A Waxing of the Whiskers

A doff of the patrolman’s helmet and a waxing of the whiskers to the legion of Mo’ Bros whose bristly batons made this a Movember to Remember™. Bravo, Citizens Hirsute! Whilst tastes and genetics dictate the style and heft of one’s crumb catcher, methinks most every moustache has merit, with obvious exceptions throughout history such as the toothbrush moustache popularized by self-pleasuring Deutschbag™ Adolpho Hitler and courtroom roundballer Michael Jordan, and the No. 2 pencil thin moustachio sported by actor/annoyance Sean Penn. Yours Truly Dooley® prefers a bit of twirl to his tea strainer — handlebars for a proper moustache ride, if you will, and why wouldn't you, haha! On that note, we bring this Movember to a close — which is not to say "close shave" as we are inclined to leave the straightedge in the medicinal cabinet and the brow atop the upper lip until further notification. Right! 

The Kid And The Kaboodles

Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ to professional middle finger flipper Robert “Kid Rock” Ritchie and human flotation device Pamela Sue Martin-Anderson, whose marriage died on this day November 29, 2006. It was just 4 months old. Unlike some celebrity partings that end with the couple proclaiming their phony baloney respect for one another, there was no chance these two love turds would remain friends. “We said our I dos, we did and were done,” read their grammatically-challenged statement. Indeed, their animosity was as steep as the angle of young Mister Rock’s near-constant erection during his marriage to the former Nancy Drew® playmate, later Babewatch™ lifeguard, later wife of enormously-endowed sex tape superstar drummer Tommy Lee Jones-Anderson. For her well-sculpted part, Ms. Anderson referred to the Kid as “a sleazy, greasy fuckstick,” while he replied with his trademark snicker, “That’s the nicest thing that big-titted whore ever said about me.” 'Twas a shame, as their wedding was said to be a holy-moley affair at sea. The bride wore white trash, while the wife-beater T-shirted groom wore out his welcome instantly when he flipped off the Captain of the Love Boat® cruise liner they were married aboard. “Love, bare-assed and new,” crooned warbler Jack Jones-Anderson off a loose leaf sheet of re-realized lyrics compliments of Rock, “Come aboard, we’re expecting you to pound away on every square inch of waterproofed, chlorine-scented laminate.” During their time together, the two would consummate their union vigorously, publicly — utilizing every lubricating, vibrating sexual aid and restraining device available from Lover's Lame® online — and were said to be thrusting through the motions as they signed the papers ending their star-crossed, salad-tossed union.

Choke-latier

Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ to murderous Milwaukee chocolatier Jeffrey Dahmer. A bone-a-fide member of the carving crew at the once-renowned Ambrosia Chocolate® factory on Carmen Avenue, Jeffrey spent his days surrounded by  chocolate — milk chocolate, dark chocolate, white chocolate, chocolate truffles, chocolate-covered strawberries and pretzels, chocolate Easter bunnies and Santy Clauses — even those bloody cascading-chocolate fountains found in all-you-can-stumoch Golden Corral® restaurants — yet he dedicated his evenings to matters decidedly less tasteful. Though he enjoyed no formalized epicurean schooling, Dahmer was knowledgeable in the sculpting of chocolates and inventive in his art, yet never too busy not to offer assistance to a chocolate novitiate—or perhaps a ride home to share chocolate kisses or a six-pack of Milwaukee's Best® tall boy beers and a litre of Night Train®. Dahmer was well on his way to earning the title “master chocolatier” when Milwaukee police discovered an assemblage of skulls and severed human appendages in his flat at the Oxford Apartments. This event not only got him promptly booted out of the chocolatiers union, but sent off to prison, where the fudge packer was beaten to death with a broomstick handle on November 28, 1994. Nowadays, the sweet scent of bubbling chocolate still wafts over Milwaukee’s west side; however, ‘tis no longer the domain of Ambrosia Chocolate. The once-thriving, one-hundred-year concern's goodly name was sullied beyond repair thanks to their infamous former stablemate and the company was sold to a larger outfit, whose chocolate division — or rather, subtraction — is called ADM Cocoa. Presumably, the “D” does not stand for Dahmer.

Freddie's Dead

Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ to the hairiest-chested man in the history of music: Buck-toothed, stretch-panted singer/strutter nonpareil Farrokh “Freddie” Bulsara. In years prior, I would've wagered a goodly sum that Bulsara was a Brit, having risen to international fame as the voice of the quintessential English band of the 70’s and 80’s — Queen® — but I've since learned in my Twitternet™ patrolling capacity that Freddie was, in fact, born in bloody Zanzibar, which is one of those exotic-sounding places like Madagascar or Xanadu that end up us as amusement ride monikers, Disney movies or song titles by Olivia Newton Johns. (No relation to yours truly Dooley Johns.) Zanzibar also lays claim to being an “archipelago,” whatever that means. (Oh crikey, I know what it means, it’s a fancy way of saying, “island nation,” but then, so is the United Kingdom and you don’t see us touting it on our webpage.) Bulsara was raised in the Persi or Parsi — or Parsley, for all I know — faith, one of those eastern religions where the women solder teal gemstones to their foreheads and the men smoke hookahs and play the bloody sitar on the floor with their legs crossed. Now, no offense intended, but if you were aspiring to be a world famous rock star, you would think that being born in Zanzibar of the Parsi faith would be two bloody strikes against you — and you would be right, Chumley, as only a move to England in his teens saved Freddie from strikes three and four, and sent him on the pathway to becoming a proper rock-and-roller, which is to say: He went to art school, let his hair grow, infuriated mum and dad, changed his name to Mercury — Molten Lava, was taken, haha — shagged galfriend number one, shagged boyfriends number one and two, joined a number of lukewarm bands with names like The Toy Poodles and The Island Spices, met up with afro-haired guitar wizard Brian May and drummer Roger Taylor, returned to galfriend number one, who helped fashion his open-chested stage attire, as well as some early band logos, even though Freddie was the one with the graphic design chops, which led to a horrible dust-up and Freddie moving out and back into the arms of boyfriend number two, three of four, growing his trademark, wiry dark-chocolate moustachio, slapping on the shiny leather and such. ‘Twas all for the best, of course, as for years, Freddie and his mates in Queen laid waste the notion that the Beatle Brothers® would forever speak for England and thank the bloody Parsi Gods for that! Alas, he fell ill and would suffer near the end of his too brief tenure on terra firma and 'tis with sadness and fondness that we acknowledge and celebrate the deathday™ — November 27, 1991 — of the Rhapsodic Bohemiam himself, the late, great Freddie Mercury. He was the champion, my friends, and he kept on fighting 'til the bloody end.

A Thousand Thanks

In a nod to our distant relations celebrating Thanksgiving Day™ 'cross the pond, and the growing number doing so on this side of it, we offer a thousand thanks, in no inparticular order: I am thankful for the stretch and support of my police-issued BVD®s. I am thankful for the straight-faced resolve of the Queen’s Guard, rifles at the ready! I am thankful for the snarling cinema legacy of Mr. James Cagney, the tuneful pleasantries of Procol Harum and the good-humored heroics of Stalag 13's Colonel Robert E Hogan. I am thankful for the videotaped recordings of Quinn Martin's police procedurals that I keep under lock and key here at the station house. I am thankful that Beano® enzymatic supplements capably suppress the stumoch-churning gastro byproducts of my favorite seasonal foodstuffs, root beers and gelatins. I am thankful that a vast waterway separates me from the mud-spinnin', shit-kickin’ crackers in the American south, particularly Texas, Ohio and Florida — though I am partial to the later's squozen juices, which big-haired homo sapien hater Anita Bryant once claimed was as essential as sunshine — with the exception of New Orleans, whose Mardi Gras bead wearers I could get jiggy with. I am thankful for the only good thing to come out of Canada — Canadian bacon — and tolerant of the other — Justin Beaver — as my grandniece has become afflicted with his eponymous Fever. I am thankful that white-wigged balladeer Dennis DeYoung has light sensitivity that keeps him out of the spotlight and pray that fop-topped fatty Elton John Lewis will be nudged out of it as well. I am thankful for teachers who never laid an improper hand on me and the naughty neighbor lass who long-ago did. I am thankful to have known and loved relations now passed and those still among us, near and far, excepting my shamefully indecent sister-in-law Clara the Cosmetologist™, who is a bit too near, having stumbled in at all hours Monday eve for her annual visit and is presently heaving her drunken miseries into the side hedge. I am thankful for the sturdy roof over my head and the sleeping quarters separate from the rip-snorting, if dear, old bird who once shared my bed. I am thankful for rewarding Internet police work and respectful online citizenry who recognize it as such. I am thankful for the ribald brilliance and gap-toothed accoutrements — carnationed lapel, cigarette holder, the lot of it! — of Finchley's Terry-Thomas (pictured here). 'Tis a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World Wide Web and I am bloody thankful for it!

The Simpson

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Witchy Woman

The wicked witch of the west will arrive this holiday, not by broomstick, but by bus. My foul-mouthed sister-in-law Clara the cosmetologist will make her first trek to town since burying her fourth husband this summer. Upon arrival, she'll make a big show of deceitfully unveiling a “homemade” bread-and-butter pudding trifle that she actually purchased from a petrol station convenience outlet; the same bloody petrol mart that stocks cartons of her beloved Doral® cigarettes that she’ll suckle in the toilet, in direct defiance of household rules. After she tires of the obligatory exchange of family pleasantries, she’ll fashion some excuse that gains her a quick exit — "clear my head/stretch my legs/scratch my arse" — and make a beeline for the nearest pub house, where she'll seek out a game of snooker and/or a lonely bloke to keep her glass filled on the promise of some tawdry coupling. The penance will surely be steep, mates. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Run for your lives!

Emissions of Mercy

"Fart With Confidence™" reads the advert for Shreddies® Flatulence Filtering Underwear — "and with repeating vigor," I'll add, for after a daylong station house trial, I can confirm that Shreddies carbon-lined rear-coverage provides miraculous odour capture, indeed. With our concern of unpleasant emission now officially allayed, Yours Truly Dooley® plans to fearlessly partake of the autumnal dietary spectrum this season — Cornish hen, turkey bird and stuffing, spiral ham off the hambone, steamed broccoli, boiled cabbage, cauliflower and all manner of legumes, garlic mash potatoes, cheesy potatoes awe gratin, Mother Johns signature 7-Layer salad, succulent sausage bangers and beef rib tips, devilish eggs, creamed soups, cold slaw, crammed berries and the entire spread of dessert offerings, creamy custards and cakes — and for the morning constitutional, steel-cut oats and iron-rich bran flakes, apricots and raisins — all in great quantities, without a care to the consequence, mixed company be damned, or in this instance blessed. Speaking of company, we have a surprise for our Thanksgiving guests this week: one pair of Shreddies® for each relations — S, M and XXXL — who will be instructed to "swap undies" upon arrival for the annual feasting. Methinks the family will universally approve of a visit where "farting around" no longer implies devastating — room-evacuating — expulsion and that any discussion of gas rightly revolves 'round the price of petrol at the pump. Pass the buttery turnips!

"We Changed the Powdery Creamer in our Hot Bevvies. What will you Change?"

Things you can change: Your undershorts, your underarm deodorant, your cake soap and toilet water, the elevation and curvature of your pompadour, your facial hair styling, the knot in your necktie, the width of your suit lapels, the sheerness of your stockings, the tautness of your garter belts, the hemline of your hoop skirt, the pennies in your Weejun® loafers, the jelly on your breakfast crumpet, your morning calisthenic, your bus route to corporate, the cushion on your office chair, the radio station on your desktop transistor and, above all, your attitude and work habits. Change is hard, but change is good! Self improvement is yours, Citizen 9-to-5-ers! Today is more than the beginning of the work week. 'Tis the first day of the rest of your bloody lives. Go now!! 

Sign of a Happy Marriage

Halt! Hold it right there, e-Citizen Conjugalists! If you insist on issuing inked proclamations 'cross the Twitternet™ for all the world to see, endeavor to use proper punctuation! To do otherwise heaps even greater shame on the shoulders of your long-suffering single parent mums, who did their noble best to get you through high school and one year of cosmetology college, bartendering classes or the equivalent. For your information, the felt-tip-markered signage you're holding is one comma stroke short — hence the station house correction in red, left — as 'tis required before a sentence-ending “too,” for reasons unbeknownst to anyone other than the Sisters Of Perpetual Grammar Instruction and Spirit Deflation. Now, as to the “messaging” contained therein, I wouldn’t hazard to guess as to why your marriage was once deemed illegal — OK, I’ll haphazard to guess: In olden days, mixed-breed sexualists were not allowed to unionize for fear of recessive gene fallout in their offspring’s DNA, further spiraling the dumbing-down of a socialist society or something. A racialist notion, indeed, and one you've wisely chosen to disregard, so bully for you, endearly beloveds; however, if I may offer some marital counsel: ‘Tis my belief that a couple ought not parade 'round extolling their love for one another — whether you’re celebrity lovebirds on the cover of Parade® magazine or two dopes waving a handmade sign online — as you’re tempting the fates — and inevitably, there's a falling out (of the marital bed), a storming off to a sibling's apartment, a blocking of one another on the social, an ill-advised mating with a work chum and rueing of the day you exchanged marital rows. So keep the signs to yourself, your nose to one another's arse ends and your share of the chores done and your marriage may stand a chance of remaining legal, which is to say, intact.

The Two Stooges

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in music history — November 20, 1957 — that two fresh-scrubbed jarheads from Queensboro, North Carolina — Tom Graph and Jerry Landers — boarded a two-bit MegaBus® up to Intercourse, PA to sing their cow-licked Cath-o-lic schoolboy hearts out on American Blandstand™ and were promptly laughed off the stage. Mind you, this was when Blandstand set the bland standard; bands got just one shot and if the mopey steel town teens in attendance didn't like the cut of your jib, they’d sling hot CheeseSteak-Umms® slices at you and run you off the stage. When Graph and Landis were introduced as “Tom & Jerry,” the catcalls came swiftly; 'twas a shame, as the lads could harmonize and, indeed, later had a regional hit 'bout a ferry boat ride called "Cross the Jersey." Alas, their journey up the iron ore summit was brief and they would soon find themselves on the rock 'n roll scrapheap along with other never-was duos of the era, including Pakistani sensations Parsely & Sage, sibling duo Rosemary & Thyme and progressive forebears Ferrante & Teicher. Tom & Jerry later resurfaced, renamed, as miming annoyances Shields & Yarnell, charting with the horrible, close-captioned sailor's prostitutional ode “Brandy” or possibly "Mandy," before heading off to look for bloody America or something.

Hey, Killer

Random Memorandum® to Citizen Songbird™ Brandon Lee Flowers of Las Vegas house band The Killerers. Let me get this straight, Chumley: Somebody told you that he or she had a boyfriend who looked like a girlfriend that you had in February of last year? What in blue denim blazes does that mean? I've heard my share of tall tales whilst patrolling the vast and serpentine Misinformation Superhighway™, but that one takes the bloody crumbcake! To begin with, the galfriend you had in February of last year would be news to your Mormon missus, but we'll set that aside with the assumption you've been flashing your artistic license again. Help me out though, matey: The boyfriend, can we assume he has feminine characteristics or are you implying 'tis the galfriend with the opposing features — the Adam's apple, large hands and such? You say it was only a month-long affair; well, that’s the way of love and heartbreak and birds who resemble blokes, isn’t it, haha? Now, the person who had the boyfriend who looked like the bloody galfriend, was this a gent or a lass? Seems a fair question given today's gender-bendering climate — not that there's anything wrong or prolonged with it — I’m merely having trouble tracking. As for the somebody who told you, 'tis not particularly important, though it does give one pause. Lastly, you say it’s not confidential. Clearly not, as I’ve been hearing you prattle on about it from the massive Marantz® cabinetry speakers in the station house forever and a livelong day. In closing, we would be obliged for any assistance you can provide as we continue to investigate this confounding matter. Yours Truly, Internet Patrolman Dooley®.

Scatman and The Sno-Cat®

Celebrating a Deathday™: Dick “Scatman” Hallorann, clairvoyant chef of the doomed Overlook Hotel died on this day, November 18, 1986. A native of Terre Haute, Indiana — home of the Columbia House® mail-order music club, whose members receive 8 vinyl records for the price of 1 penny, and an additional 3 records FREE upon purchase of just 1 album at list price ($89.99) — Hallorann and young Danny, the caretaker’s son, shared a telepathic gift, what Hallorann’s grandmammy called a “shining.” He warned Danny to stay out of Room 237, but Danny didn’t listen and all bloody hell broke loose — a tidal wave of blood, that is, cascading through the elevators doors in slow motion whilst Danny furiously peddled his Big Wheel® trike down the hall to safety, chanting "REᗡЯUM! REᗡЯUM!" and navigating 'round the dead Grady twins like traffic cones! What a sight, or rather, fright! Fortunately for Danny and scaredy cat mum Shelley Duvall, a “shining” premonition brought the vacationing Hallorann back to the Overlook, up the snow-covered mountain on a giantine Sno-Cat® to save the day. Alas, poor Scatman took an axe to the stumoch from crazed, writers-blocked Randall Patrick McMurphy, who would meet a brutal demise of his own, freezing to death in the hotel hedge maze, whilst Danny and Shelley drove off in the Sno-Cat, because anyone can operate one of those things. Good show! Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ to Dick “Scatman” Hallorann, who checked into the other, otherworldly Overlook Hotel — the one in the sky — on this day at age 76.

America, America, God Shed His Wrath On Thee

Why does floppy-haired Celebrity Realtor™ Derwood Trumpeteer hate America? Why does Hawaiian Islander™ Barry “Brock” Obama hate America? Why does the Holy Ghostly Pontiff-icator Pope Francisco Bergoglio hate bloody America? What is it about this earnest band of soft-rocking California long-hairs that draws the ire of the citizenry at either end of the political and religulous spectrum? ‘Tis confounding! The red-necked staters hate America! The blue-balled staters hate America! Tattooed twenty-somethings hate America! Unmasked (and unwarshed) gun-toters hate America! Organic farmers hate America! The stretch-panters at Lululemon Athletica® hate America (but they love the female form, haha!) Judging from my patrols of the chit-chatrooms 'round the vast and serpentine Arnold "Alf" Gore Memorial Misunformation Superhighway™, 'twould seem that everything on God’s green earth divides fathers, sons and grand-pappies, except for their universal distaste of the nationalistically-monikered band America. Bloody hell. Well, allow me to offer a dissenting opinion. I, for one, rather like America! I’ve never been through a desert on “A Horse With No Name (Nor Forwarding E-Mail Address),” but I don’t doubt that “the heat is hot” nor that there are “plants and birds and rocks and all manner of desert-like things” within plain sight. And while I’ve yet to travel the “Ace Ventura Highway,” methinks that when I do, 'twill be with a lovingly imagined, sun-swept “Sister (Though Not In The Biological Sense) Golden Hair” close at my side. Live long and posture, Messrs. Bunnell, Peckley and Peek! Citizen Troubadours™, nonpareil! ‪#‎StopHatingOnBloodyAmerica‬

38D-E-A-D

Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ to all-that-and-a-bag-of-Arthur-Treachers® English actress Imogen Hassall, aka, “The Countess of Cleavage.” A native of Woking, Surrey, the sonsie Imogen studied at the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art before producers began studying her unkind and shuffling her off to the unseemly world of B-C-and-D-cup movie production, after which audiences, too, began studying the rubbery lass in trashy roles in the late ‘60’s. Her efforts included the warped-as-they-sound, “Mumsy, Nanny, Sonny and the Well-Endowed Girly,” “The Well-Endowed Virgin and the Gypsy” and “Well-Endowed White Cargo, Black Heat." Imogen and her décolletage entourage were as familiar a sight on the red carpets as they were the silver screen, spilling out of her top at third-tier premieres and unhinged bacchanalias on either side of the pond. Though her death was ruled a suicide, the station house is of a mind that her overdose on Tuinal capsules was accidental, as the comely, come-over-here-and-luv-me madam surely had more to live for. Remembering Imogen Hassall, 38D: Dead @ 38 on November 16, 1980.

Salt-N-Pepa Shakers

A birthday shout-out to multi-instrumentalist-styling-guru Joe Leeway (pictured here, right) of the 1980’s mixed-raced hair-trio Salt-N-Pepa. Born November 15, 1955 in Islington, London, Joe was raised in Darlington, Kent where he kept his curlicued locks cropped close to his scalp. After university, Joe was briefly a teacher, as well a British Equity actor before hearing the synthesized siren call of new wave music. Originally a roadie for Tom Bailey and Alannah Curry’s husband-and-homely-wife-duo the Thompson Twins, Joe gave the odd couple a much needed kick in the parachute pants, joining the group as the “Pepa” to their “Salt.” Renamed Salt-N-Pepa, the trio became an international sensation, charting here and across the pond with synthy sing-a-longs “Hold Me Now (Consensually),” “(What) In the Name of Love (Could Our Stylists Have Been Thinking)” and the disco flava'd “Whatta Man (Whatta Body).” The group eventually disbanded after their cheesy MTV videos rained shame upon band members and fans alike. Today, Joe is a hypnotherapist in Tarzana, California where he tousles his still-curly locks with a light, glossy pomade for a no-fuss bounce.

Get 'Em While They're Hot!

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history — November 14, 1965 — that Kellogg’s Pop Tarts® were created. The flour-laden, fruit-dusted breakfast rectangulars were named after jarheaded youth football pioneer Glennon "Pops" Warner — who also inspired Kellogg's "Pop-sicle®" frozen confection and who always advised young ballers to bring sugary treats to games to keep their energy up during extended parent/referee skirmishes. Pop Tarts required no refrigeration and came pre-cooked in a special foil packaging that magically brought the tarts from room temp to piping hot upon opening. (If you don't believe me, I have the bloody scars on the roof of my mouth to prove it!) Originally available in Red Mango®, POM®egranate and Coastal Cabernet, Pop Tarts were an instant hit on both sides of the pond, as well as Australia for a time, until the Crocodile Dundee craze struck and people started saying, "that's not a knife, THAT'S A KNIFE" and stopped having anything to do with America and Pop Tarts altogether. Alas, in the 1990s, rumors began circulating on Arnold "Albert" Gore's nascent Twitternet™ that Pop Tarts were even tastier toasted, but consumers discovered otherwise, as Hamilton Beach® toasters were soon bursting into flames upon contact with the frosted coating. 'Twas good news for small appliance repairmen, but not Pop Tarts. Even though teams of lawyers for Kellogg's worked day and night before arriving at the disclaimer, "Don't toast your Tart," the damage was done and the brand was relegated to vending room status in favor of Krispy Kreme® donuts, which are delicious warm, and Toaster Strudel™ from Germany. In recent years, Pop Tarts have experienced something of a rebirth among "Baby Boomers" — which is to say, "Big Whiny Babies In Giant Bloomers" — thanks to a revivalist group of hip-shakers out of Cleveland, Ohio called, appropriately, The Pop Tarts. A few years out of their teens, this girl group is ready for their not-so-close-up! Luscious Lemon Tart Julie Matthews, Wild Blueberry Tart Laura Farrell, Very Cherry Tart Laurie Angie and Sweet Apple Tart Lisa Sommer are bringing goodly upper arm strength and their trademarked tartiness to pub crawls and church halls in the greater, so to speak, Cleveland area. Performing classic songs by such notable girlie bands as Fanny, Twisted Sister and Bonne Jovi, The Pop Tarts are said to be quite popular, as evidenced by a Facebook® page and Instagram accountings of the shows. Brilliantine, m'dears! Pass the flattened jammy treats and let's get this party tarted!

Odd Men Outed

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history, November 13th, that portrait photographer Felix Unger was asked to remove himself from his place of residence. That request came from his missus. Mind you, Unger was no deadbeat martini-swiller and photography was a respectable wage-earning career back then, when prominent studios like Olan Mills® boasted strong books of business on either side of the pond, but out on his elephantine ear he went, nonetheless. Deep down Unger knew that wife Gloria was right, but he also knew that some day he would return to her, but not before a series of Sansa-Belted® night clubbers had their filthy way with her. With nowhere else to go, Unger appeared at the home of his childhood mate, sportswriter Oscar Madison. Several years earlier, Madison's missus, Match Game® foil Brett Somers, had thrown HIM out, requesting that HE never return. The question was whether these two divorced men could share an apartment without driving each other crazy and one tossing the other out a window to his death on the street below. As it turned out, this Odd Couple® of New York gents complemented one another famously, one doing the cooking and cleaning, the other, the belching and farting. Today, men of advancing years who find themselves in an arrangement such as this are more than likely a couple in every sense of the word and why the hell not, with rents being what they are, a one bedroom is more manageable than two. In any case, we remember the trailblazing Messrs. Unger and Madison with fondness on this day and whistle their oddly melancholy theme song as we go about our business.

Thank you for your service or something

As I Understand It™, today, or possibly yesterday — one of the two — is/was a day of international service recognition, a day when the citizenry stand together — albeit 6 ft. apart — in tavereens or restaurant vestibules — waiting an hour for seating, guzzling watery cocktails — to honour the selfless warriors who do what need be done so their fellow countrymen might live free from drudgery — if not free of charge, plus 20% gratuity — in the pursuit of happy-ish. The station house salutes all Citizen Serverers™ — waiterers, bartenderers, bed makerers, police issue boot polisherers, shirt starcherers, toilet scrubberers and other service industry veterans — the everyday heroes who do their part with only mild complaining and occasional skimming of the registerers and drinking of the top shelf liquorers. Happy Service Day one and all!

Every Doggie Doc Has His Day

‘Tis Vet’s Day around the globe and judging from the well-formed — which is to say, curlicued — dog piles littering the sidewalks and roadsides along the information superhighway, Veterinarians are doing a fine job of things. Masterfully schooled in the art of getting a pet to “open wide and say ahh” — or possibly "arf" — Vets are the most modest of medical practitioners, unlike the wanker MDs and surgical know-it-alls who parade around hospitals like God’s gift to humankind, pinching candy stripers’ arses and such. ‘Twould seem to yours truly Dooley that there’s a shortage of proper Vets these days; as I think of it, I can’t honestly say I’ve known anyone to make good on their youthful intentions to go through a Veterinary program. ‘Tis rather like the fields of marine biology or astronomical science — noble professions, to be sure — but when judgment-challenged university freshmen discover the realities of their pie-in-the-sky pursuits — and how much the school end of things will cut into their time raiding sorority panty drawers or binge drinking themselves into a jail cell — they fall back on more ignoble careers, like public relations. In movie lore, Vets are always kindly, rural sorts, obligingly showing up at all hours and shoving their arms up some poor horse’s hoohaa to birth a stuck pony. In the real world, Vets appear to be finally getting their due as legitimate animal scientists; nowadays, you can’t buy dog or cat food that doesn’t carry some veterinarian’s stamp of approval on it. While one imagines that pets tire of their same-same dietary regimens, they are surely spared the calamitous, gastro-intestinal episodes that humans endure in their pursuit of the good life, and 'tis the Vets who make it so. If you have a happy pet — or a ball-less one, like our beloved Bloomfield — salute a Vet on this day. While you’re at it, arm yourself with a sturdy pooper scooper.

The Wretched Sir Edmund Fitzgerald

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history (November 10, 1975), that devious and deranged Canadian folk warbler Gordon Lightfoot concocted a nautical tale so bloody fantastical, so seemingly true-to-life, that a legion of radio programmers and listeners on either side of the pond were hoodwinked into believing it true. According to Lightfoot, an iron ore freighter named “Edmund Fitzgerald” sank on a waterway called "The Great Gitche Gumee,” leaving all 29 aboard buried at sea. ‘Twasn't true, of course, as the head shrinkers at the nuthouse would attest, for the bow-tied, pattern-straight-jacketed Lightfoot had been howling about the imagined ship at all hours of the night, awakening other patients, for years. Originally an aeroplane dubbed the “Charles Lindbergh” — until Lightfoot had trouble with the rhyme scheme and moved seaward — he envisioned the “Edmund Fitzgerald" to be the pride of the American side, comin’ back from some bloody mill in Wisconsin. As big freighters go, 'twas bigger than most, with a crew and good captain well-seasoned, and a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more than the ship weighed empty. Lightfoot painted a vivid picture, indeed. Waves breaking over the bloody railing, the main hatchway caving in at 7 pm, the witches of November huddling in their ice-water mansions. Compelling stuff, factual inconsistencies be damned — Cleveland doesn't front any ocean that I’m familiar with, Whitefish Bay is a bloody suburb of Minnesota and the “Maritime Sailor’s Cathedral” is a popular restaurant/concert hall in Ontario known for their Friday Fish Fry. Unfortunately, back in 1975, citizens had limited access to Twitternet™ fact-checking rooms, as Al Gore had not yet consented to share his grand invention with those outside his circle of Tumblr® topless photograph sharers, so rather than do the necessary library research, people took the tale at face and sang along, while Lightfoot became something of a hero in the insane asylum, successfully bedding nurse practitioners and visiting wives of other patients who didn’t have a chart-topping song to brag about. Lightfoot later moved on to another fictional subject — telepathy — but when he started prattling on about “what a tale his thoughts could tell, just like an old time movie ‘bout ghosts on a wishing well” doctors had heard enough of his bull moose malarkey and sent him packing, out to the street corners with his open guitar case collecting loose change for meals and lodging. Today, Lightfoot (pictured above with his trademark 4-string guitar) still ventures down to waterfronts and sings his tall tale for seafaring enthusiasts drunk enough to believe him.

The Legend of Clementine Titslinger

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history — November 9, 1914 — that Holy Toledo, Ohio™ seamstress Clementine Titslinger patented the first modern "Breast Raising Apparatus" — or "BRA" — and if you don't bloody believe me, you can look — or rather hook — it up yourself. Ms. Titslinger constructed her conjoined "breast baskets" as an alternative to the restrictive corsets of the day, which flattened and jammed a ladybird's outermost pleasantries into an uncomfortable and altogether undesirable mono-bosom. Necessity being the motherlode of invention, Titslinger fashioned together two silken handkerchiefs with pink ribbon and faster than her clawing suitors could say "Clementine Titslinger"— pictured here in a leopard print Titslinger® with matching giant underpanties — she was off to the races or possibly the Debutantes’ Ball. Her device — nicknamed the "Marriage Carriage™" — quickly became the rage among her husband-seeking galfriends, but also served to enrage fathers who were fearful all that "hoisting and separating" of their daughter’s Mallomar® glands would lead to no good. As it happened, Ms. Titslinger would sell the rights to her lacy wonder cups to a textile company, securing a tidy sum for herself, all for a bit of cloth coverage that would become a staple in every woman's wardrobe and, alas, an object of fascination for heterogenous males everywhere, particularly those wankers I see trolling on Stumblr™, where there is no shortage of the underwire encagement apparatus on — and off — display. Today we honor the titular Ms. Clementine Titslinger. Bravo, Citizen Support Team Leader™.