Hawkeye, Pierced

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history (February 28, 1983) that the Korean War™ and the decades-spanning reality TV show that documented it officially concluded. Over a million viewers across the pond fiddled with the rabbit ears atop their Philco® televisions to witness Hollywood, California Governor Ronald Reagan arrange for the return of the hostages or something, whilst the “Mobile Army Hospital Shenanigans” — M*A*S*H, ostensibly — came to their inevitable conclusion: Smartypants crybaby Alan Ladd (pictured here, crying) lost his marbles after passing out atop Frank Burns and Soon-Yi’s baby, smothering the poor bastard child; Colonel Sherman T. Potter finally dropped his defenses, along with his army-issue trousers, properly putting it to hot-lipped, ample-hipped Loretta Swift; Colonel Klinger consented to having his male assemblage thwacked and tucked; Father "Red" Mulcahy lost — not his virginity, alas — but his hearing; and lastly, B.J. Hunnicutt misspelled “Goodby” with iguana eggs on a hillside backlot as army helicopters pulled away to the strains of "Suicide Is Bloody Painless;" Of course, 'twasn’t "goodbye," but rather, “see you soon,” as the post war follow-up "AfterMASH" took over the Monday time slot without missing a beat, reuniting doctors and nurses in Cleveland Clinic supply closets to cheat on unknowing spouses with wartime abandon. Others would go their separate ways, as Adam "Trapper John" Cartright, M.D. set up a medicinal marijuana shop in Denver, Walter O'Reilly became a highway policeman in R*A*D*A*R, Dr. Sidney Freeman was oddly coupled with Tony Randall in "Hello, Sidney" and Maclean Stevenson left medicine for the talk radio world of “Hello, Larry, This Is Dr. Phil.” On a final note, the last episode of M*A*S*H in no small measure accounted for the birth of cable television. 'Twas discovered that with so many people watching the same channel and running to the loo during the very same commercial break, overworked plumbing systems could not withstand the pressures of so many toilets being flushed at the same time, causing shite storms to erupt geyser-like 'cross the countryside. A team of quick-thinking civil engineers suggested that if Hollywood gave viewers more channel options, visits to home latrines would likely be staggered. So in some way you can thank the 4077th for the Kardashians, Duck Dynasty and all the bloody rest of it.

Bundle of Joy

When a young Louis Vuitton left his family’s broken home in Anchay, France to seek fame and fortune in Paris, he did so with the clothes on his back and a makeshift piece of luggage — fashioned from a bedsheet, knotted and secured at the end of a broomstick — to carry his belongings. Unfortunately, Vuitton would find his invention the subject of derision from wayward Frenchmen he encountered along his journey. He swore that if he ever got an internship with a proper malletier, he’d make those itinerant sods rue the day they ever laughed at his pride and joy — what he called, his “bundle stick.” That day did mercifully come as Vuitton went on to become a custom box-maker — eventually building a empire 'round his patterned, canvas trunks — whilst in a twist of fate, vagabonds began crafting “hobo sticks” of their own. Today, the company that bears the Louis Vuitton® name is into all sorts of bloody nonsense — apparel, jewelry, marijuana pipes — beyond the company’s stock-in-trade, but I’m delighted to report they’ve taken a page from their history book and the Louis Vuitton “Bindle®” is now available for online delivery. Form — and fashion! — are again following function, as post-collegiate hipster dipshits enjoy the economy of this “organic” travel accessory whilst touring Europe on mum and dad's last dime. A fitting tribute, methinks, to the memory of Louis Vuitton, celebrating a deathday™ on this day (February 27, 1892). Happy Anni-hearse-ary™, Citizen Bag Man!

Grand Delusion

As I Understand™, 'twas on this day in history (February 26, 1919) that U.S. President Woodrow Wilson-Pickett detonated the explosive charge responsible for the creation of the Grand Canyon®. Officially decreed by Senate Bill 390, the event became known in blasting circles as “the kaboom heard ‘round the world." (No mention among my Twitternet™ sources as to the number of dynamite sticks employed, but we'll assume a bundle of some heft.) A native of Prattville, Alabammy, Wilson-Pickett was a Baptist choirboy and burgeoning firecracker enthusiast who avoided the pitfalls common to southern Americans by takin' a likin’ to book-learnin’, whilst other fellers were fixin' to prep the moonshine. He moved to Detroit as a teen and after a brief foray into music production went on to receive a “doctorate” — which is to say, “not-an-actual-medical-doctorate” — in political "science" — i.e., "junk science" — before heading off to careers in academics, politics and salvage resale. Wilson-Pickett became president of Stanford + Son University and later the Governor of New Jersey — State Motto: Not Exactly New York, But Close (In The Sense of Proximity, But Distant In All Other Respects) — before being elected the 28th and 29th Presidents of the U.S. He received the Nobel Peace Prize in 1919, about the time he tasked a team of Hollywood explosive experts — "The Funky Bunch" — to assist him in crafting the epic, faux-natural beauty of what would become the 7th or 8th Wonder of the World. (The ensemble-driven film offering "Grand Canyon" being the 8th or 9th Wonder.) Wilson-Pickett (pictured above, left) also led the excavation of the canyon rubble in the development of the four-state-spanning Grand Canyon National Park — aka, the “Land of 1,000 Dances” — located in the neighboring environs of Utah, Colorado, Arizona and Albuquerque. A statue of the late president poised over a blasting plunger at “The Midnight Hour” was slated for installation at the park, but the idea was squashed for budgetary reasons in the Great Sequestration of 19-something-or-other. His pioneering efforts in stone and gravel resulted in Wilson-Pickett being the only president to be inducted into the “Rock” Hall of Fame. Brilliantine™!

Fat Tuesday, My Arse

Fat Tuesday? Certainly not in my memory. Actress Tuesday Weld was a lithe and graceful goddess who stole the heart of a young Dooley Johns, as surely as she did every bloke she starred alongside onscreen, every usher who ducked into the velvet folds of the theater curtains to have his filthy way with himself under the film siren's watchful eye, every film projectionist barricaded in a darkened room who fumbled a reel transfer mid-fantasy, every matinee-goer who strategically situated a popcorn box in his lap with the hope that an unsuspecting date might dig deeper and deeper with ever-increasing — which is to say, mounting — ardour. The obvious European temptresses — the Brigettes, Ursulas and Sophias — never held sway the way this doe-eyed American did. She occupied my waking thoughts every bloody day — Tuesdays above of all — and her Cinescope® magazine pictorial held a special place — permanent residence — in the bottom of my undie drawer. Our love — or rather lovemaking — was unrequited, yet 'twas no less impassioned. So 'tis that we remember Ms. Weld, respectfully with fondness, on this decidedly Non-Fat — which is to say, sculpted and round-bottomed — Tuesday.

Who's Afraid of Olympic Skating Legend Actor Richard Burton?

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in Olympic® history (February 24, 1952) that future stage and screen star Richard "Dick" Burton, née Button, won the Gold Medal at the Oswäld Olympics in Oswäld, Norway. A two-time Olympic Gold medalist, five-time World Champion and seven-time Academy Award® Nominee, Burton, née Button, is credited with being the first leading man to land a double axel, a triple jump and a one-take Edward Albee monologue. A native of Wales, Button was the twelfth of thirteen children whose coal-mining, figure-skating father often left the family for binge-skating weekends, spending his meager wages on fancy sweaters and the like. Button swore he would never follow in his father's footslides, but soon he was winning Junior skate titles, both as a single and in pairs with Peggy Fleming's mum. He enjoyed a decades-long run of professional success, but the 1952 Olympics would be Button's swan song. He then took his pirouetting skills to the stage, transforming himself from ice skater "Dick Button" into Shakespearean actor "Richard Burton." Burton glided seamlessly from stage to screen, creating memorable or forgettable film characterizations of Hamlet, Beckett, King Arthur, Mark Antony Cleopatra and Great Caesar's Ghost. In between his Hollywood efforts, Burton would return to the ice, both in the role of rink-side analyst — where he became known as "The Voice of Figure Skating" — and back on the blades in the Ice Capades®, Holiday on Ice and "Dick Button's Ice-Travaganza™." Burton also appeared in television roles, such as The Hallmark Hall of Fame's "Hans Brinker," co-starring Tab Hunter, as well as "Dancing Is a Man's Game," prancing about shamelessly alongside Gene Kelly. Nominated seven times for an Academy Award, Burton never won the coveted Oscar, but he did squire many a coveted actress — wedding and bedding Elizabeth Taylor (twice), each of the Gabor sisters (Eva, Zsa Zsa and older sister Latka), possibly Debbie Reynolds, Lana Turner, Janet Leigh, Virginia Woolf and the sisterly trio from Petticoat Junction. In 1975, he married figure skating coach Slavka Kohout, but his luck in the pairs division was clearly not his strength and they divorced. Burton later self-published the memoir "Push Dick's Button," detailing both his skating and staging days, in a typographically-errant bore that he sold from the trunk of his car. I'm told that Burton attempted to return to the mike for the Pyongchong Olympics, but Cockatoo-haired showboater Johnny Weir wouldn't hear of it. A doff of a proper, woolen cap to Olympic Medalist and Oscar-Nominated actor Richard Burton, née Button, on this day. Bravo, Polyester Panted Citizen Scene Stealer™!

Godsmacked

Halt? Hold it right there, Mr. Christ! I don’t give a rat’s arse who your Father is, a one-fingered salute to Yours Truly Dooley® — a peace-keeping official sworn to serve the citizenry online — is beyond the bloody pale! You may be the only (mis)begotten Son of God® — you may hold rank in the Holy Trinity! — but you will be respectful of the laws — and lawmen — of the digital landscape, and abide by our codes of decency and civility or suffer a fate of virtual confinement! What would your Virgin-esque Mother Mary and non-birth Father Joseph say at such a brazen, profane display? Shame on you, Good Sheperd, which is to say, SheepHerderOfMen™. Shame!

Back In The USSA

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history — February 22nd, 1862 — that Jefferson Davis formally began his truncated term as President of the United Slave States of America. Though not an actual country, the USSA had its own flag — Skull and Crossbones™ — a song — "Dixie" or possibly, "Free Bird" — and its own bloody television network — Fox & Hounds News®. Davis was a native of Kane-tucky, which oddly enough was not one of the eleven redneck states to form the redneck nation. He attended West Point, served as a Senator from Mississippi, and was later Secretary of War under President Franklin Mint, before growing his trademark chin-hair and going off the bloody rails. Like most government-hating rednecks who benefited from employment in the government, Davis worshipped Jesus™, Moon Pies® and the silhouetted nudie lasses on the mudflaps of his pickup. He loved his freedom. He loved his slaves. But he didn't love his slaves' freedom, so he and the rest of the secessionary wankers cooked up their plan for America, Part II. Davis ran for fake presidency without opposition — which is to say, interest, beyond that of the teabagging sodomites that were his constituency. He was said to be conflicted about his fake tenure in the fake office, for he didn't look good in a stovepipe hat, as did his beloved adversary — actual President Abraham Lincoln — though unlike Lincoln, Davis was never rumored to have bunked with a male bodyguard for warmth, as he was more of a "Three Dog Night" fan. Davis would remain phony-baloney president of the phony-baloney union until May 5, 1865, when the abolitionists properly kicked the shite of him and his uncivil southern warriors and they folded up their camper trailers and refocused their rifle scopes on Mexicans, Muslims and "them gays." Later in life, Davis grew despondent that he couldn't find a publisher for his autobiography "A Confederacy of Dunces" and thusly killed hisself. After death, Davis bounced around in purgatory and spent a spill in hell, before returning to earth as Jefferson Davis Hogg of Hazzard County, Georgia. Sheriff Boss Hogg, y'all.

The Minstrel in the Gallery

Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ to the pied-piper of English agriculture, inventor and poor old sod Jethro Tull, who died on this day (February 21, 1741). A war child from Bedfordshire, Tull attended St. John’s College in Oxford, where he became something of a minstrel in the gallery, singing tall tales from the Union balcony overlooking the campus quadrangle and playing the flute with his foot propped up on his opposite leg for balance when he was too bloody drunk to stand. Tull never properly graduated from university, but took his musical skillsets on the dusty roads, touring the countryside in a horse-drawn carnival carriage, where the multi-instrumentalist surprised everyone by taking an interest in the land and the tools necessary to run a successful organic farm in the face of larger agri-business interests. Eventually, the long-haired, wild-eyed troubadour decided that he was too old to rock ‘n roll, yet too young to die, much to the delight of his lovely, if cross-eyed, girlfriend Mary. Tull immersed himself in his newfound love of farming and engineering and soon created an actual planter that sowed marijuana seeds in neat little rows, along with a hoe that big box retailers like Lowes® and the Home Depot® initiated a bidding war over. He also was responsible for the initial drawings of a crude, aquatic lung that allowed French seafarers like Jacques Cousteau to snatch their rattling last breaths with deep sea diver sounds. According to the St. Cleve Chronicle, Jethro Tull is said to have inspired the name of 1970s southern rockers Leonard Skinner or possibly Marshall Tucker, but we suspect that thickheaded-as-a-brick editor Gerald Bostock was just having a bit o' fun with that claim. At any rate, Cheerio, Jethro!

Caine Enabled

Well I’ll be a Monkey’s Relation™! If it isn't the Renaissance Man Who Would Be King — the oft-imitated Cockney script garbler Sir Michael Caine! You're looking well in your 15th century finery, your knightship. What’s that, you say? ‘Tis not finery, but rather, your ‘round-the-neighborhood lamé-trimmed skullcap and fur? Brilliantine™! So what brings your artfully dodgy Elizabethan self to this nape of the neck? A location scout for a remake of "The Hand"? Script run-through for the latest installment in the long-dormant oceanography series, “Jaws™: Open Wide and Chomping”? Or perhaps a public relations apology tour on behalf of “Dark Knight” co-star Christian Bale? Haha. Say, Sir Michael, jesting aside, did you consider standing up to that wanker Bale and saying something like, "Listen, Mr. Stately Wayne Manor, only one actor on this set was knighted by Queen Elizabeth II, and 'twasn't you!" Bam! Say, Alfie, between us gents, what was it like rollin’ 'round the sand with Joe Bologna’s top-heavy twenty-something daughter in “Blame It On Rio”? Bloody hell, Heaven® is a film set! Say, Sir Michael, here’s an idea: A direct-to-video biblical retelling of "Michael Caine & Abel," in which you play both roles — ala the slasher and the headshrinker in “Dressed to Kill,” with Police Woman™ Pepper Rodgers? What’s that, you say? You’ll take it under advisement? What more could I ask for, other than your John Hancock™ in my policeman’s notebook? It would be your pleasure, say you? No, sir, the pleasure is all mine! What a piece of work is Michael Caine! Godspeed, Citizen Celluloid™ and Sitting Subject for Renaissance Oil Masters!

Bon Voyage: Remembering Bon Scott

Celebrating a Deathday™: Bare-chested, bare-knuckled brawler and catcaller Ronald Belford “Bon” Scott of AC/DC® infamy chug-a-lugged his last quart of Fosters®, flipped off his last concert promoter and urinated on the tires of his last tour bus before heading straight down the “Highway to Hell” on this day, February 19, 1980. He was a hellbound train, to be sure, but I rather liked him and thought it a shame he survived only a month into the ‘80’s, as he would've rightly slapped singers like Simon James Le Bond or Boy Crazy George upside of their mascara'd noggins, putting a stop to New Wave Muzak® before it started. Born in Forfar, Scotland, July 9, 1946, Bon's family moved to Australia when he was a lad, despite young Bon's attempts to ball his fists and punch his Dad’s lights out for even considering subjecting them to the land of Vegemite® sandwiches, didgeridoos and news reporter Linda Kozlowski. Bon was a feisty fun lover from the git-go — as in, “go git me another pint, luv." Before his turn in the spotlight, Bon was often found in the high beams of a policeman's motorcar. He got tossed outta high school and then tossed outta the juvenille home for tossin’ a naughty social worker’s salad. He did time as a postman, a bartender, even a bloody shite shoveller at a fertilizer plant, before eventually meeting up with diminutive, schoolboy-clad guitarist Angus Young and turning up the Marshall Brodien™ amplifiers to 11. AC/DC were “High Voltage”, but they were winking all the while, with song titles like "Dirty Niece (Done Dirt Cheap)", “She's Got The Jack (And I Don’t Mean Daniels)” and “I've Got Big Balls (Great Big Hairy Arse Balls)”. They were on the verge of international fame, working on their sixth album when Bon was found dead in South London. He was just 33. Bon's been post-humorously honored ten ways to Sunday mass, including his induction into the Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame, which doesn't mean much considering the Flaming Red Hot Five Alarm Chili Peppers™ also got in. Bon was named greatest rock frontman of all time by Classic Rock magazine, which he himself would've have laughed at as everyone knows that honor belongs to Eddie and the Cruiser's frontman John "Beaver Brown" Cafferty. Bon was one a kind alright. The kind mum and dad warned your about! Happy Ani-hearse-ary™ to "Night Prowler" and howler extraordinaire Bon Scott.

The Distinguished Gentleman

There was a time when you could walk into a proper barbershop, ask for the "distinguished gentleman" and they knew precisely what you were after: Middle part, short back 'n sides, longer on top, swept over with a goodly dollop of brilliantine. Nowadays, the young birds out of styling school don't know a "distinguished gent" from a "hipster douchebagalo" and if you ask for the

"Shemp," they look at you as though you're speaking bloody Porchageese™.

Happy Returns, By George! (Or Rather, Boy George!)

As I Understand It™, the second or third Monday in February is the day the moneychangerers, school teacherers and postal foot soldierers across the pond enjoy a staycation to honour the birth of the erstwhile Grandfather of the Americas™, George "Washington" Carver — or possibly Carter — whilst the majority of the luckless citizenry trudge off to their respective salt mines to sit elbow-to-elbow with conniving, flatulent office mates. A botanist and inventoror by trade, Washington was born of peanut farming stock in High Plains, Georgia, an honourable gent who confessed to lusting in his heart, but did not have his filthy way with the bonnie Miss Martha “Bobbie” Dandridge until they were properly declared Federalist Christian husband and wife, and Washington carried her ‘cross the threshold on Pennsylvania Avenue and plopped her down on one of those impractically curved, gilded sofas and commenced with the unlacing of the garmentry. A woodsman when laboratory work proved too taxing, the future head of the states did not chop down any cherry trees, nor wear wooden “choppers,” as I think of it. In fact, ole' George was something of a metrosexual, the first president of the freed world — enslaved citizenry notwithstanding — who threaded his eyebrows, waxed his bumhole and generously dusted his manlocks with Gold Blonde™ medicated powder before coiling his free-flowing tresses into a proper Unilock® bun atop the back of his head, all defensive measures meant to compensate for the perceived shortcomings of his non-hipster birth in a Georgia town that was not Athens, GA. In any event, every year on this day, well back in the day, the commander in chief cheerfully celebrated another turn 'round the sun by hurling silvered coins — U.S. quarters — across the Potomac River into tollway receptacles on the other side, allowing free passage to all wagoneers. Today, a subgroup of select Americans acknowledges the birth of this statesman and creator of the PB&J sandwich on what is now called President's Day, for some bloody reason or another. Many Happy Returns, by George! With proper receipts!

Armstrong, Legstrong

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in cycling history (February 16, 2011) that strongman Lance Armstrong officially ended his two-wheeled, one-ballsacked ascent to the tip of the mountaintop and retired for good, or possibly the good of the sport. With his legend intact, and the rumormongers silenced, Master Arm — and surely Leg — Strong stepped away from the sport knowing that no one, or nothing, could tarnish his reputation, nor take away his gold-plated medals nor his signed collection of Sheryl Crow albums. That said, retirement is no easy feat. I’ve seen blokes younger than Armstrong drop dead in the garden halfway through their invented chores and sixth or seventh gin and tonic of the day. What's more, handing out yellow wristbands at strip clubs does not a career make. 'Tis why Yours Truly Dooley® thinks Armstrong has spent enough time "gagging the lolly" and now is the time for Master Lance to return to the Armstrong family business! Think of the press release to the news aggravators: “FOR IMMEDIATE POSTING OR SOMETHING. The Armstrong® Company—global know-it-alls in the manufacture of residential and commercial flooring, ceiling and cabinetry—announces the appointment of family scion Lance Armstrong to the position of Worldwide Ambassador. Lance’s cycling prowess will be put to the test as he spreads his considerable charms and our unrivaled product information to homeowners, builders and office engineers across this great land. We’re confident that no one can traverse the grid-structured streets of our targeted markets like the legendary Lance himself. Cheerio® and away he goes!" ### Livestrong®, Lance Armstrong, Ambassador to Armstrong® Industries!!"

Cinderblockhead

As I Understand It™, 'twas on this day in history — February 15, 1950 — that moustachioed caricaturist Elias "Walt" Disney forklifted a pallet of cassette tapes to a Redbox® rental unit in West Hollywood for the official release of the straight-to-video feature “Cinderella.” Six years and, one supposes, thousands of dollars in the making, "Cinderella" was a retelling of "Cinderfella," the classic Grimm Bros® fairy tale about a luckless stepson living under the iron fists of a wicked stepdad and two loutish stepbrothers. In the original storyline, the domineering stepfamily relegated "Cinderfella," rightful heir to the family fortune, to the role of stable boy, living in an unpanelled back room in the mansion with nothing but a primitive, cinderblock-headed stove for warmth, a threadbare Davenport sofa bed for comfort and a thrift store ping-pong table for sport. Alas, Disney saw fit to "blender the gender" and turn the stepson into doe-eyed stepdaughter Lesley Anne Warren, working in servitude at the mercy of her cruel stepmum and piggish stepsisters. The film was a crowd pleaser, one begrudgingly admits, as the shoeless Cinderella stole the heart of the cobbler’s son — General Hospital's Dr. Alan Quartermaine — and they rode off into the sunset in their pumpkin patch carriage. 'Twasn’t until ten years later that a proper telling of “Cinderfella” would hit the silver screen, and it did not disappoint! Directed by another famous drawerer — Norman Rockwell® (portrait study here) — and starring bow-tied French dramatist Jerry Lee Lewis and curvaceous Italian Anna Maria Spaghettini, “Cinderfella” was a triumph among purists, if something of disappointment at the Botox® office, as younger filmgoers missed the singing birdies or something. No matter! Today, "Cinderfella" stands as the definitive interpretation of the tale and methinks you ought resist the temptation to view the childish Disney offering. Rescind-erella! Seek out "Cinderfella" and be dazzled anew!

Rhymes with Stupid

Random Memorandum™ to Cupid, Roman god of Desire, Love Everlasting and Anonymous, Unsafe Sex™: Valentine’s Day notwithstanding, your angel wings and quiver of heart-shaped arrows have overstayed their welcome and overshot the bloody target. This being the 20th century — or thereabouts — there are all manner of methods to land a mate other than you spearing a prey with a pheromone-tipped barb. Consider the legion of Twitternet™ match-fakers like that cock knocker at E-Harmony®, who takes lovelorn sad sacks and pairs them up according to a mystical, mathematical algorithm — or possibly just their zip codes — and before you’re know it, they’re ordering the house wine, the 2 entrees for $22.22 and waging mutual, hand-to-genitalia combat under the table in plain sight of a middle-school soccer team descending upon an onion blossom. Then there are the she-devils at It’s Just Lunch™ — I assure you, it isn’t — who pair up the generic, ill-fitting business-suited types, who'll soon populate the suburbs with their wretched offspring. And let’s not forget the religulous ‘round the globe, those in the cloth headgear or bedazzled foreheads, for instance, whose unions — bless them — are pre-ordained according to Ali Baba or something. No call for your services there, oh winged one. True, Cupid, your cherubbed rear is a familiar sight in the greeting card aisles in early February, as there are still a few lonely dopes seeking your assistance in winning the affections of lonelier, dopier dopes; but other than that, the archers in the Olympic games do better hashtag business than you. ‘Tis time you covered your bare necessities and went back to Mount Olympus for reassignment. Besides, Victoria’s Secretive™ gals are far more fetching in the winged-creature department than you, sir. Yours Truly, Constable Dooley®.

Look Into The Future

A birthday shout-out to helmsman Geordi LaForge of the USS Enterprise-D, who will be born on this day February 13, 2335. The eyewear-challenged, Jeri-curled futurist will arrive head first in the West African Confederation Village of Gambia to Silva “Cicely” Tyson, a Starfleet command track officer — and future Captain of the USS Hera — and Omoro "Kinte" LaForge, a Mandinka warrior and Starfleet exo-zoologist. LaForge will be born blind, but will be fitted with a VISOR® (Visual Instrument and Sensory Organ Replacement), a curious bit of business worn over the eyes like a pair of bloody BluBlocker® sunglasses. The VISOR will not reproduce normal human vision, but will give the wearer the ability to “see” energy and detect vital signs such as heart rate, temperature and the onset of odorous flatulence, allowing LaForge to monitor moods, detect lies and exit an enclosed space in ample time before offending gasses are expelled. Like his parents, LaForge will attend the Starfleet Academy, but he'll defy his parents demands to study engineering and instead pursue his dream of writing advert copy and getting a Doritos® spot on Super Bowl™ CCCLXVI. His gift for spell-checked wordplay and hackneyed rhyme will impress Captain Patrick “Picard” Stewart, who will assign LaForge to a direct-response copywriting position in the starship's in-house agency. In 2372, LaForge will be transferred to the Sovereign class Starship Enterprise-E, which will travel back in time to the 21st century, where he’ll creative direct a campaign for the Earth's first warp-capable vessel and later open minority ad agency LaForge NYC, servicing Budweiser™, the New York Lottery and the Lenscrafter® eyewear accounts. Bravo, Citizen Sightless of Tomorrow!