The Legend of Clementine Titslinger

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

Dempsey's Boot

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in sporting history — November 8, 1970 — whilst showboating, soccer-style place-kickers from Norway were charming the stretch pants off the hair-sprayed microphone twirlers on the sidelines — a “straight-on” American kicker named Tom Dempsey split the uprights from 63 yards away, setting an NFL® record that stood for nearly half a century. Dempsey’s kick — boot, if you will — in the game’s final seconds, gave his New Orleans Saints a 19-17 victory over the Detroit Lions, but even more remarkable is the fact that Dempsey, son of bare-knuckled brawler Jack Dempsey, did so handicapped — born deaf, blind and without toes on his right (kicking) foot and no bloody fingers on his right hand, he wore a modified shoe with a flattened front that allowed him to connect squarely with a football head-on. The snap holder would signal the start of the play with a type of dog whistle, whose ultrasonic pitch alerted Dempsey to approach the ball; sometimes he would connect with the ball, other times he would misjudge his paces and plow headlong into the line or perhaps kick the placeholder in the helmet. But on this day, he was heroically on point and bully for him! Alas, controversy would eventually follow — as it does everywhere when anything good happens — for some arsewipes thought the “club-like” shoe gave Dempsey an advantage, while others protested that the dog whistle couldn't be heard by the opposing team. Even though subsequent tests — on the shoe, not the whistle, as that part of the controversy was swept under the rug like so much NFL-branded cocaine — proved that the smaller contact area of Dempsey's shoe may have actually increased the margin for error, the NFL, in all their inglorious wisdom, opted to add the "The Tom Dempsey Rule" to their dopey, voluminous rule book, which stated — and I’m not making this up — “Any shoe that is worn by a player with an artificial limb on his kicking leg must have a kicking surface that conforms to that of a normal kicking shoe.” One hopes that whomever was associated with this ruling is properly burning in hell for it, as I cannot imagine a more loathsome decision. In any event, 'twas also on this day in history — the very same day — that easy-riding, chemically-overstuffed nitwit Dennis Hopper divorced malnourished songbird Michele Phillips after only 8 days of marriage, which goes to show that you can go the distance with half a foot, but you won’t get very far with half a bloody brain.

Ginned Up

Damn you, Gin Blossoms!! Brazenly driving around this town, inviting “the cops” to chase you around! What in blue blazes could you newly-minted musical wunderkinds possibly be thinking? Are you not aware that your fans are only recently in possession of their first drivers licenses, and that your defiant, anti-establishment rant — blasting out of the AM radio in Daddy's car — is tantamount to a direct law-breaking order? If there are accidents pending, sirs, know that I will hold you culpable! While we're on the subject, methinks it would not "be alright if you just crashed here tonight." I will not stand by idly and allow you to set up shop in teenagers' living rooms and commence to banging away on your ruby red guitars, rousing unsuspecting parents from their slumber. Furthermore, your contention that you're "in no shape for driving and don’t have anyplace else to go" is suspect. Surely there's a fellow up-and-coming scenester with a spare Murphy Bed™ to share. Call bloody Hootie or the Spin Doctors or that Pat Monahan wanker and see if he can't put you up at the Train station. (Haha!) I offer this rebuke with some befuddlement, as from all appearances you seem like nice enough lads, sporting the necessary accoutrements of an MTV-era band — the “alternative” eyewear, the rainbow suspenders and shiny, silken jackets, the colored tees and sneakers, the dippity-do hairdos, the pleading looks and windmill guitar hooks. All of which belies the defiance you display in the aforementioned "Hey Jealousy" number. Hey, Gin Blossoms: Your cavalier implication about the inabilities of your town's police officials is a misstep on your path to stardom and possibly punishable by the laws of terras firma and/or digital. I urge you to restate your intentions in a new lyric. Pour your broken hearts out into a song about bloody "Closing Time" or something.

Desert Island Storm

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history — November 6, 1941 — that BBC® Radio blabberer Roy Plomley dreamt up — which is to say, nocturnally emitted — "Desert Island Discs," a concept that unwittingly spawned the current Twitternet™ obsession with Buzzfeed® lists such as "50 Ways To Leave Your Lover Penniless and Reviled," "11 Signature Keanu Reeves and/or Ryan Gosling Blank Stares" and "The 9 Whitest Black Gents on ESPN®." Plomley's idea was a simple one: He would ask guests to name the eighteen recordings — or compacted "discs" — they'd most desire if they were marooned on a desert island — with downed Federal Express pilot Tom Hanks and his soccer ball Wilson® — and then Plomley would play the discs and lie about how much he liked them, whilst audience members would Tweet® vile insults about the castaway's choices. He hosted the program for 43 years, before heading to that Great Tiki Bar in The Sky. Remarkably, "Desert Island Discs" is still on air today, a vinyl record currently being challenged by Blue Man Group™, which runs continuously, night and day, on no fewer than eight continents. In honour of Mr. Plomley, here is Yours Truly Dooley's decades-spanning list of song favorites: "Don't Sit Under The Blossoming Apple Tree (Without Appropriate Headgear)," Glenn Miller and His Orchestra; "Inka Dinka Doo Rag," Jimmy Durante; "Downtown," Petula Clark; "OUCH!" The Beatles; "Don't Give Up On Us, Baby (And By Us, I Mean Me)," sandy-haired, singing detective David “Hutch” Soul; "People, Let Me Tell You 'Bout My Best Friend," single dad Bill Bixby; "Volare," Artist Unknown (But There Is YouTube™ Footage Of Golfer Chi Chi Rodriguez Performing It In A Locker Room); "Tra La La (La La La La)," The Banana Splits; "Love Grows (Where The Essential Garden Spice Rosemary Grows)," Edison Lighthouse; "Knowing Me, Knowing You (Still Getting To Know Your Siblings, But Am Thus Far Unimpressed)," ABBA; "These Hand-Stitched Leather Boots (Are Made for Walkin')," Nancy or Frank Sinatra, Jr.; "United We Stand," Brotherhood of Man; "Let Her In," Licensed Pilot John Travolta; "Tiny Hawaiian Bubbles," Tiny Hawaiian Don Ho; "Messrs. Abraham, Martin and John," Messrs. Hamilton, Joe Frank and Reynolds; "Mad About You (Lost In Your Arms and/or Charms)," Melinda Carlisle; "Master Beaumont Jangles," Sammy Davis Junior; "Safety Dance," Men Without Hats Nor Future Hits Alas. Cheers to the original man without a hat — pictured here — deserted islander Roy Plomley.

Poetry, Slammed

Today in Ask an Internet Patrolman, Nobel Prize-winning writer and Professor of Poetry at the University of Essex, Derek Walcott writes, “Dear Constable Dooley: I’ve lived a good life. An unlikely one for a lad from Saint Lucia. I've tasted success and am doing my best to share what I've learned to the students who hope to follow in my footsteps. But therein lies my reason for writing. Tell me, how responsible is it for me to encourage young writers to follow their muse, knowing how dim and dire their prospects upon graduation? Or is poetry essential to the human condition and am I obligated to pursue its instruction? Phonetically yours, Derek Walcott” Brilliant to hear from you, Derek from Saint Lucia. (Is that a Catholic school or something? Haha.) Here’s the thing about poetry, Master D: When the Oxford University tweed jacketeers deemed that “rhyming” was bad — putting a stop to the simple joys of “There Once Was a Man from Nantucket” and the like — they killed the Aflac® goose that laid the Fabergé® egg. Poems today may look like poems — with the fancy line breaks — but there’s no cheerful bounce, no pitter to the patter. Look at your own titles, chum: “Poems”, “Selected Poems”, “Collected Poems”. Boring, snoring! You’ve even written a bloody book-long poem — “Omerus” or “Odorous” — as an homage to Homer? Homages are out, sir, and a book-long poem is like a movie with subtitles...there's no bloody audience for it! My favorite poem of all time addresses these difficult realities in a way that every poet should heed. “Trees”, by Dr. Joyce Kilmer (pictured above) opens thusly: “I think that I shall never see, a ponderous, non-rhyming poem lovely as a tree”. Imagine that! An acclaimed poet/telly psychologist revealing to the world that she’s never seen a poem as lovely as a sapling! As to your students, have they not seen “Dead Poet’s Society”? ‘Tis not healthy for young impressionables to celebrate the work of poets, living or dead! Look what happened to the one lad — not a lonely wanker, but a popular bloke with a full head of hair and straight teeth — he sadly killed himself! And then, years later, the revered day-seizer at the head of the class suffered a similar fate. For the love of bad meter! If I you were you, I'd point young wordsmiths in the direction of the advert business, for it can always use jingleers to deliver the cheerful bounce I spoke of earlier. Have them buy the fancy eye frames and fame and fortune will greet them ‘round the bend. Especially if one rises to the exalted title of Creative Director! Yours Truly, Internet Patrolman Dooley®.

Donegan, Done In Again

Celebrating a Deathday™: Legendary UK skiffle player Lonnie Donegan — aka, Doyle Lonnegan — died on this day, November 4, 2002. Known as the “King of Skiffle,” the Scottish-born Donegan greatly influenced a generation of British musicians in the 1960’s, and with song titles like, “Diggin’ My Potatoes (Strainin' My String Beans),” “My Old Man's A Dustman (My Mum's The Virgin Mary),” "Take My Self-Pleasuring Hand, Lord" and “Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavour (After The Thirty-Second Chew?)” 'tis easy to see why! Skiffle was a ragtag style of music that borrowed loosely from jazz, blues, folk, country swing, early prog, glam rock and rave club ambient, and was played on largely homemade instruments, such as washboards, fishing poles, garbage can lids, hockey sticks, hub caps, hollowed pumpkins, emptied AriZona® iced-tea jugs, automobile grills and Prince Albert tobacco tins, all of which created a driving rhythm that would drive anyone with discerning ears mad. We'll guess that skiffle music was the antidote for a depressed post-war generation — we don’t know that for a fact, but that’s the kind of thing music wankerers like to posit to make themselves sound smart — however, we do know that skiffle caught fire — quite literally — when the band “The Oneders” went up in smoke after their drum kit burst into flames, an incident that was the basis for the song “(Second Hand) Smoke On Or About The Water” by England’s Deep — or to our eyes, Very Dark — Purple. Donegan's skiffle prowess is said to have largely influenced The Quarrymen, who went on to become Herman Hermit’s — or possibly Procol Harum — before finally arriving on the moniker Mungo Jerry. With over twenty Top 30 UK hits, Lonnie Donegan was the most successful British musician prior to the arrival of Oasis, according to either the Guinness Book of World Records® or brothers Liam and Noël Gallagher and their mum and aunties. Donegan retired from music in the 70’s and would later enjoy success as a pinstripe-suited, moustoachioed card shark — operating under the alias "Doyle Lonnegan" — riding the rails, out-hustling young grifters looking to cash in on the big con. Happy Anni-hearse-ary™, then, Lonnie "Doyle Lonnegan" Donegan!

Enema of the People

'Tis Election Day across the pond, and you know what that means. It means that the huddled masses yearning to breathe free of their poorly ventilated, bank-owned domiciles will hike up their ill-fitting trousers or housecoats and shuffle off to their local polling place to pull the lever for the promise maker least likely to work on their behalf. Such is the way of the wretched refuse—the dimwitted electorate—who gleefully vote for the Carhart®-jacketed Cheshire cat whose invented story of good works and bionic vision has been assaulting their tellies, news feeds and senses for many moons. Bloody hell, 'twould appear to Yours Truly Dooley™, after a months-long station house review of the online campaign sites dotting the Arnold "Al" Gore Memorial Misinformation Superhighway™, that the American citizenry hasn't had this much smoke blown up their arseholes—and out their nostrils—since the introduction of the tobacco enema. Surely mum and dad—or your primary school nuns—explained the workings of said enema, did they not? 'Twas a controversial mid-18th century treatment—akin to modern era boofing—employed by physicians and adventurous drug addicts for a range of ailments. According to the medical and/or fetishist websites we’ve referenced, a tobacco enema involved inserting a jellied rectal tube of reasonable circumference into a patient's—or early masochist's—ahnus, whilst a chain-smoking fumigator mouthed the opposite end, forcing plumes of smoke towards the rectum. The warmth of the emission was thought to quiet quaking bowels, easing gastrointestinal distress and possibly hernia, with the unintended benefit of alleviating the pressure of swelled—blue—balls or pulsing labia, prior to the invention of masturbation. 'Twas doubts over the credibility of the procedure that led to the phrase, "blow smoke up one's arse.” That being well said, voting is one's civic duty—much as it is a dog's duty to do its business on the neighbour's lawn—so 'tis my advice to make your way over to the village hall, let your voice be heard and be bloody well done with it. As for the gauntlet of flag wavers, sign holders, party line babblers and costumed jump-up-and-downers you'll face on your way into the building, tell it to them properly: Up yours. With a tobacco enema.

All Souls, Including David

As I Underhand It™, today is All Souls' Day — a “Holy Day of Obfuscation" according to the Pentacostalwhites — a day that Dooley Obligates™ one to attend churchly service to pray for their amoral soul or something. No mention whether that includes sandy-haired, singing detective David “Starsky or Hutch” Soul, but surely he could benefit from a congregation of supernaturalists speaking in tongues on his behalf. We haven’t seen nor heard much from this 70’s songbird since he was arrested for spousal abuse back in the days before abusers could register their apology and be forgiven in a series of tweets over a round of cocktails at the hotel bar. One imagines that his fall from grace was payback for his transistor radio tune that inexplicably climbed the Billboard® charts, #1 with an Internet Patrolman's bullet! “Don’t Give Up On Us, Baby (And By Us I Mean Me)” was his entreatment; alas, I have it on some authority that give up on him his baby did indeed, which just goes to show that if you're so bloody desperate to keep your relations intact that you'll resort to letting the entirety of your guard down, singing earnestly about giving it one more try, teary-eyed for all the world to see, it will not end well for you, as your baby will soon be in the back seat of another bloke's 2-Door Ford Grand Torino and there's not much you can do about it, except hoist your holstered SansaBelt® trousers, snap your suspenders and take it like a man. Baring your soul may get you onto the Billboard or into heaven some day, but not back into her good graces, nor the graces of your Hazzard County partner Hutch or Starsky, who'd also had enough of him. Last we heard, Soul and his “Here Comes the Bride Number Five” moved to this side of the pond, to do what — chop wood? flash pearly whites? — one can’t imagine. But we do feel obligated to remember and, indeed, pray for this lost Soul on this Feast of All-Souls-including-David-Soul and ask that you do as well.

Best Regards, Beauregard

A birthday shout-out to the only  American Idol worth a tinkerer's dam, Beauregard "Bo" Bice, the baddest man in the whole dang town (since Jim Croce was burnt to a crispety crunch). Born a redneck in shitneck Alabammy (November 1, 1975), Bo spent his teen years in, of all places, bloody England! As the story goes, Bice’s stepdaddy got hisself a job on this side of the pond, movin' his old lady — Bo’s mama — and their brood of illegitimates here when Bo was 14. Bo attended London Central High School — where he properly kicked the shite outta any nancy boy who mocked his flowing mane or velvetine trousers — and lived in Gerrards Cross — where he popped more cherries than a pie factory. In his youth, this child of the ‘70’s was what we affectionately call "the shite." He was rarely seen without a geetar in one hand, a sweet, sassy lassy in the other and a “fattie” burnin' betwixt his lips. He formed his first band, Spinnin' Jenny, in England and from there he was off to the dirtbike races. Fast-forward to 2004 and Bo mopped the floor with the tired-arse competition in American Idol, with the exception of one Harry Underwood, who unfairly walked away with the top prize. (No word from Mr. Underwood since winning, we'll note!) Yours Truly Dooley® was honoured — that is, scheduled — to police Master Beauregard's triumphant return to England in a show at the Hammersmith Odeon in 2000-something. Unfortunately, due to a scheduling snafu, only 40 tickets were sold, causing the gig to be moved to a tavareen with a spotty public address system. Ever the showman, Bo put away a bottle of Mr. John-or-do-you-prefer-Jack Daniel® and two packs of mentholatum cigarettes whilst treating the crowd to some scorching Southern rock and English roll, closing the set with his trademark remake of “Whippin’ Pole,” by the Almond Joy® Brothers. Best regards — and Happy Birthday — Beauregard. Mutha trucka’s got game!