia Uvezian, lecturer and author of “Keep Yourself Clean: Unleashing the Restorative Power of Yoghourt” — Bravo, Citizen Culturist™! Your colorful instructional has enjoyed a lengthy tenure in the station house lavatory, where it rests dog-eared atop the toilet tank. Indeed, your manual has opened the minds and mouths of those willing samplists who’ve boarded your yogurt train — “Chew chew!” — and exited out the caboose, which is to say, the rear end. I personally attest to the activation powers of your bowled offerings, as your inventive creations have rewarded me with not only fruity sustenance, but many a mid-day kick in the arse. Clearly you’ve left no stone crock unturned in formulating an international spectrum of blended digestives, each recipe more remarkable than the last: I’ve enjoyed the traditional Grecian yoğurt, the “slim and fit” yoghurt and the organic Indian yoghourt. I’ve sampled the thick and creamy yogourt, plain vanilla yaghourt and Turkish yahourth with crushed nuts and honey. Please note that I was delighted with taste and resulting function in all. I attempted to try the frozen Danish yoghurd, but was unable to get to the bottom of the dish before bolting to the latrine; the squeezable joghourt and whipped jogourt “to-go” both led to similar suddenness, which on one occasion forced elimination under slight cover in a public park. I’ve yet to try the Russian yoğmak, and whilst am certain it is delicious, my hope would be a more modest laxation that allows time for stomuch settling before one shuffles off to a plumbed, windowless interior with non-working exhaust overhead. A doff of the baboushka to you, Citizen Foodstuffer™. Call me convinced, which is to say, fully cleansed and retorting for duty!

Wayne's World

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history — a blustery September 28, 1959-ish — that Eddie "Wayne" Cochrane planted his "Last Kiss" on the open mouth of his Thomasville Furniture®, Georgia sweetheart Luanne Somebody. They were "out on a date in his daddy's car" when, according to John Legend, Eddie Wayne lost control of the vehicle whilst attempting to steer clear of a hotrod stalled in the roadway. When he awoke, rain was pouring down on his bloodied, but still bouffant, platinum blonde pompadour and sky blue leisure suit. There were people standing all around the wreckage, watching as he cradled Luanne, who smiled and said, "Hold me darlin' for a little while." Eddie Wayne obliged, holding her close and kissing her gingerly on her fulsome, if blueing lips, and that was the end of that tune. Or was it? Later that night on the porch swing with his gee-tar, Eddie Wayne cried aloud, "Where oh where can my baby be?" and was promptly slapped upside the head by his daddy, not out of malice — though he was upset about the condition of his vehicle, naturally — but in an effort to knock some sense into the soul-singin' Citizen Son of a Gun. He knew a hit song when he heard one, and so did Eddie Wayne, who took pencil and put his words to paper and proper chord structure and the rest is rock history. Today, Seattle grunge balladeer — grunge-a-deer™ — Jeremy "Eddie" Vedder croons Mr. Cochrane's words to stadiums full of swaying, pie-eyed hipsters and their bell-bottomed galfriends, who sing along not knowing Luanne's sad story. Buggerers, all.

I Will: A Testament

When the words you live by are words of your own, you bloody well have them framed and available for sale on Estee® or you have your web administrator assemble a “Go Fun Me” page or a “Kick-in-the-pants-Starter” thingy that requires friends and family to begrudgingly dig into their pockets to make a purchase that they’ll never forgive you for. Or not. Given your capacity as a public official, you set aside any notions of “monetization” — as the digital nutsacks would say — and you forgo foolhardy desirings of early retirement or travel abroad — where is it that you need to go when you have the entirety of the world wide web at your fingertips, morning noon and night? The words you live by are guiding principles that would suffer from obligations of a profit motive, so you frame your words and place them where you know that those who can most benefit from them will see them: Over the toilet in the station house latrine. Word.

Aerial Views

Random Memorandum™ to the "Pole Aerialists” at Atlanta nightclub “Saints & Spinners": I received an errant Twitternet™ notice that a member of your acrobatic troupe is “Someone I May Know.” Please alert your online information steward that the likelihood of any association between the S&S airborne elite and Yours Truly Dooley® is unlikely. While I am a fan of aviation — indeed, my late father Aldridge “AJ” Johns was an officer in the Royal Air Force — I've had no occasion to visit “Hotlanta” and confess to having no knowledge of this place you call “Chocolate City.” A perusal of your web offering sheds no light on the matter, either, as I've yet to make the acquaintance of anyone named Lameka Sparkles, Fiya Starta or Diva Peaches. I do own a vinyl recording of the group “Peaches ‘n’ Herb,” but don’t imagine they’re still on the touring circuit. Your fan page dialogue also gives one pause, as references to "nip slippage" and “cock blockage” are hardly befitting a uniformed official of my standing. However, I'm not a prude and don’t doubt that you're a top flight organization whose pole pilots have earned their stripes for individuality, musicality and transitory sexuality. Your honorable mention in the Georgia Pole Competition is surely an indication of that! As to your question of whether I prefer “a round ass or a lean athletic core,” I would answer doubly in the affirmative. Haha. Alas, I must insist you remove my name from your news feed, but encourage you to aim high, sweet chariots of fire! To infinity and beyond!

Put Up Your Duchesses

Stop The World (Wide Web), I Want Them To Get Off™: The vast and vile legion of trollers, squabblers and online lynch mobberers on either side of the political or religulous spectrum is Dooley Directed™ to head for the earthly exits and depart post haste, which is to say, die immediately if not soonerer. Honest to non-denominational God, I cannot bloody bear to read another illogical, grammatically-challenged diatribe about white privilege or red ballcaps or black licorice or all the rest of it. The sad and sorry keyboard wars waged and fake blood spilled in the commentary sections under every news or opinion piece blowin' 'long the Arnold "Albert" Gore Memorial Misinformation Superhighway® makes one long for the days when men — and women, judging from the delightful, teeth-baring tussle pictured here — settled their differences bare-knuckled and brawling. "You had yer' filthy way with my ex? Prepare to die, swine!" WHACK! "You said what about my dear mum? I'll tear ya' limb from limb, maggot!" THWACK! "Gimme back my Paddington tweed shoulder bag, slut! Fuck off, whore!" WHAM! BAM! Jolly good showing! Methinks a boot to the belly, a roundhouse to the noggin, a stunner to the ballsack or a clawing about the eyeballs is preferable to the endless, ineloquent battle of twits I suffer every day in my digital patrols. What's that, you say? You take issue with my way of thinking? Meet me outside the station house and let's settle this properly. With fisticuffs flyin'!

If the shoe fits endeavor to procure the matching (or near-to-matching) shoe and wear them

Before you judge a man — any man, or woman as we think of it, with the exception of station house attorney Oliver Wendell Douglas and his endearing, malapropping missus, the Hungarian goddess Eva Gabor — endeavor to walk a mile in his or her shoes. ‘Twill be slow going, but you’ll gain an appreciation for the superiority of your own footgear — police-issue, in the case of Yours Truly Dooley®, as are my undergarments, trousers, jacket and head/helmet wear. After traversing said distance, you will have gained proper authority to pass judgment on the other Citizen BiPed®. By all means, register your opinion firmly, decrying his or her evident lack of fashion sense, unflinchingly. Question the size and color of his shoes, the height of the heels and quality of internal archway support. Cast aspersions upon the route he or she travels and, while you're at it, assess the mobile foot implements of their family members. Be emboldened to state your opinions bluntly, as you have bloody well walked the agreed-upon mileage!

Gunslinger Turns Glum Singer

Random Memorandum™ to Fair-Haired Citizen Songbird Terry “Brad” Shaw: The only thing sadder than the “Tears Of A Clown”— when there's no one around other than a team of wide-bodied American fútbol anal-ists — are the tears of a once-feared-and-revered gridiron great with his heart on his denim sleeve in a Nashville recording booth. But isn’t that the way life is? One minute you’re riding high (on Demerol®, we’ll posit) — a noble warrior, a darling of the media and a hero to your adopted, third-tier river town — and the next minute you’re staring down a snickering assemblage of studio long hairs, with the weight of the world on your non-padded shoulders? Bloody hell, mate, surely you knew that you’d face an onslaught of skepticism when you traded in your helmet for a ten-gallon hat — and your high-topped cleats for lizard-skinned shitekickers. But face down the doubters you done did! With the gusto of a Schlitz® beer-guzzling, high seas sailor, you sang your heart out—forever imprinting your melancholia on hi-fidelity stereophonic vinyl, your song selection rivaling the deftness of your play-calling days: “The Last Word in Lonesome Is Dove”; “Here Comes My Baby Back Ribs (And Side Slaw)”; “Take These Chains From My Heart (And Wrap Them ‘Round The Radials On The Pickup)”; and “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry Uncle”. Bravo, Terry Brad! With titles like that, I don’t imagine you’ll be lonesome for long! Indeed, when the platters arrive in stores this summer, methinks they’ll be flying off the shelves and you’ll soon be lip-sinking on-stage and, then, backstage with lonesome, big-haired strangers who share your passion for the Risen Lord, along with the rising, which is to say visible, maleness in your velveteen trousers. So sing a song, sensitive man of the seventies, sing it to last your whole life long — which, one hopes will be longer than that of heavyset pop star Karen Carpenter — and remember that you’ll always have a friend in Yours Truly, Constable Dooley®.

A Moment of Gesticulating Silence

Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ to the legendary, leotarded Parisian pantomime Marcel Marceau, who walled himself inside a bloody coffin for the last time on this day September 22, 2007. He was 84. Born in early 1920's Strasbourg without vocal chords, it would seem, Marceau was said — though not by him — to have been inspired in his youth by the famously non-speaking cane-twirler Charlie Chaplin, and indeed patterned his pasty-faced persona after the Hitler-moustachioed “Little Tramp Stamp." During World War II, Marceau used his fledgling gesticulating skillsets to entertain and encourage frightened Jewish children, not unlike award-winning Eye-talian™ curiosity Roberto Bellini did in that uncomfortably unfunny “Life is Beautiful” Nazi tale. As for Marceau, never before had a vocally-challenged performance showboater made such a beautiful — if annoying — gestured noise as he. Of all the storied, face-painted oddities in history — and honestly, I can’t think of another, other than the late, moonwalking child-stalking Michael Jackson, whom Marcel befriended later in life — Marceau is remembered with measures of admiration and ambivalence, along with a dim recollection on my part of him "signing" the only "words" in Mel Brooks' “Silent Movie” or possibly “Blazing — a.k.a., flatulating — Saddles” or that “High Anxiety” business that I bloody hated. Speaking of head-turning moments in history, 'tis worth noting that also on this day — September 22, 1515 — Anne of Cleves, fourth wife of hatchet happy King Henry VIII, was born. Anne was one of the lucky ones, cut loose as it were, after a mere six months of marriage, with her head and dignity intact — which is to say, the union was never consummated, as fat old queen Henry did not venture to climb aboard the matronly Ms. Cleves. Curiously enough, she was commemorated in song by English keyboard nutsack Rick Wakeman on his 1970-snore vinyl recording “The Six or Seven Wives of Henry VIII.” Thankfully, Wakeman’s online discography reveals no evidence of an excruciating prog rock send-off for the expiring Marceau-and-ceau, effectively affording him the silent treatment he so dearly embraced. RIP, Citizen Quiet Man™.

Masters and Johnson and the Height of Ecstasy

Masters and bloody Johnson are at it again, asking the questions that good and decent citizenry haven't the nerve – nor the perv – to ask. Indeed, proper folks are content to inquire about one another’s weekend or the sandwich meat in their luncheon pails or their preferred brand of galoshes, whereas the sexual macademia nuts (pictured here) want to know the circumference of one’s male extension — the size of one's motorboat, if you will, and they did, as it relates to the motion of the ocean. Unfortunately, our station house rank & file fell for their line of deviant questioning hook, line and stinker, scoring 0 for 20 on a recent Twitternet® sex survey. Crikey. 'Twould appear that our deputy patrolling officials don’t known their duodendems from their arse ends and believe the Kama Sutra™ to be a brand of Greek yogurt. Embarrassing business, to be sure, ‘tis why Yours Truly Dooley® is fielding this next question: "Do Women Reach Their Sexual Peak in Their 30's?" Well, one doesn’t need a "Masters” degree in human sexualization to spot a trick question when one sees it. I'll wager that in one’s 30’s, a lady bird is only halfway up the mountain and 'tisn't 'til her late 60's or early 70's that her peak activity is reached. What's more, I have it on proper authority that after a brief respite for nourishment — cottage cheese — and stimulant — Ayds® brand chocolate chews — the sexual genome reloads itself and able-bodied lasses continue to climb, as it 'twere, remaining sexually vital — or "Randy" — as long as the body is warm. Before the blogosphere goes off half-cocked with false assumptions about a female’s desirings, let me proffer that ‘tis the male’s limpido which peaks at the earlier age — late teens — and that most adult males are content to settle themselves into a La-Z-Boy® rocker or onto a wobbly tavern stool, reaching their sexual peak between the fifth or sixth pint, but upon tipping number seven to their lips, they slide back down the slope with no hope of peaking until morning light.

Endowment Fun

A doff of the cap — and a snap of the strap — to screen siren Sophia Loren's lady lumps, born on this day September 20, 1934. Her kittenish caboodles would make their first, angora-sweatered appearance some twelve years later at the Holy Mother of Perpetual Repression 8th Grade Grab-Ass Dance. In 1953, her now fully-formed headlights were set to high beam, sending brassiere makers worldwide into a frenzy. Indeed, the first underwire brassiere —a.k.a., the over-the-shoulder-boulder-houlder — along with the popular 18-hour, 18-hook, lift-separate-and-photograph bra were both designed specifically for Ms. Loren’s ample-which-is-to-say-undulating sexterior. She and her naughty bits soon began showing up in cheesy American movies alongside machismo meatheads like John Wayne or the original sawed-off eye-talian, Francesca Sinatra. I’m happy to say that the curvaceous starlet thwarted the advances of both bad actors and settled down with argyle-socked Polo™ enthusiast Ralph Loren, whose surname she ingeniously replaced as her own. Bravissimo, Citizen Sophia™! Happy day to you and the twins!

Open For Toileting Business

I have it on good authority — which is to say, I’ve taken the virtual tours of today's “open-concept offices" and I’ve read the postings praising the freedom of it all and I’m happy to report — that the next wall-less wave is ‘round the bloody bend! Yes, the Citizen Deconstructionists responsible for dispensing with traditional "offices" — and the nagging privacy that went along with them — now have their laser-corrected sights set on breaking down even more walls and doors. The number crunchers and soul crushers on the executive floorboards will not rest until the spaces are as wide open as the mouths of the worker bees stuffing their faces at their work stations all the livelong day! And why not? Studies are showing — or someone is claiming — that opening the lines of communication amongst the tattooed, razor-eschewed rank and file is taking collaboration to new heights — clear up to the exposed ventilation systems and duct work shining down on the table tops fashioned from reclaimed wood products! It all takes me back to parochial cafeterias and military latrines, where everyone’s an equal and nothing says collaboration like, “Pass me a toilet tissue square, Sergeant Major!"

Notting Ham

As I Understand It™, celebrated geetar hero James Marshall "Jiminy" Hendrix died on this day, September 18, 1970, in the Notting Hill district of West London. The American expat lived at No. 23 Brook Street, in what is presently the Handel House Museum. At the time, Hendrix was rumoured to have been dating actress Anna Scott — the "Foxy Lady" of song fame and ex-galfriend of "daft prick" Hugh Grant, proprietor of The Travel Book Company® on Portobello Road. While his life there was glossed over in the later film, Hendrix is said to have called Notting Hill "the only home I ever had." Bloody hell. RIP and Happy Anni-hearse-ary™, Master Jiminy!

Put Up Your Dukes

If Memory Swerves™, ‘twas on this day in history — September 17, 1963 — that “The Patty Duke Show” debuted in all its capri-panted glory. Based on the real life adventures of identical cross-continental cousins Patty Lane and Catherine Lane — and starring identical intra-continental sisters Patty Duke and Cathy Duke — the show was a hit on both sides of the pond, especially among young lads smitten with the winsome, bob-haired charmers. Some took a shine to the worldly Catherine (pictured right) who’d lived most everywhere — from Zanzibar to bloody Barclay Square — whilst others fancied Patty (pictured left), the free-spirited one, who’d only seen the sights a gal can see from Brooklyn Heights. What a crazy pair they were! Matching bookends, different as night and day! Graceful Catherine adored a minuet, the legendary Parisian Ballet Russes and the sinful delights of flaming crepe suzette, whilst Patty loved to rock and roll! A linked hot dog made her lose control! What a wild duet, indeed! They laughed alike, they walked alike, at times they even talked alike, as though they were the same person, mirrored by some sort of “split screen” that wasn’t yet invented by George Lucas. Well, I’m happy to report that the Dukes of Hazardous Wiles are back, completing each others' sentences, swapping reading glasses and joking about the sexual inadequacies of their late husbands. Yes, in a rollicking return to form, the 70-something Dukes are set to star in a webisodic series — directed by Happy Days' Donny Most — that promises to transport fans back fifty years. Call me mad, but I’m feeling a rush of youthful testes-terone at the thought of Patty shuffling down the staircase with a slight hitch, disably performing her spastic dance moves while Catherine smirks from a safe distance, both cuddly and comely as ever, whilst the laugh track roars. I'll arm wrestle you for either's attentions, Citizens! We may lose our minds, when cousins are forever two of a kind!

Glinda the Good Witch of Southampton

Random Memorandum™ to Glinda the Good Witch of the South® and/or Southampton: You are the most powerful sorceress in all of L. Frank Baum’s Oz™ and/or cable television's Hallmark Channel™. You possess age-defying, soft-focus Technicolor® beauty and rehearsed charm, a vast command of magic, cunning and kitchen utensilry, and an uncommonly kind disposition toward the farm girl from Kansas, her pain in the ass dog and sack of shite sidekicks. Though you’ve been reportedly less kindly to nannies, associate producers and neighborhood coffee baristas, you risked the wrath of your evil-intending, green-hued cousin to the West — Margaret Hamilton, spokeswoman for Maxwell House® coffee — as well as an army of snotty culinary detractors, fending off all adversaries to the delight of the bite-sized citizenry of Munchkinland and/or your studio audience. While you suffered an embarrassing, five-month incarceration for questionable dealings involving insider chicken stock, you kept your well-cosmeticized face and neck held high. You, madam, are Wonder Woman™ in a roomy pantsuit and crown, capable of catering events ‘long the Yellow Brick Road™ and penning ghastly, ghost-written cooking tomes with equal aplomb! Indeed, you can move heaven and earth with a wave of your shimmering wand and/or spatula. So explain to Yours Truly Dooley™ how ‘tis that you can do all these things, yet you can’t do better than the name Glinda? Really? Glinda? I’ve know Glendas and Lindas, Melindas and Belindas, but I’ve yet to encounter another Glinda. ‘Tis perhaps a family name beloved by your Polish ancestry, this Glinda. Seems an ill-fit for a bejeweled, levitating media titan, if you'll forgive me for saying, but so be it. On with show, Citizen Bewitched! Keep an eye out for spiraling houses descending from the heavens and be cautious not to scorch the crepes.

Lorenzo's Oil

Random Memorandum™ to renegade crimefighter — and Falcon Crest® vineyard scion — Reno Raines: Working undercover to expose corruption in the ranks of uniformed officials is dangerous business. But you, sir, pulled it off with shirtless, oily-abbed aplomb. Your tattooed, rock ‘n roller good looks and motorchopper cred provided the necessary cover, until two of Bay City’s worst badge-carrying scum — Dutch Dixon and Buzzy Burrell — got wise to your ways and deemed to commit the ultimate sin, the murder of a brother lawman. ‘Twas heartbreaking to see your fiancé Valerie Prentice killed in the crossfire, but to see you framed for her murder in front of the reality TV cameras was an insult to deathly injury. Thankfully, native American injun bounty hunter Bobby Sixkiller wasn't buying their pack of lies. Working alongside Chief Sixkiller in the search for Hogg Adams and the rightful clearance of your goodly name has given us hope, as well as a thrilling glimpse inside the world of real-life, hair-extensioned bountymen. Though you’ve been framed for murder and are now an outlaw hunting outlaws, a renegade in the eyes of the legal systemic, you are an inspiration to myself and fellow peacekeepers on all sides of the ponds. GodSpeedo™, Reno Raines.

Preys Be To God

We begin this week with a prayer: Dear Lorde™, in the name of all that is holy, strike my enemies dead today. Be it by “Act of God®” — lightning bolt, animal attack, Eucharist choking — or by human hands — switchblade stabbing, karate chop, autoerotic asphyxiation — ensure that their deaths are painful, sending a message to those who might cross my path again. Also, Dear Merciful Lorde, extinguish the beating hearts of foodies, wine-tards, digital marketing gurus, helmeted adult bicyclists, dog walkers on cell phones, improvisational comedic actors and instructors of any kind — especially those on the side stages of Chicago’s Second City® — smirking boy physician Douglas Houser M.D., crap-encrusted draft-dodger Ted Nugent and the entirety of the Kardashian family, with the exception of Olympic decathlete Bruce "Caitlyn" Jenner, who seems to have suffered enough; also, forever silence anyone in attendance at a professional golf outing who exclaims “it’s in the hole” — when it clearly isn’t. Bring all of their lives to swift and sudden end, oh Lorde, permanently disengaging their Twitter® accounts and Wikipedia™ pages. I ask this in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghostly Roman Empire. Amen.

Ironclad

Celebrating a Deathday™: Legendary — sedentary — lawman, Perry “Ironsides" Mason. This dashing — some say, "bearded" — justice seeker was a prominent defense attorney before a sniper's rear-window bullet landed him in the wheeled, "iron-sided" chair that earned him his nickname. He bounced — or rather, rolled — back into the prime time a new man, leaving behind the courtroom for the Streets of San Francisco (a Quinn Martin® production), where he pursued criminals with abandon, wheeling up alongside their getaway motorcars and bumping them off the road with two-wheeled aplomb. Indeed, his fearlessness would garner him a second nickname — "Iron Balls" — that we're told he rather fancied. Of all the handicapped crime proceduralists of the era — Longstreet (sight-challenged), Kojak (hair-challenged), Columbo (poor posture), Charlie Chan (poor diction), Cannon (poor diet), Father Dowling (Catholic), Banaczek (Polish), Magnum (Hawaiian), Pepper Rodgers (high-heeled), Hec Ramsey (black-lunged), McCloud (horse-bound), McMillan (closeted), Shaft (can you dig it?) and Harry O. (David Jansen) — "Ironsides" was in a class by himself. Indeed, his prowess so impressed his associates Della Street and Paul Drake that they also took to wheeled chairs, solving crimes as a self-appointed Modular Squadron™. A doff of the cap and a shift of the chair gear to "IronBalls" "Ironsides" Mason, who took his final spin, September 13, 1993. R.I.P. Citizen CrimeFlighter™.

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history — September 12, 1959 — that the Cartwright clan galloped into America’s living rooms, trampling every Davenport sofa and tray table in sight. Yes, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse hit the reality TV airwaves in their neckerchiefs and color-coded vest and “Bonanza” — or “Abbondonza!” as presenting-sponsor Mama Celeste® pizzas would have it — was born. ‘Twas a curious sight, these dissimilar-looking brothers on horseback seen through the fire-curled map of the Ponderosa Ranch. Something was surely amiss and sure enough — soon enough — we learned these were three sons born of different mums! Turns out ole’ Ben Cartwright was the rooster in the bloody hen house, having his way with three women he would marry and later bury for the usual dramatic story-telling reasons — hayloft accident, Indian attack, auto-erotic asphyxiation — leaving him to raise the boys on his own: Hair-hatted Trapper John Cartwright was the brains, Little Joe, the sawed-off chick magnet and Hoss, well, he was the cheerful, over-sized blockhead with the heart of gold and the protector of Hop(along) Sing, the Chinese chef who had the idea for the Bonanza® steakhouse restaurant I’ll get to in a moment. Now, boys being boys, the Cartwrights would occasionally tussle, rolling around on the hard ground outside the homestead like those two fellers did on Brokeback Mountain. They’d get up, dust off their Wrangler® boot-cut jeans, slap one another on the arse before darting off to relieve their pent-up sexual frustrations in the barn or drown themselves in a bottle of daddy’s rye or chase one of those floozies in the resort town down yonder. Bonanza was not unlike the daytime “soap operas,” in that way — all horseplay, winky-winky and drinky-drinky— though this being aimed at men, it was more of a “meat and potatoes opera,” which brings us to the Bonanza steakhouse the lads ran on the outskirts of the Ponderosa. Timber and livestock production were the original revenue generator on the Ranch, but the Cartwrights would soon discover that satiating the appetites of snowbirds in neighboring Lake Tahoe was a bloody gold mine. Life would imitate art and soon Bonanza® restaurants began dotting the US, as families longed for a place where they could embrace the spirit of the Old West, undertip the wait staff, while partaking of overcooked steaks, twice baked potaters and something called a “salad bar,” sans spit shield in the early days. At one point there were over 500 Bonanza restaurants, but alas, like the Cartwrights, they were soon riding into the sunset. The show ran fourteen seasons before Trapper John went off to war, Little Joe moved to a Little House on the Prairie, Hoss bit the bullet and ‘ole Ben Cartwright got into the dogfood business — ALPO® Beef Chunks, based on one of Hop Sing's recipes. A doff of the ten gallon hat to the original Galloping Gourmets.  The Cartwrights. All hat, all cattle. Abbon-bloody-danza™!

Remembering $9.11

A doff of the hairnet to Carl Buddig and his sandwich crews at Subway® for bravely recognizing the fallen on this sad day in history, and to the fearless blokes at the Bloomin' Onion™ news service for having the wherewithwhatever to run this marvelous advert. What better way to whet the noon-hour whistle and chase away those Bin Laden blues than with this delightful $9.11 promotion?! Towering twin sarnies stacked with razor-thin old cuts and thick-cut condom-mints like green peppers, pitted olives and bacon flakes — which everyone knows go great on bologna — along with a dollop of gooey spittle in the mayo from the man in the plasticine gloves if you speak to him poorly. (Don't say you didn't have it coming to you!) What’s more, the legendary zipped bag meat purveyor Master Buddig will add a mile-high Coca Cola® for .99 cents and “sweeten” the deal even further with a free Famous Amos 'n Andy™ dark chocolate chunk cookie. Brilliantine! Let the bloody cowards at Jiminy John’s and PotBellied act as though this day never happened. There’s a line forming at the nearest Subway and I'm "flying on in," lickety splickety! 

Birdbrained

Celebrating a Deathday™ (September 10, 1997): Web-footed criminal mastermind Oswald Cobblepot of Gotham City, USA. Raised by sewer-dwelling penguins, the gadget-happy ornithologist turned to a life of crime after his dastardly trick umbrellas failed to woo the heart of cat-suited prick-teaser Julie Newmar. In his prime time, the squawking, top-hat-and-monocled "Penguin" proved a wily foe for Police Commissioner Gordon and dunderheaded Chief O’Hara. Tooling about in his tricked-out Pengymobile and ably assisted by the deviously-monikered, bowler-hatted henchman — Hawkeye, Swordfish, Pushbroom, Dustbag and Thingamabob — he unleashed smoke bombs, itching powder, exploding gum, hand buzzers and whoopee cushions on unsuspecting, law-abiding citizenry and watched the bedlam ensue. His Iceberg Lounge was a successful money-laundering front before being shuttered for repeated code violations by millionaire Bruce Wayne and nut-thrusting sidekick Burt Ward. Cobblepot would eventually see the errors of his ways and trade in his purple tuxedoes for Champion® gym wear to become the boxing cornerman of legendary “eye-talian stallion” Robert “Rocky” Balboa, Sr. Bloody hell. Happy Anni-hearse-ary™, Citizen Waddler.

Meat the Bumsteads

If Memory Swerves™, ‘twas on this day in history — September 9, 1930 — that the Bumstead family of Scott Joplin, Missouri — the Kardashians of their day, minus the nipple slips, coochie waxes and bi-racial baby showers — made their first appearance in broadsheets across the pond. Family patriarch Dagwood — onetime heir to the Bumstead Locomotive® fortune until he was disowned for marrying a certain blonde flapper — mum Blondie (née Boopadoop), son Alexander (aka, Baby Dumpling), daughter Cookie and dog Daisy delighted readers with their tales of mundanity and sandwich-making in middle class America. Though their illustrated reality blog was titled “Blondie" — and enjoyed a brief, late 1950s run on the telly with platinum maned songbird Deborah Harry (above) in the title role — Dagwood often took center stage, and when he wasn't hurtlin' himself down the staircase or mowin' down the postman enroute to the carpool or jawin' with door-to-door salesmen or eyeballin' daughter Cookie’s suitors or goin' toe-to-toe with construction company employer Julius Caesar “JC” Dithers, the slick-haired everyman spent his idle hours crafting the trademark lunchtime favorite that carried his name. “Enjoy Every Sandwich®,” ole' Dag would exclaim before diving headlong into an olive-topped assemblage of Impossible® plant-based meats, dairy-free nut cheeses and organically harvested lettuce and tomatoes. Today, the multi-tiered Dagwood® is as popular as ever, faithfully recreated by the artisanal foodsmiths at UberMeats® and DoorDash'd off to dope blowers too overcome with hunger to get off the bloody sofa.

Boarding the A-Train To PoundTown

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history (September 8, 2012) — in the early morning hours of a Charleston, South Carolina Awful House® — grill operator “Jumbo” Jim Bob Peppers and large-lunged wait staff associate Faith Gunderson first rendezvoused in a cluttered, though not altogether uncomfortable, storage closet and boarded the A-Train to PoundTown. ‘Twas a long overdue pleasure cruise that came urgently, so to speak, on the heels of the All-You-Can-Stumoch-Pancake™ rush at midnight — after the last of the gluttons departed to spill their guts in the parking lot and the dishwasher exited to get his drink on — leaving the two anxious, first-time travelers alone to finalize their trip plans under the fluorescents hazy glow. Today, their stories playfully conflict with one another — Jumbo insists ‘twas he who gave the “all clear” sign for Faith to vacate her counter post whilst he locked the front door and flipped the “Open” sign to “Be Right Back,” but Faith says ‘twas she who instructed Jumbo to “cozy up” their “roomette” with "birthday candles or something," whilst she took care of some pre-departure business in the ladies room — but in the end, by all accounts, ‘twas a rocky, exhilarating thrill ride for the fleshy seat mates and they've been getting their tickets punched — "Takin' it to PoundTown," as their charming anniversary "tees" proclaim — ever since. Jumbo is said to be considering a run for Mayor of PoundTown, with the proper blessing of the First Lady Elect herself. Bravo, Citizen Rail Enthusiasts™! All aboard!!

Who's The Daddy?

Another Labour Day® has come and gone and the fruits of countless laboured births have now checked into their pink or baby blue-hued Extended Stay® nursery rooms. Yes, after forty weeks of cramps and cravings, today is a day of reckoning for new parents across the lands. New mums will dote on their blessed baby childs as new mums do — with adoring eyes, tender hands and fulsome bosoms at the ready — whilst new dads endeavor to do their part — carting out soiled nappies at arm's length and spraying Ye Olden Spiced™ aftershave about the flat, before shuffling off to their various job sites — be they factories or hellish, open office spaces — where they'll wrestle with a despicable, nagging notion that visited them in the delivery room when they first laid eyes upon their wailing offspring: "Is it mine?" Well, is he or she? Yours, that is? ‘Tis hard to say, as the little bundle of intermittent joy currently resembles one of those damnable Cabbage Thatched Kids®. A parade of visitors in the coming days will give one further pause. They’ll exclaim, “she has her mummy’s eyes” or “he’s the spittin’ image of his mum,” with nary a mention of dear, young dad's congenial pool. Who’s to say a former boychum didn’t drop anchor nine months back whilst the man of the house was bromancing his mates on a golf weekend? Or that unmarried, neighborhood wanker with the jellied hair and dandy socks, maybe he breezed in whilst someone was out telling tales at the tavern? Maybe? Alas...maybe not. This one is most assuredly on you, Citizen Impregnators™, so bury those foolish notions but good! Stuff them properly down your piehole, deep down into your stumoch where all unresolved feelings belong. Wake up, man up and pipe down! Don't blow this like your bloody dad (pictured) and the world will be the better for it. In a few short weeks, you'll be climbing 'board the conjugal bed again and all will be right with the world. Count your blessings, spring for the box of bubbled gum cigars and take our station house well wishes to heart.

That's a wrap

Celebrating a Deathday™: The station house lost one of its own September 6, 2108 with the passing of Santa Luisa, California homicide detective Dan August. The handsome, plainly-clothed August was barely out of his 20s when he famously caught the eye of a Hollywood casting agent who took August from his patrol car and planted him behind the wheel of an Olympia® beer-hauling, 18-wheel truck for his star-turning role as Burt "Bandit" Reynolds in “Smokey Joe and the Bandit.” When the devilish, moustachioed bandito blithely outran former bus driver-turned lawless southern sheriff Ralph "Smokey Joe" Kramden, audiences — and honourable police officials — cheered. Smokey Joe was a shameful excuse for a lawman and his pencil thin moustache didn’t hold a candle to Bandit's fulsome crumb-catcher. I have it on some authority — or possibly, invention — that one night on production, August — having grown weary of Kramden's "to the moon" histrionics — eyed a box of Reynolds Wrap® aluminium foil at a Kraft™ service table and tossed it in the direction of his heavysweat-stained screen nemesis, uttering the now familiar phrase, "That's a wrap." The bell-bottomed actor then cackled and sauntered back to his trailer, signaling the end of the shooting day. The wily August would become a popular, wise-cracking, bow-and-arrow-firing everyman with a cocked eye — and cock-holstered velvetine trousers — for women of all persuasion, squiring elder talk show Hostess Twinkies®, bleach blonde Cincinnati radio station receptionists and the bloody Flying Nun® herself. In later years, the birthday-suited machismo man took to the center spread eagle in Metropolitan magazine before turning to film direction, lensing long-shlong performances from Dierks Diggler, at the behest of Dom DeLuise. In the end, we remember Dan August with fondness as a simple 70s patrolman who did his noble best amongst fringe-jacketed long hairs. Happy Anni-hearse-ary, Citizen Augustan.

Flame Retardants

Well, as I live and breathe dangerous levels of airborne toxicity or, perhaps, plumes of second-hand opium! If it isn’t the clown princes of psychedelia! The freakazoids of the festival fairgrounds! The multi-instrumental mind-benders from Okoboji, The Red Hot Flaming Lips®!! Bravo, Perry Farrell and the nameless lot of you! You’re looking fine and dandy — which is to say, joyful and ridiculous in your crowned and costumed splendour. Hey, Perry Farrell, if I may so boldly inquire, what was all that business about Yoshimi and the Pink Robots — or was it the Spiders From Mars — that you were yowling about with such earnest? Let me get this straight: Impish, young Yoshimi is a black belt in karate, workin’ for the city, she likes to discipline her body. Got it. I’m imagining yoga, Jazzercise™ and the rest of it. But the part about her battling evil-natured robots that are programmed to destroy us?! It sounds as though you and the lads got into some bad shiitake mushrooms, haha. Truth be told, I liked it better when you were extolling the merits of Vaseline™ petroleum jelly as a hair lubricant. As any barber will attest, a dollop of pomade keeps one coiffed all the livelong day, but it took you mad wankers to tunefully inform the unkempt long hairs in your audience of this fact! Now if you can only convince them to run a lathered cake soap under their arms and up their bums, we might all breathe easier. I bid adieu, then, and give proper blessings to the nonsensical sideshow that is The Red Hot Flaming Lips! May you journey safely across the mud-caked festival fairgrounds and up into the extra-terrestrial cosmic sphere!!

Roger That: Remembering Major Roger Healey

The station house sends its condolences to the family of U.S. Space Force® Major Roger Healey, who passed away at the age of 91. A decorated astro-nautician, Healey was also something of a stumblebum and an endearing one at that. He came of age at a time when the world was properly respective of uniformed officials, and as the girl crazy sidekick of Major J.R. “Anthony” Nelson, Healey played the uniform card to the Hilti®, finding himself in curvaceous company every time his capsule touched down from one of his space age missions. Of course, the one woman he wanted but couldn’t have — and no, it wasn't Dr. Alfred Bellows' blonde missus, though her affections for the good Major were evident — 'twas the multi-scarved Arabian princess with the exposed tummy, the girl they called Jeannie With The Light Browne Hair Extensions™, who, alas, only had eyes for the masterful Ewing Oil® scion Major Nelson. Nelson and Jeannie would eventually marry, leaving Healey so glum chummed, he took leave of his government post, moving to the godforsaken Second Tier City™ of Chicago, changing his bloody name and rank, to that of a civilian aviation capacity, i.e., commercial pilot Howard Borden, condominium neighbor of Dr. Robert Taft-Hartley and his charming, barren missus, Suzanne Pleasurette™. Today, we remember with fondness Citizen Airmen™ Major Roger Healey, off to that great space station in the sky, with laughter tracking cued, September 4, 2018.

Old Yeller: Words of wis-dumb from a short-sleeved football coachin' feller

Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ to the most-quoted sideline philosopher in all of bloody sports: Hard-nosed, gap-toothed American football fireplug Vincenzo Lombardo, life coach of the Green Bay Meat Packerers. In addition to bringing two hallowed — possibly hollowed — Super Balls™ to the godforsaken tundra of Michigan's Upper Peninsula, the long-winded, short-sleeve-shirted Tweeterer™ amassed enough 140-word adages, axioms, maxims, truisms, platitudes — and other words meaning roughly the same thing—to fill a smartly designed Pinterest® pinboard. Herewith, our top 10 Lombardo Leaps of Logic: 1) “Winning isn’t the only thing. There’s also losing, but that's the thing we hope to avoid.” 2) “Show me a good loser and I’ll show you both the door. The door will be locked, the key nowhere to be found and good luck finding a locksmith at this hour.” 3) “The spirit, the will to win and the will to excel are the things that endure, unlike stomach distress, which eventually passes.” 4) “Winning is not a sometime thing. It’s an all-time thing — a morning, noon and night-time-across-the-various-time-zones type thing.” 5) “Winners never quit, quitters never win and quilters never whine, because quilting is a multi-coloured — if tedious — joy to behold.” 6) “Leaders are made, they're not born. Anybody can be born. Hell, go down to the maternity ward and they're poppin' 'em out as we speak.“ 7) “The only place where ‘success’ comes before ‘work’ is in the dictionary. Unless your dictionary is Spanish-to-English, or the binding is shot and you have whole sections missing.” 8) “If winning isn’t everything, why do they keep score, and why did I take Mr. Baseball Pete Rose’s money and put it on our guys?” 9) “The difference between a successful person and others is not a lack of strength, nor a lack of knowledge, but it is a lack of something, I just can’t quite put a finger on it.” 10) “I love Brian Piccolo.” Indeed. Pictured here shouting life affirmations at anyone within earshot, Coach Lombardo took his final Run to Daylight on this day, September 3, 1970. RIP, Old Yeller.

The Wicker Man

'Tis a beautiful day in the neighbour "wood," if you'll allow it, a summer day — the last of them and the last summer weekend according to a check of the station house astronomer's telesope — a day of respite for some, the working men and woman who are the lifeblood — and backbone — of the economic machine, but not those working at the "big box" retailers — as the marketing dopes would have it — for what better way to mark the equinox thingy with an end-of-summer sale on seasonal furnishings! Indeed, a day of 18-hour "blowouts," all featuring detestable, mass-produced steel and plasticine patio ensembles, whose rigid conformity is frankly an affront to the hand-sewn brilliance of rattan and the weather-beaten tenacity of wicker! Fortunately, I am not alone in desiring more organic structures in the great outdoors. For the penultimate in natural comfort, consider the achievements of station house computer technician and treehugger bugger Donal "Woody" Watts. The Woodman has fashioned an outdoor recliner that would put a bloody hammock to shame; a piece of living art, eight years in the making. They said he couldn't do it, but here he is, kicking his curiously non-organic Croc® heels and having the last, long-bearded laugh. Bravo, Citizen Arborist™! 

London Buildings Burning Down

If Memory Swerves™, ‘twas on this night in history—September 1, 1666—that the Great Fire of London was started, inadvertently, by a bearded, ink-skinned artisanal baker and when all was said and undone, four days later, the entirety of the medieval town was burnt to a crisp, with 80 per cent of the buildings consumed, including over 13,000 three flats and thatched country cottages, 87 "perish" churches, the Guilded Hall, the Royal Music Exchange and St. Paul Weller's Cathedral, not to mention every corner coffee shop, fish ‘n chip haunt and microbrewery pubhouse, all because some nitwitted Pudding Lane bohemian had a craving for a cheesy Bravissimo® pizza and left it in the oven all night after climbing into a Sleep Number® bed with Rose, the family's comely maidservant, doing his dirty business and nodding off. ‘Tis true, or true enough, as best we can gather; the errant gent's name was Thomas Farriner and he served King Charles the II or III, baking Wonder Bread® for the Royal Old Navy. As the story goeth, the two-timing buggerer escaped the fire, exiting through an upstairs Gilkey® replacement window with his family, whilst his slumbering mistress perished along with her illicit secrets in a bed set to her ideal comfort level. Now, some of the more conspiratorial minded e-citizenry might scroll 'round the Twitternet™ photo libraries and think—or tweet, exhaustively—"well lookee here, the Great Fire wasn’t so Great after all, as it didn’t take out Big Ben, Westminister Abbey, Buckingham Nicks Palace, nor that giantine glass Shard thingy," and that would be true, though those structures weren’t built for 'nother couple hundred years, thank you very kindly yer arses. In any case, the station house requests a moment of silence, as we remember—so to speaketh—the Great Fire of London, which, again, wasn’t so great if you owned a structure without proper, Progressive® brand property insurance. On a more pleasing, closing note, music fans will remember that hit-making R&B sensations from 'cross the pond, Earth, Wind, “Fire” & Other Random Elements In Nature, respectfully commemorated the tragedy with their song “September” in 1978. Baa-dee-yaa.