Chop, Chop

“Be careful how you use it!” warned the makers and/or marketers of Hai Karate aftershave lotion, but we paid them no mind. ‘Twas New Year’s Eve 1970 and we were ringing in the decade with great fanfare and little discretion. Our pant legs were flared, our shoes chunk-heeled, our silk-like polyester shirts open-collared and our toilet water intoxicating and free-flowing. We splashed Hai Karate about our faces and necks and across our wooly chests and stumochs; we drenched our underarms and did not ignore a generous dousing about our undersides. We—and by we, I mean me—were “all in,” as the arsewipes today would have it. That’s right, e-citizens, even a decorated, law-obeying-and-enforcing, uniformed official like Yours Truly Constable Dooley was sold on the notion of fending off ladybirds drawn to the scent of Hai Karate like moths to a flame. Ice-blue Aqua Vulva and sweaty Old Spice were bloody old hat, but the sticky sweet fragrance of original Hai Karate—and exotic Oriental Lime—in aftershave, cologne and fragranced soap on a twined rope—was anything but. ‘Twas what the scientists called an aphrodisiac, the surest ticket to an evening of carnal pleasures. “So powerful, it drives women right out of their minds” claimed the adverts and as evidenced by the frantic, public displays of affection, I so no reason to question it. ‘Tis why the Hai Karate gift sets came with a self-defensive karate instructional for any bloke—one spoken for by another, as I think of it—needing to block the advancing moves of wanton undesirables. ‘Twas all in good fun, of course, but there could be no denying the pheromonal allure of this new toilet water. Indeed, even the, by appearances, demure Prudence Elderberry—later, Missus Johns herself—was held in its sway. “Wow! What’s that after shave you’re wearing?!” she said upon our chance meeting at the coat check at Club Piccadilly Dally that night. What followed was a playful exchange of choreographed karate chops and soon we were taking our “hai stepping” moves to the dance floor, whiskey sours in hand. I worked myself into sweat and later administered a Hai Karate full-body colognic in the men’s latrine and the rest is his-and-her-story. Today the ballrooms are filled with the scent of a different “chopping device,” aka, Axe cologne. But times were simpler and sweeter-smelling 50 years ago. Happy memories, indeed, and a Happy New Year to all.

Razzing the Bar

If Memory Swerves, ‘twas on this day in history, December 30, 1955, that funny-faced vocal prodigy Barbra Streisand recorded “You’ll Never Know” at a New York studio. Originally intended as a novelty number, the song was written in response to nagging questions about the unusual spelling of “Bar-bra,” versus the more conventional “Bar-ba-bra.” Was it a birth hospital recording error? A deliberate A&R ploy? Did her language-challenged immigrant parents prefer the economy of a phonetic spelling? “You’ll Never Know,” was Streisand’s coy response. ‘Twould prove to be a brilliant retort that silenced the nascent blogosphere and before long, “A Star Was Born” or something. Over the years, others would remake the song when the spotlight shone too brightly on them. Doris Day recorded it when questions about co-star Rock Hudson’s virgility dogged them. Had Hudson’s rock ever presented itself during their pillow talks ‘neath the sheets? “You’ll Never Know,” she cooed to Hollywood busybody Rhonda Barrett. Tough-talking Eye-talian short stack Francesco Sinatro performed it in response to relentless badgering over whether he’d sliced off a horse’s head and tucked it into a producer’s bed. “You’ll Never Know” (“you country cocksuckers,” the bad actor added off mike.) Vocalist Denny Doherty of The Hippy Mamas and Hirsute Papas cut the song for a solo album in hopes of quelling the constant queries about whether the late Cass Elliott choked on a hamspread sandwich ‘top the toilet. “You’ll Never Know,” he sang defiantly. But ‘twas always and forever “Bar’s” song, bless her, and she returned to it time and again over the year when questions invaded the now 90-something’s personal space. Why did she ditch mutton-chopped seventies star Elliot Ghoul for jelly-haired hotelier James Brolin? “You’ll Never Know.” Yentl? “You Don’t Want To Know.” 

Wounded Knee, Massacred

As I Underhand It, two events of historical significance are attached to this day in history, December 29, the first being that sad business back in 1890, when the itchy trigger fingers of the U.S. Cavalry sent upwards of three hundred men, women and children to an icy mass grave overlooking Wounded Knee creek on the Lakota Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota. ‘Twas bloody human failing on a massive scale to be sure, but one that provided the impetus for the latter, happier event in the winter of 2012, when Dr. Shane Haberkorn and his surgical team cut the ribbon on their “Wounded Knees, Hips and Shoulders” Orthopedic Facility in Rapid City. A native South Dakotan and former quarterback, “Crazy Horse” Haberkorn (pictured) is a history buff who finds inspiration in the spirit of the Lakota, whose framed images dot the walls of the center. The site of the battlefield massacre in Oglala County has long been a National Historic Landmark, but Dr. Haberkorn and his associates were the first to properly memorialize the fallen in their work on behalf of wounded patients, performing everything from minimally invasive arthroscopy to total joint reconstruction. Today, we respectfully remember the lives lost at Wounded Knee and the limbs revitalized at Wounded Knee Ortho, whose current office expansion is indicative of their continuing reverence for the hallowed ground, as is the ceremonial cigar store injun awaiting unveiling in the front hall supply closet.

Playin' Hooky: Remembering Dr. Hook

Celebrating a Deathday: Legendary, one-eyed rock ‘n roll front man Dr. Hook died on this day, December 28, 2018. Born Ray Sawyer on February 1, 1937 in Chickasaw, Alabammy, the medicinal showman brought a style all his own to shiteheel hootenannies of the day and before long, his eye-patch, neckerchief and crushed cowboy hat found fame on an international level. Of all the phony physicians of recent memory—Dr. Pepper, Dr. Phil and plaid-panted horn blower Doctor Severinsen—Dr. Hook was the real deal, bringing hooks to memorable song and bong hits such as “When You’re In Love With A Beautiful Woman (You’re Capable Of All Manner Of Ill-Advised Public Displays of Affection),” “Sylvia’s Mum (Is, Frankly, Not All That Impressed With Whistler’s Mum),” “Sharing The Night Together (With Your Best Mate’s Sister Is Not Going To End Well For Either Of You)” and, of course, “(Totally Stoned) On The Cover Of The Rolling Stone.” On a personal note, Yours Truly Dooley had the pleasure of policing a Medicine Show at the BBC, circa 1980. The evening found the good doctor in fine form, struttin’ and a-hollerin’ until a wardrobe malfunction bared his chest, which led to a near skirmish amongst his hirsute sidemen after the performance. Seems the fellers didn’t like being further upstaged by their charismatic cover boy singer; but in his good-natured way, he cajoled them into brushin’ it off and they commenced to a-drinkin’ and a-carryin’ on ‘til all hours. Dr. Hook later “opened his own practice,” as ‘twere, playing solo for years on the oldies circuit. Just three years retired, Dr. Hook died quietly in Daytona Beach, Florida and one trusts that other long-haired howlers of the era will welcome his RIP-snortin’ company at that Rock Concert stage in the sky. Dr. Hook was 81. 

Acting Inappropriately

If Memory Swerves, ‘twas on this day in marital his-and- her-story, December 27, 2012, that Titanic-waisted screen filler-upper Kate Winslet (pictured here, fresh out of the stylist’s chair) wed some wanker named Ned Rocknroll, and if you don’t believe me, you can look it up yourself. “I love Rocknroll,” said the thrice-wed Winslet, apparently unaware that rock runaway Joan “Jett” Larkin trademarked the bloody phrase years ago, whilst putting a dime in the jukebox, baby. Sources tell us that Master Rocknroll is a nephew of virginal spaceman Richard Branson, which may qualify the young relation for a lifetime of pre-boarding privileges, free in-flight movies and the family discount at Virgin Records but, the notion that the former Ned Abel Smith is the living embodiment of a musical genre that gave us The Animals, The Beetle Brothers and, yes, The Pollywoggs, is an affrontery beyond measure. If “rock is dead,” as posited by cue-balled pinball wizard—and deputy pornography patrolman—Peter Townsend, rock was surely rolling ‘round in its grave on the day the Winslet Rocknroll nuptials were chiseled into granite. On a side note, the station house has yet to receive word whether Master Rocknroll will ever host the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony in Cleveland or possibly Cincinnati, but methinks it unlikely, as rock would surely climb out of its grave and stomp on the proceedings, a not-altogether-undesirable notion, come to think of it.

Another Great Moment in Boxing History

As I Underhand It, today is the day they call “Boxing Day,” “they” being those clever insufferables who insist on calling a day something other than what it is, which is the bloody day after Christmas. They are the ones responsible for such balderdashery as “Read In The Bathtub Day” (February 9) or “Toast A Marshmallow Day” (August 30) or “Drop Your Trousers And Adjust Your Nutsack Day” (every day, thrice daily, according to my calendar). I’ve no idea what in blue blazers “Boxing Day” signifies, but if I were to posit, I’d say ‘tis the day that citizens declare they’ve had well enough of the eating, drinking and merrily withdrawing every last dollar from their bank accounts and, accordingly, are looking to box someone’s ears at the slightest provocation—like, say, when you’re returning an unopened purchase at a retailer and the dimwitted holiday hire asks, “Is there anything wrong with it?” or when a visiting relation—say, a fat-arsed brother-in-law—settles in for an afternoon in front of the telly in your favorite recliner, even though you’ve expressly directed him to the side chair ‘cross the room for his endless sit-downs. Minor offenses, perhaps, but after a month of Burl Ives warbling ‘bout holly-jolly this-or- that, ‘tis a wonder more otherwise even-tempered citizens don’t come to blows. Then again, maybe “Boxing Day” is the day that recognizes pugilists throughout history—bare-knuckled brawlers, gloved legends or rope-a doping best friends—or, as I think of it, perhaps it celebrates “Boxing Helena”—a prurient piece of cinema featuring a fulsome-hipped-and-lipped Sherilynn Fenn getting her limbs removed by stringy haired whack job Julian Sands—which your brother-in- law winds up watching with inappropriate curiosity from the comfort of your good chair. Who could bloody blame you if you issued him a proper pummeling—which is to say, boxing—on this day? 

Jesus, Mary and Joseph

A doff of the fabric headwrap to proverbial third banana, Joseph of Nazareth. If ‘tweren’t for this intrepid nail pounder, the Virgin-esque Mary would’ve been subject to stoning or other unkindly acts from the uncircumsized lynch mobs of the day. Who knows if wunderkind J. Christ himself would’ve been born but for the unselfishness of the original Good Joe. If you think me disrespecting to suggest such a thing on this the holiest of Christian days, ask yourself what mortal man among us would marry a woman who claims to be without sin, yet is revealed to be with child prior to the wedding and sit-down reception of fishes and loaves? How would he react when visited in a dream by an angel of the Lorde and told that his intended will bear a son who’ll save the citizenry from their sins, but the lad won’t be named Sonny Boy Junior, but bloody Emmanuel? The scene in the Bethlehem barnyard with the baby in swaddling clothes— bandages—resting in a manger—feeding trough—would surely try the most stoic of men.One imagines poor, honourable Joseph holding the umbilical cord of the newborn who is not his own, surrounded by goats, cows and three wizened old men, his patience tried to the very limit, muttering under his breath, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” And so ‘tis that we salute this goodly Godly servant, along with surrogate Mother Mary, upon the birth of their beloved Christ child. A bygone era’s Modern Family, as we think of it. Merry Christmas, all. 

Jesus H. Loggins

Random Holiday Memorandum to our beloved Lorde and Savior, Columbia Recording Artist Kenny Loggins: A blessed Christmas Eve to you, Son of Man! I’ll confess that lighting upon your bearded and beckoning visage in a “suggested posting” took me by great surprise. In all the years I followed the exhilarating middle-highs and plummeting lows of your AM radio career, I never imagined that you were, in actuality, the Son of God himself, Jesus Christ. As my father—the late RAF flying ace Aldridge “AJ” Johns would have said—sod a one-legged dog! The Kingpin of 70’s Soundtracks is the King of the Jews! One hopes you are something of a forgiving Lorde, willing to overlook my transgressional opinions of your ponce rock offerings over the years, as I cannot deny that long ago my Hendon Academy police mates and I derided “Winnie the Pooh Bear’s House on the Corner,” jeered the Islamic yachting ode, “Va-Heave-Allah,” and mocked the working man’s call-to-arms-legs-and-feet, “Footloose and Fancy Free.” That being well said, we later found ourselves in your corner, tapping our toes to the music video sing-a-long “I’m (Reasonably) Alright,” featuring that rascally “Caddyshack” chipmunk and cheered when you and sidekick Jimmy Messina demanded, “Outta the car long hair! You’re coming with me! The local police!” Oowee! Then again, as an all-knowing Messiah, you should have known better than to leave the mother of your children to take up with a Goddamned—or rather, Kenny Loggins-damned— colonic therapist and co-pen 1997’s unimaginably embarrassing “The Unimaginable Life,” but we all make mistakes—even you, Almighty God—yours a doozy worthy of the exclamation, “Jesus Howard Christ!” In any event, we extend our best wishes on the anniversary of your birth, Citizen Savior. May your eternal spirit guide us in the coming New Year and your “Greatest Hits” cassette tape recording find its way into car stereos and proper boom box players ‘round the globe.

Warming Trend

Frostbite is no laughing matter. You mock the space-heating, cherry wood cabinetry-making skills of the Holmes County Mennonites at your own bloody peril. I have it on good authority—which is to say that I’ve felt a warmish glow of “heat” emanating from our very own Hot Pockets brand “fire-like place” at the station house—and confirm that these space age contraptions defy the laws of science, if not the laws of Judge Judy herself, and that the LED Fireless Flame will heat a pocket of air faster than you can recite the Mennonite hymnal, “Jesus Built My Horse Buggy.” If you hope to survive the inclemencies of the Polar Gore-Tex, you would be Dooley Advised to get thee to the nearest furniture barn to look for the Good-and-God-Fearing Housekeeping Seal of Approval, “As Advertised On The Telly,” and prepare for an ostensible warming of no less than two to three cockles. 

Yes, Ryan, There Is A Santy Claus®

Today in a holiday edition of “Ask an Internet Patrolman,” lifelong Santaphile Ryan Steve Crest of Dunwoody USA queries: “Dear Constable Dooley, Is there really a Santa Claus? I asked my Mom and Dad and their answer was weird! Mom wrote this dumb letter that said Santa is a magician or a teacher and he doesn’t even live at the North Pole! Then she shared the letter with thousands of her friends on Facebook. Facebook is stupid! Sincerely, Ryan.” Dear Ryan: I think you mean, “Sincerely pissed off” and I don’t bloody blame you, lad. Frankly, your parent’s letter set my teeth on edge. First Mum says they “are not Santa,” but then confirms that they “fill your stocking and wrap the presents under the tree.” So—what?—Mum and Dad are elves? ‘Tis confounding. And this notion that there’s “not one, single Santa,” but rather “lots and lots of Santas,” might’ve made sense if they were referencing department store Santas, who everyone knows aren’t the real thing, but rather, understudies working a second job for the retail discount. But when Mum’s letter posits that Santa is “love and magic,” it became crystalline to me clear that Mum and Dad, despite their best of intentions, are “hipster dipshits.” Launching your letter ‘round the Twitternet for other sensitive sorts to fawn over is further evidence of their wrong-headedness. Alas, don’t let it trouble you or resentment will build and you’ll soon be piercing your eyelids and drinking cough syrup for breakfast and wind up on that godforsaken Intervention show. Not on my watch! The good news is: YES, RYAN, THERE IS A SANTY CLAUS and on Christmas Eve, he loads his sleigh and flies through the air, delivering presents to good lil’ 11-year-old believers like you ‘round the world— excepting the Mennonites whose mums hand-fashion dollies for the girls, whilst the bearded young lads get lumps of coal to heat those portable Amish heaters you see advertised. So go right on believing, Ryan; have the best Christmas ever and if you catch Daddy pinching Mummy’s arse under the mistletoe, understand that even hipster parents deserve love. Yours Truly, Constable Dooley.

Blasphemer Rhymes With Reemer

Random Memorandum™ to a Beard Baubled™ Arsewipe: By last tally, 'twould appear to Yours Truly Dooley® that hipster dipshits such as yourself have ruined music, fashion, coffee, hygiene and transportation. (No brake bicycling?) You mangle language, gently fry neighborhoods and now you’re taking a run at Santy's birthday? Let me state for the vinyl record, Mister Christmas Blasphemer™, that I will not have it on my watch! In my day, men of character were respectful of the Holy Day and took a proper straight razor to their faces, doused themselves with iced-blue Aqua Vulva® or Hai Karate™ aftershave and slunk into Christmas Heave™ Mass with a pint or three in them and kept their mouths shut and no one was the Budweiser®. You bloody Steely Dan® branded dildos in your dingy t-shirts and hemp shoe sandals sully the proper tradition of religulous holiday display with your godforsaken bulbous adornments. Indeed, upon inspection of the mimeographed station house lyrics for “Deck the Halls with Bows of Holly by Golly,” I see no mention of vapor-toking shite-for-brains hanging ornamentals balls from their chin hair. Surely you serial, self-pleasuring onanists haven’t become so self-repossessed with your own climaxtology that you've forgotten that Christmas is for the kiddies and the online retailers. Either redirect the spotlight off of yourselves and your hairy-legged galfriends and shine it back onto Santy Christ®, Frosty the Snowman and Rupert the Reluctant Red-Nosed Reindeer™ or I'll put a patrolman's boot up your buttocks.

Bananas Foster

Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ to the original, loveable lush: ‘60’s actor, comedian and dessert-maker Foster Brooks. Straight-faced, but never straight-laced, Brooks was a fair to middling comic whose fortunes turned when he started performing three-urine-drenched-bedsheets-to-the-wind on live television. His malaprops and stumblebum antics were thought to be an act, but ‘tweren’t so. ‘Twas his love of a pre-show concoction of dark rum, ice cream and bananas — ingested in stupor-inducing quantities — that resulted in rollicking performances that set the censors’ teeth on edge, but the crowd to their feet. His shnockered ramblings caused one critic to describe him as “bananas” and soon “Bananas Foster™” began appearing on restaurant menus and cable TV cooking shows featuring heavyset ladybirds. Like other famously inebriated knuckleheads of the era — Dean Martin, Mel Gibson, Otis Campbell — Brooks’ popularity would wane, but his dessert item caught fire and the stand-up (and fall down) enjoyed an association with it ‘til his drunken, dying day. "Bananas Foster" Brooks, off to the eternal gin and/or rum mill in the sky on this day, December 20, 2001.

Santa's Baby

Halt! Hold it right there, tartan-resplendent Young Citizen Defiant™! Your brazen display of contempt for holly, jolly St. Nicholas Tremulis® is beyond the pale and I will not have it on my watch! Just who in blue blazes do you think has been responsible for the affectionate abundance showered on Christian and progressive-parented Jewish children these centuries past? 'Twasn’t the bloody Easter Bunny™, I assure you. If you’re looking for someone to lash out at, start with dear old dad, who promised mum that he’d join you both for the family trip to the shopping mall, but opted instead for a couple scoops at the pub with his bubbly office “associate.” Of course, your mum’s reaction to dad's absence surely hasn't helped matters any. Muttering “that muther trucker is not getting away with this” and flipping off Santy’s elves for directing her not to cut in the queue hasn't exactly set your mind at ease. Alas, we all must take responsibility for our actions and your public disrespecting of Santy Christ® will not be tolerated. So as that lone tear brims in your eye and you prepare to direct your first “swear" at this bearded, bespectacled, red-suited stranger, we suggest that you count your blessings on your stubby fingers, wipe that scowl from your otherwise unlined face and get on with the business of being merry!

The Good Son

Celebrating a Deathday™: Game show producer extraordinaire Mark Goodson died on this day December 18, 1992. A graduate of the University of California Berkeley, Goodson got his start in San Francisco as a disc jockey — generally a stepping stone to being an alcoholic arsewipe rather than a television mogul — and later teamed with Bill Todman in New York City, where the two began their astounding, decades-long run of successful Goodson-Todman™ productions. Their popular, if cornball, shows, included “Family Feud,” “Beat The Clock,” “Card Sharks” and “Password,” along with “The Price is Right,” “The Sets are Cheap,” “The Contestants are Idiots” and “The Host is a Bit of a Douchebag" “To Tell The Truth.” Oh and “Match Game,” which brought the likes of Gene Rayburn (pictured here), Charles Nelson Reilly and Brent Summers into America’s living rooms, where they descended upon the liquor cabinets with great gusto and a tremendous thirst. Even if you dislike game shows — which would make you a bloody communist — you have to admit that Mark Goodson and his partner enjoyed a rather remarkable run. During 1970’s, “A Mark Goodson-Bill Todman production” was as familiar a television expression as “A Quinn Martin® production,” “This has been a Filmways™ Presentation, darling” and “Ward, you were awfully rough on the beaver last night.” No word whether Goodson was, in fact, a good son — haha! — but at various times in his life he was known to be a Goodfriend, a Goodcatch, even a Goodboss, if occasionally a Lousyhusband, an Absenteefather and an absolute Sonofabitch. A year after his death, notoriously abandoned child actor Macauley Culkin starred in a movie entitled “The Good Son,” which was not, in fact, a story about the recently deceased Goodson, which seemed a cruel trick to the family. There’s also a book entitled “The Good Son,” based on the life of boxer Ray “Boom Boom” Mancini, who’s likely made a celebrity game show appearance in his lifetime, for whatever that’s worth. Very little, I imagine. On a final, personal note, I’m proud to say that our new station house web offering, “IGNORANUS” is itself “A Mark Goodson-Bill Todman Production” and we endeavor to do right by this good and game man for ponying up a few posthumous quid to “Kickstart” our effort in its infancy. Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ to Mark Goodson, who entered his final “lightning round” on this day.

Man Up

Oh, for the love of Peter, Paul & Mary Travers, dry your eyes, Winchester!
I cannot have a beloved grandchild dousing — nor douching — him or herself with that infernal 
Axe® Body Spray whilst under my roof! Kindly direct yourself to the medicine cabinet in the station house latrine and avail yourself of granddad's icy blue Aqua Vulva® aftershave — available online at The Art of Manliness™ — and let's right this egregious wrong! Uncap the distinctive — shatterproven — container, pour generously into your wee palms and slap your cheeks thusly. Now sprinkle some of that trademarked menthol goodness about your underarms, a hint at the snap of your BVDs
and go about your day with confidence, my dearest young relation!

Cowardly Lyin'

If Memory Swerves, ‘twas on this day in history, December 16, 1899, that English playwright, composer, actor and gadabout Sir Noël Coward made his grand entrance from the orchestra pit, if you will, arriving on the scene in Tuddington with sleigh bells on. The son of a piano salesman, Noël attended dance academy as a young boy and his theatre career would span six decades, over the course of which he published some 50 plays, many of which he starred in himself, and hundred of songs, not a one I can point to (other than “Mad Dogs & Englishmen,” which we’ll get to momentarily). My Internet patrols inform me that Coward was known as much for his personal styling—”a combination of cheek and chic, pose and poise”—as he was his plays, which might explain why I know next-to-nothing about the man. Oh, I know he was the darling of London’s theatre district, I know that he put the “boy” in “flamboyant” and that his name is mentioned with breathless reverence along with other famous English playwrights like Eugene O’Neill, Patty Chayefsky and John R. Powers; however, outside of these fact-ish-oids, I don’t recall witnessing his brilliance onstage or in a picture house or cabaret. In fact, I was drawering a big fat blank on birthday boy Noël Coward—was that really his last name, Coward, and what about the bloody umlauts over the “e”?—until the curators at YouTube dropped a Christmas present in the station house in-basket, a “Cowardly” song ditty that has made believers of us all! Entitled “Mad Dogs & Englishmen,” ‘twas appropriated by cock-knocking comedic bluesman John Belushi, himself a rather mad dog, but ‘twas originally all Citizen Cowardice’s; if you’re unfamiliar with his work, march down to the listening station at your nearest Blue Village Vinyl record shop and demand an introduction. Call it your “First Noël.”

Do Tell, Orwell

If Memory Swerves, ‘twas on this day in history, December 15, 1937, that UK inkspiller Eric Blair hand-delivered his publishers a manuscript entitled, “The Road to Wigan Pier” and I’ll wager a goodly sum that the bookseller’s reaction was the same as mine: Who in blue blazes wants to read some codswallop about a waterfront pier in bloody Wigan? I’ve been to that shanty town and let me tell you, Eric Blair’s time would’ve been better spent shoring up the old pier with new plank boards—pounding hammer and nail rather than the keys on his Wurlitzer brand typewriter on a story that no one outside of his mum, would want to read. My next reaction: Why in God’s name would Eric Blair invent the “name de plume” George Orwell for authorship purposes? Who says George Orwell is more writerly sounding than Eric Blair? Not Yours Truly Dooley! When I see the name Orwell, I picture that bow-tied and suspendered jackaloon Orwell Redenbacher which puts me in the mind of eating home-popped kettle corn and you can’t read a book while munching on a sweetened, buttery snack. I’ve never trusted anyone with a phony baloney name, anyway. Think of all those wankers in Follywood changing their names. What’s wrong with the name Marion Morrisson, John Wayne? Are you ashamed of your own parents, mister not-a-real-cowboy? English actor Lionel Barrymore didn’t change his name, did he? I don’t know, I haven’t checked. (Haha!) But Eric Blair did and it didn’t help him sell one bloody copy of that “The Road to Wigan Pier” rubbish and if he hadn’t followed the advice of that thoughtful publisher—the one who steered him towards more interesting fare, like the futuristic tale of talking farm animals that became the inspiration for Van Halen’s Solid Gold recording “1984”—Eric Blair or George Orwell would have spent his days in obscurity, fishing for carp off the side of g*ddamned Wigan pier.

"Va te faire foutre" if you'll pardon our French Fry

Halt! Hold it right there, Mr. Mobile-App-Dollar-Menu-Side-Order! I don’t know who in blue blazes put you up to this — or what you hope to gain by it — but I will not suffer a one-finger finger-chip salute, no matter how delicious you are with your sweet, olive oil pre-coat and blanketing of sea salt! Your brazen display of disrespect gives me a sour stumoch. If I wasn’t so familiar with the strict penalties for littering, I’d have the entirety of your order flung ‘cross the motorway to be flattened by a parade of radials. P.S. Pre-sliced potatoes aren't nearly as mouth-watering as hand-cut, so unkindly shove that middle fry finger up your arsehole, Monsieur F*ck-Me-I'm-From-France.

Monkey Shines

Today in, “Ask an Internet Patrolman,” Charlie Briggs of the American far west writes, “Dear Constable Dooley: In the mid ‘60’s, actress and singing Mouseketeer Annette Funicello starred in a zany little Walt Disney feature — ‘The Monkey’s Uncle,’ I believe it was called — yet my local Blockbuster has never heard of it. Perhaps you can assist in a digital retrieval of said film?” Dear Citizen Cinephile: Is your Blockbuster located at the corner of Last Century and You Must Be Bloody Joking? Haha, we kid because we care! Thank you for writing. As a uniformed police official charged with patrolling the vast and serpentine Albert Gore Memorial Misinformation Superhighway™, there’s not much that I haven’t seen, nor can’t procure. I was, indeed, able to unearth a copy of what’s known ‘round the station house as “A Monkey’s Relation,” and it stopped me in my tracks. There she is, America’s Sweetheart™, fronting a band of one-hit wondering harmonizers in a Walt Disney classic that until now has been buried deep in memory. A memory twinged with sadness, truth be told, for even though it’s been fifty long years since Ms. Funicello ditched the good-hearted Frankie Avalon for Midvale College’s hotshot genius Merlin Jones — the "Uncle" of teen-aged laboratory "Monkey" Stanley — I still feel the betrayal as though 'twas yesterday and my own heart being torn in two. And she didn’t stop there! ‘Twould seem that Ms. Funicello was making a bloody career of breaking hearts in 1965, and the next target was her own beloved father — Vincenzo, we'll posit — who surely felt the sting of his daughter’s decision to drop the Funicello name for the economy of simply Annette. Mind you, other artists of the era would soon be adopting a lone moniker — Donovan, Nilsson, Zamfir — so we’ll allow the hip-swivelling heartbreaker her selfish indulgence. All that said, Master Briggs, 'tis my pain of a half century to bear, not yours, so have a look at the link below and welcome the return of an endearing piece of Saturday cinema. The monkey's uncle's ape for me! 

Barefootin' the Park: Remembering Billy Jack

Celebrating a Deathday: Citizen Peacekeeper Billy Jack® died barefoot and kickin' arse on this day, December 12, 2013. While 'tis always sad to lose a fellow lawman — even a bloody unauthorized one like Jack — celebrating his goodly deeds takes the sting from his passing. A tribal-hatted truthseeker nonpareil, Billy Jack was a half-paleface, half-russet-skinned Hapkido master who walked softly, but whose karate-chopping hands and bony feet spoke volumes. His brand of jujutsu justice was called into question by some, but not by Yours Truly Dooley. I had no quarrels with his confrontational skillsets; indeed, whether felling a fringe-jacketed dope blower with a simple arm lock for terrorizing the Freedom School® runaways — "Sa Bang Kuk Ki!" — or executing a flawless, flying side kick upside a corrupt politico's fat head — "Eiiiyahh!!" — Jack was a heroic, zen-minded everyman who served the citizenry with fury and decency. His generosity on behalf of the oppressed earned him a song serenade from hippy dippy piano key pounder Carole King, but her words "Smackwater Jack, he bought a shotgun" belied the peaceable nature of this decorated, ex-Green Beret. Billy rarely resorted to gunfire, preferring to open the proverbial can of whooping arsenic on an evildoer. His sense of right and wrong "trumped" the strict letter of our laws and to those who questioned his methodology, I say: Go ahead and hate your half-breed neighbor. Go ahead and cheat a friend. Do it in the name of heaven, if you can justify it in the end. There won't be any trumpets blowing, come the judgment day. On the bullet-strewn morning after, there will be but one tin-eared soldier riding away to that faraway, federally subsidized reservation in the desert sky. Happy Anni-hearse-ary™, Billy Jack. (Joined this March in the afterlife by his wife of nearly 60 years, Freedom School Director Jean Roberts. RIP.)

Ogilvy Smather

If there's one thing that patrolling the vast and serpentine Misinformation Superhighway has taught Yours Truly Dooley, it's that each of us has a story to tell — or possibly sell — no matter how poorly written and rife with grammatical atrocities it may be. And what, might you ask, does a uniformed, online police official know about writing? Well, what does a bloody English shirt maker know about writing? Such was the question that I dared to pose long ago to legendary Hathaway® man turned adman David Ogilvy (pictured), and one that he answered forthrightly in our chance meeting in a public house latrine: “People who think well, write well, Dooley,” David began, as we stood astride our porcelain stations. “Woolly-minded people write woolly memos, woolly letters and woolly bully speeches,” he continued. “Write the way you talk. Naturally, using short words, short sentences and short paragraphs. Never use jargon like reconceptualize, demassification and attitudinally, Constable. They are the hallmarks of a pretentious bumhole. Never write more than two pages on any subject, nor send an Internet missive on the day you write it. Read it aloud the next morning — and then edit it. If ‘tis something important, get a station house colleague to improve it. Be crystalline clear what you want the recipient to do. If you want ACTION, don’t write. Tell the buggerer what you want. Put the cuffs on him if he won’t oblige.” And with that, Master David Ogilvy, ballyhooed chieftain of Ogilvy Benson & Hedges & Mather — the “Father of Advertising,” later the “Grandfather of Advertising” and later still, the “Great Great Grandfather Once-Removed, Which Is To Say, Deceased, of Advertising” — tucked his modest male appendage into his trousers and was gone.

A Couple of Real Wisenheimers

If Memory Swerves, ‘twas on this day in history, December 10, 1961, that Fred Wisenheimer made an honest woman out of Karola Ruth Siegel, a diminutive, if rising, star in the field of sexual psychology. At 4 ft. 10 inches tall, the pint-sized groom towered over his 3 ft. 8 in. intended, but as “Dr. Ruth” herself might have said, “We’re all the same height lying down.” To which Yours Truly Dooley would have replied, “Bollocks!” All the times I’ve laid beside Mother Johns, I’ve never once imagined we’re the same height, nor are we getting any closer to being so, as the whole of my ankle and foot extend out precipitously over the footboard and hers fit snuggly within the confines of the marital bed. Which begs the question: Why are old birds like Dr. Ruth or Dear Abbie or bloody Jeffrey Zaslow always saying shite like, “We’re all the same height lying down” or "There's a peg for every hole" or “Dancing is a vertical expression of a horizontal desire”? Crikey, have you ever tried waltzing on your backside? They’ll toss you from the bloody dance hall. In any event, before this runaway train of thought rolls off the track, today we honor a couple of real Wisenheimers who raised two children and remained happily married until Fred’s passing in 1997. They were no Master & Johnsons — Fred was a telecom engineer, whatever they do, climb bloody telecom poles, one supposes — but the name Wisenheimer was thrust into the pubis — err, pantheon — nonetheless, and the good Dr. Ruth did break down doors — bedroom doors all — in the study of human sexuality, and her standing, if you will, remains as pronounced as a 4-hour, if not 4-foot, erection. Kosher Mazel® brand toffee in memoriam to the scrappy couple!

Force of Habit

Random Memorandum to Mother Mary Angelica of the Annunciation: A blessed— which is to say, cloistered and contemplative —day to you, your Holiness. We at the station house applaud your goodly works and are ever mindful of your prayerful pursuits. Indeed, we often light on your Eternal Word Television Network streams— albeit briefly, with some amusement —before settling in with a Dick Van Dyke Show Youtube marathon, featuring our beloved Morrie Amsterdam. That said, Mother Angelica, ‘tis my duty to inform you that your raging desire to exact punishment on the sinful appears to have clearly crossed the saintly/secular line that divides our church and state. As a uniformed official charged with patrolling the vast and serpentine Arnold “Al” Gore Misinformation Superhighway, ‘tis I who have dominion over evildoers in cyberspace, such as social media marketers, Spotify record executives and news aggravator Arianna Hufnstuf. However well-intentioned the intensity of your “messaging”—as the marketing dopes would have it—your trademark “balling of the fist” at the lawless in our midst undermines my authority. With all respect due, Citizen Sisterhooded, you would be Dooley Advised to seize and resist threats of corporal punishment, keeping your mitts under cover of layered garmentry, for the counting of beaded rosaries, one supposes. Allow our police brethren on terra firma to properly beat villains about the head, neck and nadsack, whilst you stick to the hellfire and brimstone business we so enjoy. Respectfully Yours Truly, Constable Doyle “Dooley” Johns, Internet Patrolman (IP).