The Original TED Talker

Stop The World (Wide Web), I Want Them To Get Off™: The legion of TEDious TED talkers and stage stalkers living in the mile-high shadow of the great, ghoulish Citizen Undead Orator™ TED Cassidy, founder of the eponymous lecture series that bears his name. A towering concert harpsichordist and onetime associate of monied, madcap cryogenicist Gomez Addams, the otherwise tight-lipped Cassidy was an unlikely storyteller who began his TED® Talks as something of a lark after discovering his knack for regaling harpsichord audiences between songs with his tall tales on positivity, mindfulness and Radical Careering®. One querying catchphrase later — "You Rang?" — and TED had the corporate dullards and technology nitwits shelling out money for a velveteen seat and lining up for a photo opportunity next to the gentle giant. 'Twas all good fun for Cassidy until the over-caffeinaTED showrunners grabbed the reigns and began licensing the property to every community center with a plank stage and videographer to record the goings on. Alas, the next batch of constipaTED chatterboxes didn't qualify as authorities on anything other than arm waving, headset adjusting and laser-beam pointing, all of it captured on low resolution video and passed around the nascent Albert "Al" Gore Memorial Information Superhighway™ like a ballbag rash at sports camp. Today, the once vital, freewheelin' TED Talks have plummeted to their present state of TEDium, taking their place alongside other shameful TEDs throughout history — loathsome sorority eviscerator TED Bundy, plaid-jacketed news knucklehead TED Knight, million dollar wrasslin' meathead TED DiBiasi, mustachioed pina colada pourer TED Lange, draft-dodging, serial embarrassor TED Nugent and makeshift timebomb mailer and the hoodied pride of Evergreen Park, Illinois TED Kacyznski — take your bloody pick. 'Tis no surprise no one names their children TED anymore, but 'tis a wonder the bloviaTED imitators of the inimitable TED Cassidy still manage to find an audience, something we endeavor to put a stop to. As another legendarily massive orator not-named-TED once said, “One more word out of you and you go!”

Hair Brained and White Robed

Random Memorandum™ to fluffy-white-robed Australian shampoolier Tom Redmond: Bravo, Citizen Latherist™! Your distinctive “branding campaign” for the Aussie® product line is the envy of the bubble industry! I dare say that if one were to corral a roomful of fashion-plated advertising nitwits for an afternoon of brainstorming and blowing smoke up one another’s arses, the lot of them couldn’t have concocted anything approaching the singular brilliance of your terry-clothed family portraitures. 'Tis a fascinating display and I never tire of looking down the row of white and white-ish faces and try to imagine who are your progeny and who was was pairing up with whom, climbing aboard to beget the next generation. 'Tis good — clean — fun! Of course, creative marketing is just the icing on the sheet cake of your “suds-ational” success story. Back in the day, while other shampoo cookers like Messrs. Proctor & Gamble were content to melt down horses to make mainstream hair care products like Prell®, Pert® and Head, Shoulders, Small Of Back And Buttocks™, ‘twas you who had real “horse sense,” finding ways to make shampoo that didn’t use animal oils, but rather natural, indigenous ingredients such as blue gum leaves, jojoba seed oil and something called "Australian Quandong" — which is not panda penis, no matter what it sounds like — bringing a whole new level of clean to those who care about such matters. Mind you, your cleanliness-is-next-to-godliness image came into question upon discovering in my weekend Twitternet® patrols that you had been found guilty in 2011 of spreading the herpes simplex virus to a ladybird who was not your bloody missus, but I am scrubbing that part of the story from my mind's eye and am content to focus on the picture here: You and the family in rich, if modest, bathroom attire, terry-clothed head-to-toe! Brilliantine™! Your approach is convincingly clean-scrubbed and I count myself among your legion of fans! Indeed, this morning there is a perceptible spring in my step thanks to a good, long lather, a vigorous scrubbing of the descenders and a dollop on the noggin of the only hair conditioner on Mother Earth worth a bloody damn: Aussie® brand! Aces, sir!

Jesus Lives, Which Is To Say, Picnics

We begin this week with a reading from Psalm 23B: The Lord is my activities coordinator; I shall not want. He leadeth me to lie in green pastures, supplying checkerboard blanket, insect spray and styrofoam coolers. He rocketh me beside the still waters with cassette tape boom box. He leadeth me down clearly marked pathways to the gender appropriate latrine. Though I walk through the valley of clover, I fear no allergens, nor the evils of ivy, for thou hath armed me with witch hazel to ease itch and suffering. Thou preparest a picnic table before me in the presence of a mixed-race assemblage of shirtless Citizen Longhairs and their free-loving sister wives. Thou anointest my rib rack with oil, marinades and barbecuing sauces; my lemonade cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, or until an afternoon cloudburst sends us on our way; I will dwell in the house of the Lord, which is to say, under cover of the forest preserve pavilion.

Breaker, Breaker

Random Memorandum™ to “Teddy Bear,” the crippled lad breakin' into Channel 1-9 on the station house CB: Top o' the mornin' wood, TB! Let me say right from the git-go that we are not unsympathetic to your plight, Citizen Sonny Boy. You are in a difficult — from what I gather, seated — position and we admire you for reaching out, putting your functioning limbs to good use and giving voice to others with similar limitations in the process. However, that being well said, my responsibility as a dutybound lawman is to serve the public interest — the entirety of the citizenry — and therefore, I cannot single out the needs of one, no matter how dire the circumstances, even if he got hisself two bum feets, his daddy was kilt' in a snowstorm and his put-upon mama is dancin' to put food on the table. Truth is, yer’ mama ain’t got no bidness hoofin’ in that club, hoppin' into strangers' laps and such, leavin’ you home alone with nothin’ but yer’ dead daddy’s CB radio to keep ya’ company, boy. But that’s not what concerns me most, TB. What troubles me is the truck traffic pilin' up outside your home address of 229 Jackson since your story broke out on the airwaves! You can’t know this at your tender age, Teddy Bear, but anytime you get more than two 18-wheel rigs together, you can count on all manner o' drinkin’, cussin’ and fisti-cuffin'. Uncivilized unrest I simply cannot have on my watch! Next time, don’t broadcast your plea over the broadband. Micro target your messaging — as the digital marketing nitwits would have it — on Oogle™ or Facebook® and while yer at it, git yourself one of them SlinkedIn® pages, so your make believe work history is out there for old bosses and galfriends to give the once-over. Signing off with well wishes and a proper 10-4, Teddy Bear. Yours Truly, Constable Dooley®.

Fresh! Exciting!

'Tis the season for excessive perspiration about the groin and buttocks. Men who work out of doors — policemen, postmen, Fuller Brush® salesmen — or those who play in the heat — golfers, cyclists, ad agency showboats circling the softball base path — are especially vulnerable. As I Understand It™, left untreated, male pattern perspiration can lead to discomforting rashes, embarrassing odors or diminished sexual emissions. Fresh Balls® moisturizing lotion is specially formulated with anti-irritants and anti-bacterials to keep your undercarriage clean, fresh and dry. ‘Twas a time when a splash of talcum or a warm, soapy toweling of one’s nether extremities was the order of the day. Now a dollop of Fresh Balls™ nips that “not-so-fresh-feeling” in the buds.

Endless Journeyman

Random Memorandum™ to diminutive, Philippine vocal chameleon Arnel Pineda: The broadsheets are reporting that "Everyman's Journey" — the adoring, flip video documentary of your remarkable "journey" up the Billboard charts — is playing to packed houses and standing ovulations on the usually snooty film festival circuit. Bravo, little big man! Plucked from obscurity like a gray hair from Steve Perry's nostrils, you are a living proof that YouTube® can be used as a tool for good (as well as the very naughty.) Your rags-to-riches-to-rags-around-the-microphone-stand story far outshines the dopey, leather-panted Mark Wahlberg-and-that-Rachel-actress “Rock Star” fantasy. Imagine the pride that homeless Manilans must feel — especially the mates in your old tribute band The Zoo, who soldier on in hotel bars and seedy cabarets in your absence. Also, I was delighted to read that your endless concert Journey will continue in town faires and secondary concert venues on either side of the pond this summer. You, your band mates, their salon-ready style and rejuvenating facial peels are single-handsomedly transporting a pot-bellied generation back to the 10th grade. Your story whispers “don’t stop believin” into the ears of puffball pop fans and sport club owners seeking a sing-along for their money-bilking stadium-slash-shopping malls. May you continue to enjoy the success that eluded other Journey replacement singers, and to those lesser sound-alikes who begrudge your success, I place a pox on their filthy touring vans. Rock on, Citizen Superstar! Yours Truly, Constable Dooley.

The Pink Pantheress

A gentleman would never presume to query a ladybird about her age, but this gentle man — Yours Truly, Dooley® — would be remiss if he didn't acknowledge that today is the birthday of the original Pink Lady® — the Grande Mum of English letters — one Barbara Cartland, born July 9, 1901 in Edgbaston, Birmingham. The only daughter and eldest child of British army officer Major Bertram Cartland and wife Polly “Wants-A-Cracker-And-Creme-Soda” Hamilton, young Barbara began writing her tales of virginal heroines and blue-balled suitors prior to her first menstrual cycle. Cartland's first husband Alexander McCorquodale claimed that Barbara was repulsed by the mechanics of sexualized intercourse and refrained from lighting upon the subject in her tales and, alas, their bedroom. (Social intercourse, as anyone familiar with her chatty, Victorian-era fare will attest, carried no such restrictions.) However, second husband Hugh McCorquodale — the bloody cousin of husband number one — appears not to have had any difficulties "coursing internally" with his missus — having properly hot-wired the toggle switch, as it were, resulting in the birth of three children, not to mention a step granddaughter, one Diana, Princess of Wales. Cartland was criticized by detractors for churning out “bathroom fare” and was the victim of a smear campaign — perpetrated by her self-pleasuring ex-husband — that saw "Bar" writing her paperback potboilers whilst sitting atop the potty, but her fans paid it no mind. Her titles included "Love Hurts," "Love Scars," "Love Wounds (And Marks)" and outside of the horrible, hackish American adman turned paperback publishing king-or-rather-push-pin James Patterson, there has been no challenger to Ms. Cartland's record as the most prolific author in the 20th century. Some 723 novels in all — nearly a billion copies in print — and I'll wager that Plaster Patterson himself — nor his crew of sentence bungling associates such as Maxine Pietro and Richard D. Lallo — never read one lick of her superior prose! Barbara passed away in May of 2000, however her new novel, “Love Never Dies,” is said to be writing itself and seeking literary agent representation. Rest assured, we're saving a spot for it atop the station house toilet tank! R.I.P. and Happy "Bar-thday," Citizen Pink Pantheress™.

I Thee Redd

If Memory Swerves™, ‘twas on this day in history (July 8, 1991) that the first bi-racial union was legally recognized in the United States. Which is remarkable considering that anyone can bloody well marry nowadays — men, women, black, white and red-skinned natives of Washington. Even more remarkable is the half-fact that one-half of this historic Afrasian couple was foul-mouthed comedian and junkyard kingpin Sanford “Redd” Foxx. He and his blushing bride KaHo Cho — now KaHo Foxx — were married at the Little Church of the West®, in a quintessential Las Vegas ceremony that included a blind organist, two midget witnesses and a drunk minister. Also attending were Redd’s leisure-suited son Lamont, mustachioed sister-in-law Esther, best buddy Grady, some shiftless hustler named Rollo and KaHo’s caterer parents. This was the fourth marriage for Redd, who was intent on keeping his vow for fear of reprisal from KaHo’s family, who were so disapproving of him having his nasty way with their little China doll, that they didn’t bring spring rolls to the reception, as promised. People said it wouldn’t last — they always do — but they were bloody wrong! Today Redd and KaHo are married and leading a life of quiet privilege far from the spotlight’s glare. So far, in fact, that I can’t bloody find where they’re holed up or how many Asiacan children Redd has sired and what kind of father he is and whether he sold his interest in the junk business or is hitting the stages at the old folks homes to bring home the thick-cut bacon. None of which is my concern, as long as the Foxxy couple are still making one another laugh and bringing each other to the occasional climax. We wish many more faithful years to the happy couple before a heart attack — the Big One — reunites Redd with his late, beloved Elizabeth, who left us too soon years ago. 

Gringo, Starr

The station house sends a birthday shoutout to the peace-sign flashing, pigskin-pounding Beatle Brother, Gordon Ringo "Gringo" Starsky. Born July 7, 1940 in an "Octopus' Garden," which is to say Liverpool, Gringo joined the lads in 1962, replacing original drummer Pete Best who, tragically, lost an arm in a car crash prior to the infamous "Pyromania" sessions. Whilst Best endeavoured to carry on with the band, feverishly banging out drum bits with his remaining appendages, the technology that would allow future one-armed UK drum pounders to trigger the snare with the foot normally used for hi-hat pedals had yet to be invented, so he hung up his sticks for a career in civil servantry — bless him — and Gringo took his seat behind the drumkit, where he remained until 1970. Gringo later enjoyed success as the husband of an American actress before forming Gringo + His All-Starr Band, a popular touring assemblage that features a revolving cast of musicians from such oddball 70's acts as Mister Mister Mister, Journeymen at Work and Todd Rundgrend & his Little Dog Toto. Peace and birthday love to you, Citizen Starrman™. 

Brewed, Crude & Ballyhooed

Random Memorandum™ to The Three Stooges™ of the American ale industry — the slap-happy chappies from Chippewa — Messrs. Jacob, Jethro and Jasbo Leinenkugel: As scions of a legendary brewing family, surely you must have some notion of tradition. Why, then, do you persist in sullying your legacy and embarrassing yourselves and your relations with your cheeseball adverts? The dopey schtick, the over-played enthusiasm and pathetic mugging for the camera, all of it ‘tis more repellant than a vat of bug spray in your beloved north woods. Honestly, mates, your television and online “content,” as the marketing nitwits would have it, are about as funny as a fart at a funeral. Your ham-handedness on the radio is only slightly more bearable, as one needn't suffer the sight of your “beer mugs” as the tragic lameness spills out of your pie-holes. Let’s call a spade a small shovel here: You knuckleheads make a trio of car dealers look like the Marx Brothers. I venture that if one took the inanities in all the other ale commercials combined, it wouldn’t approach the level of awfulness that your adverts deliver. If you took the three worst writers from the three worst advert shops up north, hired them for a week, paid for their Usinger sausage lunches and pushed them to ply their tin-eared skills, they couldn’t deliver anything as bad as your current work. I keep hoping one of those giant anvils will drop from the sky, land on your cabin and strike you dead in one fell swoop. That would be funny! Now, perhaps none of this would matter if there was something to be said for your libations. Alas, ‘tisn’t so. I’ve sampled your Barely Weiss® and Lemonade Shandygaff® beers and am baffled at the appeal of these bloody concoctions. If I was crawling across the desert and a mirage — say, a pool filled with Leinie's Honey Nut Cheerio® — appeared, I’d sooner copulate with a cactus than submit to drinking that sugary shite. Perhaps you’ve sampled one too many fruity brews to know better. ‘Tis time to concentrate on beer making, not ad making. The bloody camera will never love you, and if you don’t change your ways, neither will I. Yours Truly, Constable Dooley®.

Preying Mantis

Random Memorandum™ to a Church Elder: Damn you, Mantis! I am on to you, sir! You may impress the church-going faithful, Citizen Prayermonger, but you do not pass muster with Yours Truly, Dooley®. Your prayerful faux pose, weekly service attendance and missionary work notwithstanding, methinks there's something dispiriting about your worshipful ways. Granted, you appear to be properly supplicant — down on bended, spiked posterior leg, with grasping forelegs pointed towards the heavens and triangular head and large compound eyes bowed in “prayer” — however, if you are, indeed, entreating a higher, six-limbed power, "pray tell" where are your rosary beads?! And what’s this business about females biting off the male’s head during the mating dance to ensure a more vigorous delivery of the spermatazoon? What biblical story endorses such godlessness?! 'Tis my belief that you are not “praying," but are rather “preying” — under natural camouflage and concealment — on the science and faith communities who have held you in their regard and allowed your appearances to deceive them. You have hoodwinked the departments of etymology and theology for the last time! Rest assured, Mantis, that your days in the churches, temples and tee-pees on terra firma are numbered — which is to say, numbering less than your natural lifespan of 10 to 12 months in the wild, with some species in captivity surviving up to 14 months.

Fourth of July, Fifth of Whimsy

If Memory Sweves™, ‘twas on this day in history (July 4, 1776) that the British Empire

 voted to approve a resolution of legal separation from the land-grabbing

Thirteen Colonies of the Northerly Island of America®. Although the rebel colonist's

fighting forces — the Iced Tea Baggers — did not officially lay down their arms in surrender until 1783, a “Declaration of Indebtedness” was signed on the 4th of July by a group of unflagging

British Loyalists, including John Q. Adams who decreed the day “be solemnized with pomp and parade, bells and bonfires, hootenannies and hot rod races, 30-packs and possibly mattress sales from this time forward forever more.” Brilliantine™! Cue the marching bands, light the bottle rockets, hoist the small-batch distilled spirits and God save the Queen Mother! 

A Diamond — Which Is To Say, A Jewel — In The Rough

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history (July 3, 2014) that blonde-maned, lone-monikered songbird Jewel announced to her half million Twitternet™ followers that she and rodeo cowboy husband Troy Somebody were going their separate ways, on horseback, one supposes. While the news would shock many, it did not come as a surprise to Yours Truly Dooley®. A chart-topping angel beloved internationally, yet loved only once monthly by a scrawny faux cowpoke who spent more time atop a cowbull than he did his married missus? Crikey! Those of us who'd followed the career of the buxom, dentally-challenge beauty knew their nuptials wouldn't last, but then, we knew her whole story: We knew 'bout the pioneering spirit of her grandfather Yule and grandmother Ruth, how they came to Alaska from Switzerland and commenced to pumpin' out toe heads on dirt floors like they were the bloody Swiss Family Robinson Crusoe. We knew about her daddy Atilla, pawin' 'way at mum Lenedra, and how Jewel — 'long with brothers Atz Lee and Shane — was raised in a homestead without proper toiletry, living off the land, riding horses bareback — which is not to say nekkid, though one can imagine it — and of course, yodelin' and, later, waitressin', livin' out the car in Santa Diego, buskin' for coins with a guitar strap over the bra strap on her back. What we didn't know then — nor now — is why she married this sharp-shooting rodeo clown. In her Twitternet missive to "her base," Jewel bravely talked of their "thoughtful and tender undoing" after six years of marriage and sixteen years together. Thoughtful and tender, my arse. At the time, I'd have liked to thoughtfully and tenderly administered a police-issued boot to his Wrangler®-panted backside. Alas, she would rebound — what with the record release parties, reality TV shows and the shaking of what the good Lorde™ gave her — and Atz and Leandra would return to the orders of their day — pumpin' the water, nursin' the suckling grandkids and huntin' down innocent moose like good pale-faced Alaskans. Note to the Kilchers: If there's anything we can do to help young Jewel in our official — which is to say, imagined — policing capacity, any gentle affection we might extend — don't hesitate to contact us at the station house.

There Went The Judge

If Memory Swerves™, the year was 1968 or 9, the Spring or Summer of Love,  Which Is To Say, Anonymous, Altogether Inadvisable, Sexual Couplings. The Vietnam War was ablaze, while in the states, the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy brought a nation to its knees. Civil unrest was the rage, and the fringe-jacketed longhairs were just getting started, conspiring to inflict sit-ins, free love and three-part harmonies about coming to Chicago’s Millenium Park to change the world upon an impressionable populace. Into this topsy-turvy milieu stepped a right-thinking civil servant, U.S. Circuit Judge Frederick Earl “Shorty” Long. Mind you, this was years before judges like Supreme Court pubis spotter Clarence Thomas and television Solomons Joseph Wapner and Judy Sheindlin commanded obesiance from their bully pulpits. Disrespect for uniformed authority was the disorder of the day. Policemen were "pigs," politicians were "Rethugulicans" and coffee baristas "Democrass." Cue Judge Shorty Long. Born in Birmingham, Alabammy, Shorty was a man of many skills, one who pounded the piano and hit the books with equal fervor. He attended Wayne State University Law School in Detroit, but his schooling at the Berry Gordy Hitsville, USA building steered him along a parallel pathway to success. Long’s first taste of musical acclaim was as the writer of “Devil With A Blue Dress,” a song which didn’t chart for him, but was remade into a hit by his legal assistant Mitchell “CC” Ryder. He would have more luck with his next release. “Here Comes The Judge” was a much-needed and soon-heeded warning that put the lawbreakers on notice: If you were in Judge Shorty’s courtroom, the rules of civilized behavior would apply. “Don’t nobody budge, here comes the Judge!” “Don't be eating that fudge, here comes the Judge!” “Take off yo’ hat, where you think yo’ at?!” His sentences were issued with menace: “30 days of boogaloo for you!” “30 days of shing-a-ling for the ding-a-ling.” ‘Twas more than good fun…’twas a reminder that prudence was now in session. Long played many instruments — including piano, organ, drums, harmonica, and trumpet — but no courtroom deviant ever played him. Alas, Shortly Long would die tragically on this day — July 2, 1969 — after his boat capsized on the Detroit River in Michigan. He only released one album in his short lifetime, but when that album was entitled “Here Comes The Judge,” methinks one suffices. R.I.P. Citizen Shortstop™.

Ahnulled

If Memory Swerves™, ‘twas on this day in history (July 1, 2011) that speech-challenged-musclehead-turned-actor-turned-Kindergarten-Cop-turned-Governator-turned-L.A.-Tan®-Franchisee Arnold Schvartzenegger divorced his wife of 25 years — his co-star in the science fiction titty flick "Red Sonja" — actress Brigitte Nielsen, after it had been revealed that Schvartzenegger had fathered no fewer than five children outside the bonds of their Hollywood Matrimony, four with house-wrecking news harlot Maria Shriver and one with the longtime Schvartzenegger housekeeper Mildred Baena — a regular Mrs. Doubtfire that one — neither of whom could hold a sex-scented Yankee Candle® to the towering, mammary-glanded Ms. SchvartzeNielsen. News of Schvartzenegger's sexual proclivity came as a shock to many, especially to those who had seen Schvartzenegger's shrivelled male assemblage in the "Pumping Iron" documentary, but 'twas a bombshell that caused no visible injury to Ms. SchvartzeNielsen, as she had been climbing aboard diminutive rap curiosity Flavor Flav on MTV's "The Surreal Life," all the while. The bombshell did, alas, blow ole' Arnold's ballbag off its banana hammock, which will likely prevent any future impregnations and result in fewer phonetically-challenged pump-you-uppers on Venice Beach. Schvartzenegger details all of the goings-on in his tall-tale-all memoir, “Total — Which Is To Say Selective — Recall, ” which he subtitles, "My Unbelievable True Story," which is not to be believed.