Paige Turner, Paper Dolly

Today in “Ask An Internet Patrolman®,” Paige Turner, a tee-totaling, bird-watching, arts & crafts hobbyist and doctoral candidate at Kalamazoo College writes, “Dear Constable Dooley: As a second-year associate in the Library of Arts & Letters, I am responsible for pruning periodicals and thesis papers from our graduate stacks. Rather than thoughtlessly discard work into the recyclable bins, I decided to call upon my dress-making experience and put the materials to good use. You can see the results in the attached photo. My question: Do you think it’s possible to be both book smart and...umm, book sexy? Sincerely, Paige Turner.” Delighted to hear from you, lovey. The station house roundly answers your question in the affirmative! Indeed, book sexy is a tradition as timeworn as the cover of your copy of "Ladyship Chatterley's Lover." In olden days, m'dearie, bookish misfits hoping to attract the attention of other lonely mopes merely had to remove their horned-rimmed glasses, pull out a hair clip and let their clumpish split enz fall about their boney shoulders; in short order, some luckless dolt would be scribbling bad poetry, desperately pining for their company. Myself, I never fell for that trick, as I couldn’t get past the deep, eyewear indentations left atop their noses, let alone the askewed eyeballs resulting from the prescription eyewear removal. But not to worry, Paigey, as exceptionally discriminating types such as Yours Truly Dooley® are the bloody exception. I’m happy to report that the odds are stacked—so to speak—in your favor, for surely there is a bookworm in your midst—perhaps one of your bi-gender amenable choir mates at the First Lesbyterian Church—who’ll wish to study the details of your ruffled, above-the-knee design, the stylish fanning about your barely-there bust line and overlapping accordion folds on your bodice. If I may offer an additional suggestion, try enlisting the line, “save a tree, deplete a beaver,” to further entice the eye-ballers on the dating websites. Methinks someone will be Kindle®-ing your fires with Paige-Turnering™ urgency in no time. Good luck and Godspeedo®, coquettish young Citizen Paper Dolly.

Holy Ascension, Batman!

Celebrating a Deathday™: 'Twas with heavy heart and patrolman's helmet in hand that we bid adieu to billionaire industrialist Bruce Wayne, who took leave on this day, June 9, 2017 at the sage of 88. Wayne's costumed crime-fighting prowess and change artistry long impressed us as unequaled and, indeed, unearthly, and with good reason, 'twould appear, as reports coming into the station house newsbleed are saying that otherworldly Batman® Wayne was secretly a member of the esteemed Holy Trilogy™, a revelation of biblical proportions on the order of discovering that Texas oilman Bobby Ewing wasn’t dead, he was only taking a long shower, soaping his undercarriage while a nation held its breath and wife Victoria Principal embarked on a career in fitness and cosmetics. One wonders what this means for those under the employ of the late Citizen Deity™. Was Master Dick Grayson bloody John the Baptist? Butler Albert Pennyworth, Joseph the Carpenter? Were Commissioner Gordon and Chief Inspector Miles O’Hara Wise Men? Frank Gorshin, Pontius Pilate? And the lot of the Rogue’s Gallery — the Joker, the Penguin, Arthur “Mr. Freeze” Schvartzen•gger — were they the Pharisees? We beseech thee, Son of Man, or rather Batman, to wholly reveal these mysteries to your humble servants in all thy Heavenly glory, and trust you have settled into your permanent quarters upstairs, naturally. Happy Anni-hearse-ary™, old friend. Rest in peace.

The Walking Man

Here he comes, walkin’ down the street, gettin’ funny looks from everyone he meets. He is Chicago, USA’s legendary — never sedentary — Walking Man® and he's not bloody Monkee®-ing around! As to his motives, I speak with some authority on the matter — having long walked in an official capacity and now surfed a next generation patrolman's beat — and having suffered countless shin splints, ankle sprains and "carpal tunneling" syndrome — I believe that what propels this heroic, perpetual motion machine is more than a generous sponsorship from Propel® brand water. 'Tis the knowledge that if you’re not moving forward, life can pass you by, and if life passes you by, you may as well be walking backwards, which is dangerous around heavily trafficked areas like Chicago's Millennium Parkway. So the Walking Man walks, his rain-or-shine routine rivaling that of a postman, and his hair hat flopping like an unstitched shoe sole. Any other man stops and talks or dials up that bloody James Taylor "Walking Man" song on his Walkman™ portable stereo, but the Walking Man walks! He ignores the catcalls of the office birds lusting after his sweet chocolate moustache. He obeys the traffic signals along Chicago's Golden Coast. And he walks. Bravo, Citizen Biped™.

Parlor Games

A doff of the scrub cap — and a grinding of the pharmacologist’s pestle — for drug-making-and-taking pioneer Sir James Simpson, 1st Baronet, born on this day June 7, 1811 in Bathgate, West Lothian. The youngest of seven, James Simpson was a boy genius who entered university at just 14, receiving his medical degree at age 21. He would become the Chair of Medicine and Midwifery at the University of Edinburgh, but ‘twas his unconventional methodology in the “health sciences” that garnered his infamy. Indeed, Simpson’s intellectual gatherings at the family dwelling on Queen Street — conducted whilst his missus and children were safely out of eye and earshot in the country home in Avonbridge — were known for their bawdy improperness. The naughty Scottish doctor and his free-thinking — which is to say, drug-ingesting — physician mates surely put the “sin” in medicine, experimenting with the anesthetizing, which is to say stuporific, effects of chemicals while pounding blindly on the piano keys in the parlor. As I Understand It™, one evening in November of 1847, they unleashed a previously unknown narcotic called “chloroform,” which upon inhaling sent them into fits of elation, followed quickly by unconsciousness. Indeed, one scandalous female attendee was said to have exclaimed, "I'm an angel" upon inhalation, before collapsing in a euphoric heap. When Simpson awoke the next morning, nude and woozy — along with his thick-tongued science associates and their shamed, unbodiced companions — he realized that his willingness to push the limits of debauchery and delirium had resulted in a breakthrough in medical anethesia. As for Yours Truly Dooley™, my first exposure to the numbing effects of chloroform were in the television procedurals of the 1970's — "Mannix," "Police Woman Pepper Rodgers," and especially, "Mission Impossible" — staring Barbara Baines in the role of Cinnamon Carter, alongside IMF stalwarts Peter Lupus, Peter Graves and Peter Greg Morris — where criminals were always knocking out their victims with chloroform-soaked rags. My academy mates and I were fascinated by this miracle “juice” — as was later a distant relation of the good doctor Simpson — American football hero Orenthal James Simpson, who became somewhat of a back room health scientist himself, experimenting with all manner of mind-bending “Juice.” His work with amphetamine, methamphetamine, cocaine and heroine speedballs found him gleefully leaping through airports, making a bloody fool of himself onscreen and, alas, strangulating and stabbing his ex-wife and maître d boyfriend to bloody death. ‘Twas surely not behavior his cousin, the parlor room party boy, had in mind when he discovered the medicinal properties of chloroform, but ‘twas collateral damage in the quest for higher consciousness, one supposes.

Harlem, Shuffled

If Memory Swerves™, on this day in sporting history (June 6, 1981) a wiz-bang assemblage of globe-trotting round-ballers from the New York borough of Harlem emergency-landed on an island in the Pacific. To their great surprise, the land mass upon which they found themselves was none other than “Gilligan’s Island®,” celebrated home of the 1960’s Castaways from the S.S. Minnow! Indeed, the shipwrecked gang was all there: Skipper Jonas Grumby, floppy-hatted first mate Gilligan, the dim-witted Professor, billionaire Jim Backus, his ginger-haired actress wife Lovey Dovey and denim-shorted cutie pie Dawn Wells, harmony vocalist of variety show act Tony Orlando and Dawn. As those familiar with the islander’s goings-on will remember, the crew had launched a Club Med-like facility — sans running water, electricity and guests — called the “Castaways Resort,” but the witless Master Gilligan had unwisely signed the property over to the devious real estate baron Martin Landau, who had designs on chopping up the property for its valuable, science fictional, iron ore discovered on site. Fortunately, the Castaways uncovered the conspiracy and, in turn, duped Mr. Landau into putting the land contract on the line in a friendly roundball wager, one that pitted their new friends, the “Harlem Globetrotters,” against Landau’s team, “The New Invincibles,” a collection of bloody robots. True to their name, the sure-metal-handed cyborgs looked to be invincible, and with their court-length hook shots they were well on their way to mopping the floor with the Globetrotters. Coach Scatman Crothers intervened and in an impassioned speech to the front line of “Curly” Neal, “Sweet Lou” Dunbar and giantine biracial Abe “Meadowlark” Saperstein, he implored the lads to “Win One For the Skipper” — à la "The Gipper," a reference that eluded everyone courtside, but not Yours Truly Dooley™, who has an abiding respect for the lessons of the late fighting Irishman Newt Rockne, in not the stadium announcing nobody Ronald Reagan. Happily, the Globetrotters would dial up their A-Game — spinning the ball on their fingers, dribbling between their legs and sliding effortlessly across the sand court — and made mincemeat of the Invisibles. The following day, amidst the wreckage of the post game celebrations, the Globetrotters would board the plane, now powered by the iron ore or something, to continue their cross-continental playoff tour against arch enemies the Washington Generals, with Dawn Wells along for support and her promise that she’d send a rescue crew right on over, but alas, she lost the map pinpointing the islands whereabouts and wasn't even able to invite anyone to her pending nuptials to shiny-headed Mr. Neal.

Ball-derdash!

As a uniformed official charged with patrolling the vast misinformation superhighway, I have no time for the beer-swilling spectacle that is American football, nor do I hold much stock in the notion of a “citizen’s arrest.” However, I’m setting aside these otherwise unrelated prejudices to properly acknowledge the "arresting" efforts of the once “Fearsome Foursome” of the Los Angeles Rams — or possibly Raiders — for apprehending a gutless killer on the fateful day of June 5th, 1968. If Memory Swerves™, these body-guarding ballers bravely “intercepted” — which is to say “slammed to the tile" — the reviled, stable boy assassin Sirhan Sirhan after he shot Senator Robert F. Kennedy in cold blood, following a campaign speech at The Ambassador Hotel. The man they called “Bobby,” a widely-adored, civil rights activist and recently-announced presidential hopeful, was attempting to exit the hotel under cover through the kitchen, when the Palestinian pariah took aim and put three shells into the unsuspecting senator and one bullet through the heart of the American citizenry. The large-framed Foursome quickly came to Kennedy’s aid, but alas, were unable to prevent his tragic death, nor mitigate the injuries to other bystanders. They did, however, disarm the cowardly “SS,” sending him swiftly to justice, and for that fact alone these heroes will never be forgotten. We at the station house have long mourned the passing of RFK and on this, the Anni-hearse-ary™ of his death, we pray for his family, while saluting the dominating NFL defensemen who came to his aid, starting with the man in the middle — the sometime variety show performer and Eucharistic minister — Rosey “Roosevelt” Grier, along with teammates (from left) Rafer “The Decathlete” Johnson, George “Paper Lion” Plimpton and "Secretary of the Defenseless" David "Deacon" Jones. Bravo, Citizens Fearless. You and your Ram-rodding mates didn’t make it to the bloody Super Ball® — and how could you with celebrity longhair Roman Gabriel under center? — but you’ll forever be champions in the eyes of a nation.

Oh Henery: The Marriage of Henery the Eighth

Let me get this straight, Henery: You got married to the widow next door? She's been married seven times before? And each of the other blokes was named Henery?! She wouldn't have a Willie or a Sam? You'll be her eighth old man named Henery! Henery the bloody Eighth? Are you daft, Henery?!

Lola Palooza

If Memory Swerves™, on this day in music history — June 3, 1970 — singer Ray Davies of The Kinks flew from New York to London to amend one word in the song "Lola” — changing Coca-Cola® to cherry cola — at the behest of the BBC, whose strict policy of exhibiting tight-arsed behavior threatened the song’s chances on their playlist. The six-thousand-mile round trip not only cut into the band’s American tour revenues, but the price of the ticket and studio overages sent Ray’s hot-tempered guitarist brother Dave on a tirade that saw him vandalizing Coca-Cola trucks, boycotting the beverage backstage and giving his lyricist brother the big freeze when he returned to the tour. Those familiar with the gap-toothed longhairs know that this was business as usual for the warring siblings — bloody hell, even the name of the band is said to have resulted from a disagreement — Ray claiming that he had “a kink” in his neck and couldn’t bother practicing every day and Dave responding that he had a “kink” in his bloody ballbag, but that didn’t stop him from learning the goddamned songs and, after a flurry of fisticuffs, “The Kinks” were born. The success of “Lola,” a song about a transvestite — who may or may not have been based on one of the Davies brothers' mannish-looking sisters — reinvigorated the band, giving them the fortunes to build a proper studio in London, none of which calmed Dave, whose famous rejoinder, “No Coke, Pepsi!” would become a buzz phrase in the states. After “Lola,” the band enjoyed all manner of success in the 70's and 80’s, but they would tire of the squabbling and call it quits in 1996, right around the release of “Frivolous Lola” — a film that may or may not have been based on The Kinks’ song classic — produced by Tinto Brass, director of “Caligula” and associate of esteemed Italian picture-taker Bob Guccione. In recent years, the Davies have tried their hands at everything from musical theater to memoir writing, with varying degrees of success; sadly, Dave suffered a stroke in 2004 and ‘twas only the aggravating thought of self-promoting front man Ray being named a Commander of the Order of the British Empire™ by Queen Elizabeth II that gave Dave the strength to work through his illness so that he might one day get his mitts around his older brother's throat again. I’m happy to say that Master Dave is back on his feet, and as of this posting, the brothers are talking about a Kinks reunion, but don’t hold your breathe, as it’s not good for your circulation, just ask stroke survivor and avowed Coca-Cola despiser Dave Davies, brother of Ray.

June Two is all Eu, Gene

A birthday shout-out to our man Eugene, station house custodian. Always one with a ready, cheerful smile, whether he's Windexing the windows, dusting the desk tops, aerosoling the common areas or individually cleaning the recycled plastic forks and Chinet® dinner plates — "still holdin' up good, Dooley," he assures us. Right-o, chumley, I remember from the tenth time you told me. Yes our duty-bound associate takes to his tasks like our ball-less best friend Bloomfield takes to a replacement postal carrier's pant cuff — with a well-intentioned intensity. Indeed, Master E. finds no shame in putting in a solid 10 hours on his special day, cleaning the bloody toilets with great enthusiasm. While I applaud dedication to one’s work, whatever it may be, I also find no fault in staying home one day out of the year and leaving the chores to others, but not Eugene. He seems altogether taken with the notion of being up to his elbows in toilet water on the morning of his 45th year. He flashes his remarkably pearly whites — "brush and floss after every meal, Dooley" — and goes about his business with great enthusiasm. “Gonna have cake tonight!” Eugene exclaims as he splish splashes the mop head 'round the toilet stall. “Gonna blow out the candles on the cake!” he cries as he cheerfully spritzes the bowl and underside of the toilet seat. Perhaps he committed some grave sin in a former lifetime for which is now paying. Who can say? He puts the finishing touches on his lavatory duties like a champion — restocking the paper toweling and wiping down the faucets and toilet handles — backing out of the door, farting audibly, lava duties complete — emission accomplished! — and shouting “mop yourself out of the room, Dooley!” so the linoleum dries without any footprints, we've been informed on many occasions. Understood, birthday boy. Brilliant notion, as always. I’ll alert the rocket scientists at the Space Agency.

Lonely Hearts Clubbed Bland

If Memory Swerves™, on this day in music history — June 1, 1967 — the mop toppers from Liverpool "went live" with their fake moustaches, colorful military regalia and cheeky alias — The Lonely Hearts Club Band — for the stateside release of their eighth long-play recording, "Sergeant Pepper." No one was fooled, of course — least of all, Yours Truly Dooley™ — but it was good fun that the lads would attempt only one other time in their career, as occupants of the interplanetary ensemble Klaatu. Now comes word that British pop artist Sir Peter Thomas Blake, the bloke responsible for the original Sergeant Pepper album cover, has once again taken it upon himself to rework the bloody artwork. Memorandum to Master Blake: I've witnessed your latest montage — which is to say, hodgepodge — and am not amused. You contend that this unfortunate updating is more fully realized? Bollocks. The original was spot on, a veritable who's-who of recognizable celebrities, from the likes of Shirley Temple to Marilyn Monroe, Lemmy Bruce to Bob Dylan, Marlon Brando to bloody Laurel and Hardy. Brilliantine! This time around you’ve got furniture designer Robin Day? Sorry, never heard of him, never sat on one of his stools. Photographer Martin Parr? Can't picture him. Restauranteur Mr. Chow? Can’t say I’ve sampled his spring rolls. Vidal Sassoon? Well, perhaps, but his disco jeans were dopey and his shampoo overpriced. Agatha Christie, yes, respect to the grande dame of English letters. Elton John and Twiggy? Yes, respect to those dames as well. Elvis Costello? Reluctantly, yes. But Richard Rodgers, architect? No. Gavin Turk, artist? According to who? Painter Bridget Riley? Really?! Wreckless Eric, rock singer and Tommy Steele, singer and actor? Sorry, on what continent and in what era? Alfred Hitchcock, yes, but Robyn Hitchcock? What’s the connection? You’ve got Mick Jagger, David Bowie and Eric Clapton, but no Ringo Starr? Why, exactly? Cross-dressing vase maker Grayson Perry? Explain yourself, sir! The list of unknowns — Alexander McQueen, Mary Quant, Lord Norman Foster? — is there no bloody end to it? As if this meandering assemblage isn’t bad enough, you’ve replaced the Fab Four themselves with your own bloody likeness, along with your large-headed daughter and unpleasant-looking ex-wife. Blasphemy! Sorry mate, but the only reason to mess with the original drawering would have been to sneak in a shot of the original Sergeant Pepper — Police Woman Pepper Anderson. Otherwise, I hope you’ll reconsider this ghastliness, better yet, take Monty Python’s foot—visible in the lower left corner — and stomp on it altogether.

Sibling Ribaldry

As I Understand It™, today is International Siblings Day and the station house sends an overdue shoutout to our favourite brothers from another mother, the Flying Karamazov Brothers®! Blood relations of the long-winded Russian inkspiller Fyodor Dostoevsky or possibly cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin, these elite, long-haired, goateed, juggling jokesters from the United Soviet States of Mother Russia have been performing internationally since the 1970s, having become skilled at the art of throwing objects back and forth at each other's heads at a young age, starting with salt shakers around the dining room table as their father slammed vodka shots and mother stewed the fish heads. Born in St. Petersburg, they would later emigrate to St. Petersburg, where they were met by a welcoming horde of Floridians with flaming pick axes. The brothers turned things around in short order, however, grabbing the pick axes and commencing to juggle them to the great delight of the sense-challenged southerners. Their mastery of juggling all manner of household items would soon grow along with their curlicued pony trails, as no item was out of their reach, be it meat cleaver, bread box, bowling pin, tiki torch, Channellock® brand pliers, Fiskar® scissors, Scotch® tape dispensers, fireplace pokers, candle holders, garden shovels, hammers, ukuleles, skillets, screwdrivers, champagne bottles, Rowenta® steam irons and Xavier Hollander® brand vibrating sexual aids. After conquering theater circuits 'round the globe, they enjoyed a turn in the Hollywood spotlight, appearing 'longside famed cunning linguist Michael Douglas in cheese puff movies like The Jewel of the Nile, Romancing the Stone and Shellacking the Shillelagh, and taking a turn in the American sitcomedy The Seinfeld Chronicles. The Karamazovs have opened for centuries old musical acts such as The Who and The Grateful Dead and are said to be open to considering offers to return to the sheds this summer, if only someone would be kind enough to ask. Long live the Flying Karamazov Brothers, namely, the eldest Fyodor, and in succession, Dmitri, Zossima, Alexei, Pavel, Nikita, Maximov, Ivan, Aloyosha, Misha, Rakitin, Vanka, Kuzma, Smerdyakov and, briefly, comedian/cousin Yakoff Smirnoff®.

Rubens, Sandwiched

Celebrating a Deathday™: Masterful Flemish painter Peter Paul Rubens took his brushes, pigments and palette thingamajig up to that unfurled canvas in the sky on this day, May 30, 1640. Known for his richly-wrought Baroque overtones and bare-arsed depictions of pale-skinned tub-a-lards, Rubens was inspired by early Renaissance show-offs like Michael Angelo and Leonardo da Caprio, before bringing his own flamboyance to the form. Highly-regarded among European nobility, the Catholic Church and 17th century storage container pickers who fetched a fair shilling for rare finds sold on consignment, Rubens would later see his artistic renown eclipsed by a scandalous second marriage to his voluptuous — which is to say, beefy — 16-year-old niece and, more recently, by the unfortunate cinema hall flagellations of his great, great, great, great, great grand nephew — the impish, public masturbator Paul Rubens, a.k.a., Pee Weeee! Herman. On the other hand, Rubens — the brush stroker, not the other sort — has benefited from his association with another great, great, great, great, great, grand relation, one Peter Paul Halajian of the Peter Paul Candy Company™ — maker of Mounds®, a "Rubenesque" bit of chocolate and coconut if there ever was one. Methinks a lighting of a proper Dutch Masters® cigar is in order — indeed, let’s break the seal on a whole bloody box of Perfectos® for all the Peter Pauls in the pantheon — sins forgiven! — with the exception of botoxed balladeer Peter Paul Cetera, who once proclaimed that karate chopper Ralph Macchio was a man who would fight for our honor, who’d be the hero we were dreaming of and who'd live forever, an unlikely feat for even a man of exemplary skill like Peter Paul Rubens, whose feet were gutted with gout and down he went at age 62. Happy Anni-hearse-ary™, Citizen Dutch Boy.

The F*ck You Looking At?

Halt! Hold it right there, cold-eyed young e-Citizen Defiant™! While I am not unsympathetic to the discomfort you're experiencing at both the southern and northern ports of the gastrointestinal canal, I cannot allow you to display such visible contempt for a uniformed police official in plain sight! On my watch, you are well advised to conduct yourself with proper baby child cheerfulness in your interactions with all elders — frightful aunties, drunken uncles and helmeted, mustachioed peacekeepers — messy toileting business notwithstanding! Turn that bloody frown upside down, young man or mannish young lady, and commence to cooing playfully, kicking your fatty legs and waving your stumpy fingers with enthusiasm, and take some comfort in knowing you'll be having a pleasant go at mummy’s bosom soon enough.

Unfunny business

Celebrating a Deathday™: Former Saturday Night Live® funnyman — and cereal spokesman — Phil Hartman died in his sleep on this day (May 28, 1998), but if you’re thinking there are worse ways to take one’s eternal leave than in the midst of an evening slumber, we should mention that Master Hartman’s was not of the “golden slumbers” variety, as his troubled Hollywood missus put a bullet in his noggin, hastening his exit, stage left. ‘Twas sad business and methinks a misjudgment on the Grim Reaper’s part, for surely there were ex-SNL-ers more deserving of the actor's hook — bleached, brain-breached Victoria Jackson comes immediately to mind. Hartman was a native of Canada whose family moved to the states, where he was art-schooled in his first love, designing album covers for sensitive, fringe-jacketed bands like Poco, America and CSN — a tissue-soft rock ensemble that former Hollies singer Graham Nash was so embarrassed about, he preferred the initialed moniker than having his name on the marquee — before Hartman stretched his creative skills into acting. He enjoyed a lengthy run at SNL — that American institution of only occasional humor, Hartman being a rare bright spot in the pantheon of dim-bulbed lesser-thans to cross its threshold, many graduates of The Second Rate City™, itself infamously unfunny. Hartman later veered into film and commercial work, where he would make his mark as a spokesman for Colon Blow® cereal. High fiber was the rage in the late 1990’s, as gents were forced by their well-meaning mesdames to eat oat bran until it was coming out their ears — not to mention the southernmost port — and if it took 30,000 bowls of oat bran to equal the fiber in one bowl of Colon Blow, then Colon Blow, Colon Blow snack treats and Colon Blow protein shakes it ‘twas! Soon Hartman was sponsoring colonics and such and it seemed his career post SNL was set. Alas, wife number 3, Vicki Jo, later Brynn — whom he had met a decade prior on a blind date arranged by unfunnyman Jon Lovitz — had other, despairing ideas. She took Phil’s life, then her own, leaving the kids to fend for themselves at their bloody aunties, all of which goes to show you that blind dates are scary business — crikey, Hartman’s role in the movie “Blind Date” should have told him that — and I would advise anyone to steer clear of the fakery that a blind date affords, unless you are of the actual, visually-impaired blind variety, which I heartily endorse, especially if you’re capable of “seeing” your partner’s face by running your mitts over his or her lumpy surface. That’s a good trick I never tire of.

Poseur Exposed

Random Memorial Day Memorandum™ to one-time celebrity jailbird and some-time rock ‘n roll front man Scott Weiland: ‘Tis not the uniform that makes the enlisted man, but the actions of the man — or woman — inside it. Foot soldiers, airmen, midshipmen, coast guard and, yes, constabulary wage different battles, but we serve the citizenry all the same. Ours is a uniformed alliance whose bonds of duty and honor are undeniable and unshakeable. You, however, wear the uniform for sport or costume. The red leather necktie, the vinyl trousers with visible male business in front, the loop-dee-loop earnings — all of it reveals fakery at forty paces. You are well-advised to remove the phony baloney cap and military regalia at once! Writhe around on stage shirtless or wrapped in bloody velveteen, for all I care. Strut and squawk like a turkey bird, but not in an unauthorized uniform! Not on a day dedicated to your nation’s elite fighting forces! Not on my watch! (Administrators Note: We're being told that, sadly, Private First Class Weiland took permanent leave on December 3, 2015 at the too-young age of 48. No word whether Weiland was given an officer's burial, but the station house set our flags to half-mast in his honour. RIP, Citizen Not A Soldier.)

Tall Tail

You can lead a 9 ft. tall horse to water, but you can’t make him drink. As I think of it, you can’t make a 9 ft. tall horse do anything he doesn’t want to do. I would not advise mounting a 9 ft. tall horse, not without a saddle the size of a small rowing craft. If you do insist on riding him — which I wouldn't encourage — you’ll need a ladder of some sort, or one of those infernal garden trampolines to launch yourself aboard. It goes without saying, but say it we will: Never look a 9 ft. tall horse, gifted or otherwise, in the gummy choppers. You'll require goodly sustenance — say, carrots the size of a yardstick — to feed the mammoth creature, however, don’t be fooled by his docile nature.

A hungry, 9 ft. tall anything is liable to make a meal out of you. Make a bloody note of it.

Bedwedders

If Memory Swerves™, this weekend marks the 50th Anniversary of an event that shamed not only the bearded and beloved Beatle Brother™ John Lennon, but his put-upon bandmates and all of bloody England. On May 25, 1969, Lennon staged a week-long “bed-in” with his showboating Hawaiian housewife Yoko Ono® — his new wife, truth be well told, as this was their honeymoon — at the Hilton Hotel® in Amsterdam (and another, the week following, at the Queen Elizabeth in Montreal). Intended as a civil protest over one bloody thing or another, the televised “Bed-In For Peace®" was a twist on the “sit-ins” of the era that, alas, was judged a shameful exercise by the citizenry on either side of the pond. However goodly Lenny's intentions, the shame ran deep: He shamed his Auntie Mimi and Uncle George Smith, who raised young John as their own, often suffering for their efforts. He shamed his real mum Julia and dad Alfred, who were, admittedly, shameful characters themselves. He shamed his first wife Cynthia (Powell) Lennon and young son Julian, whom he had shamefully left behind to hook up with the twice-married Ono. He shamed his ex-bandmates Stuart Heathcliffe and Pete West, all of the Quarrymen, the Kinks, the Hollies and every other English band hoping to graduate from the Top of the Pops® to American Blandstand™, with the possible exception of The Pollywoggs™ — John, Paul, George, Zingo and Yours Truly Dooley® on broomstick bass. Lennon shamed his classmates, the faculty and good names of the Dovedale Primary School, Quarry Bank High School and Liverpool College of Art. Crikey, the only one who wasn’t shamed by the incident was the avant-gardener "Yoko Ono" — literally, “one yolk, scrambled” — whom, after posing in the merkined altogether for the cover of “Two Virgins,” appeared to have known no shame. Then again, it all seems rather harmless now. All they were saying was, “give peace a chance,” but all we were thinking was, “give us a break, Len.”

Angel In The Centerfold Chokehold

Celebrating A Deathday™: The original, raven-haired kitten with a whip and/or wire brush — Bettie Mae Page — yes, you may, my darlin', as often as you like — went to the great cathouse in the sky on this day, May 24, 2013. She was 85, which is to say 85-36-63. The pure-as-the-plow-driven-snow, plus-size pin-up was popular in an era when “tasteful, never tawdry” was the photographer’s credo. Unlike the filth found littering the roadsides of the vast and serpentine Misinformation Superhighway™, the girlie posters displayed in the army barracks and dormitories of Ms. Page’s era were neither objectionable nor exploitative. The depiction of fair-skinned milk maidens, smiling winsomely from the pages of True Detective™ magazine, were colorful, playful and always respectful. No nuditity, not on your life, sir! The slight suggestiveness in a model's exposed brassiere strap or faraway look in her eyes was enough to spur the imaginations of the pimply-faced boys and salt-petered military men, who professed unrequited love for Bettie in droves. When she was deemed “The Notorious Bettie Page” 'twas only for her adamant—notorious—refusal to bare so much as the back quarter panel of her gluteum maximus. Bravo, Citizen Sexy Lady! May you rest in peace. A tasteful one piece.

Joan Us, Brother

If Memory Swerves™, on this day in history (May 23, 1431), religious rabble rouser Joan of Arc was captured by Burgundian troops — whoever they bloody were — and delivered to the British, who later burned her at the stake for heresy or something. But that’s old news, everyone makes mistakes and besides, another Joan is in the revisionist history books today! Light a birthday candle for British starlet Joan Collins, born May 23, 1933 in Paddington. As any red-blooded male between the ages of 56 and 102 will attest, Joanie is sex appeal personified — which is to say, she’s a person of sexified appeal! Joan's been turning heads since she first tightened her bustier and took to the stage at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London. After heading for Hollywood, Joan appeared in a number of dopey movies in the 50’s and 60’s — “Lady Godiva Rides (Bare Arsed) Again,” “Rally ‘Round the Flag, Boys,” blah, blah, blah — as well the usual backlot Western television fare of the era — “The Virginian,” “The South Carolinan” — before her breakout performance as Alexis Colby, first wife of John Cameron Forsythe on the nighttime soap opera “Dynasty,” where she famously wrassled Grecian Maestro Yanni Chryssomallis’s wife Lynda Evans in the fountain out front the mansion. Today, Joan is still making heart pacemakers go pitter patter, whether on stage or via her steamy paperbacks. That’s right, the method starlet followed in the high-heeled footsteps of auteur sister Jackie Collins, penning salacious novels such as “Love & Desire & Hate,” “Scandal” and “Ravenous” — or perhaps those are the names of her perfumes. (Haha!) Married and divorced 4 times, Joanie is now living with husband number five, who's presumably seen the Playboy® pictorial from the 80's that one hopes remains on file at the station house. Happy Day, your ladyship!

Less Misery

Random Memorandum™ to hunchbacked French Canadian novelist, dramatist, poetist and, possibly, ventriloquist Victor-Marie Hugo (pictured): We — and by we, we mean me — count ourselves amongst your fans, yet a question nags: Were you not confident that "Les Misérables" was a work of great magnitude when you submitted the manuscript to the publishing house? Surely you had some notion that this was no mere page-turner to be enjoyed by candlelight. But if you believed the voluminous document to be destined for great things — if you had an inkling that it would live on in perpetuity on stage — why on earth give it such an unwieldy title? What mortal among us would have the capacity to correctly pronounce "Les Misérables" on the first, second or third attempt? Is it “Lay Miserable?” “Lay Misarablay?” “Misarablays?” “Less Miserable?” Bloody hell, methinks Jean Valjean himself would have had trouble with this tongue-twister! Would your art have suffered if you simply entitled it with the proper English translation — “The Miserable One” — and called it a fortnight? Would that have been a criminal act? Or was it all a joke to you, sir? Did you take this joke to your deathbed on this day May 22, 1885? 'Tis with admiration — and some displeasure — on this day that we remember Master Hugo "Montenegro" (of "Notre Dame.")

Rom® Jeans

Today in "Ask an Internet Patrolman™," jelly-haired, denim-bottomed, hard-charging U.S. Centaur Milton "Wilt" Romney weighs in with enthusiasm and with what may eventually become a question: "Love is in the air, Ambassador Dooley! What a many splendored thing love is! I love my country! I love my family! I love the invented prophecy of my magic religion! I love the central tenet that says I can "man up" with multiple wives — adoring Mrs. Romneys all! — conceiving as many strapping boys as my blue-pilled prescription will allow. I love hard-fought tennis on the home court and tall glasses of sun-steeped lemonade afterwards! I love the innocence of a Troy Donahue matinee — Sandra Dee, be still my heart — the boy-next-door appeal of Pat Boone records and the other-wordly prose of L. Ron Hubbard. I love my Utah Jazz, but — strangely enough — not jazz music — too untethered! I'm a car nut, I love the road-tested luxury of a Cadillac. I'm a foodie, I love the endless shrimp at Red Lobster® and the fruit goodness in real Fruit Roll-Ups®. I love to drench State Fair corn dogs with spicy mustard and fellate them hungrily. I love Peaches 'n Cream — not "impeaches," for the love of Brigham Young — Georgia peaches! — toppled with brown sugar, baked and swimming in vanilla iced cream! I love flying first class and collecting the little pilot wings the stews hand out. I love tandem cycling on a bicycle built for two! I love reaching out and helping those less fortunate than I — and asking them for their vote, haha! — and reminding them that God — which is to say, Brigham Young — helps those who help themselves! I love welcoming bilinguals, biracials and non-practicing bisexuals under this big political tent! I love the hustle here in DC — which is why I love the loose, easy fit of my over-the-hip Sedgefield® blue jeans! You might think the Sedgefield brand had disappeared from the blue jean landscape, but you'd be wrong, sir! I am in possession of a warehouse the size of an offshore Bahamian holding company filled with Sedgefield jeans — tags and all — which I purchased in a "beveraged buyout," where we plied the jeanmaker with distilled spirits and got him to sign his life away for a song. (Haha!) All of which brings me — finally! — to my question: I'm considering hiring a team of Amish tailors to do some rudimentary restyling of the jeans — tapering the flair, sewing in the labels — while also enlisting the creative services of advertising chieftain Leo Burnett to introduce the new brand: Rom® Jeans! (And Rom® Jean Shorts!) The slogan: 'Rom® Jeans. They're not just for Mom anymore!' My question, Internet Ambassador Dooley: Do you see an online audience for these high-waisted fashion statements?" Dear Mitch: While your enthusiasm is as curious as your many nicknames, I'm of a mind to "green light" this endeavor — as the equity arsewipes would have it — if for no other reason to avoid your brain seizing up and watching you take your death of a massive stroke, leaving your seven or eight male offspring without a father. In any event, we're dangerously close to exceeding our allotted word count, so I'll ask you to zip up your non-flame retardant Sedgefields, slick back your oil mane  and go about your business with gusto. Jeers™!! Yours Truly, Constable Dooley."

Sunday Best

“This is the day the Lord hath made” — Mum used to say, this being Sunday — “let us rejoice and be glad in it.” Alas, ‘tis a blessing that Mum never suffered all I've seen, for there is no rejoicing on Sundays in the lockup, where the weeks end wreckage — the drunkards and delinquents, the urinators and fornicators — are piled atop one another like so much flotsam and jetsam at Brighton Pier. ‘Tis a wonder these jailed sods know their own names, having awok from a night of polluted misdeeds and back alley revelry to discover they’ve lost their wallets, along with their bloody decency. Sunday is also the day that the suit-and-tied defilers — spillers of the community — drag their deceitful arses en masse to mass, quivering in the church pews alongside their shamed spouses, begging forgiveness for their unholy ways — the chat room wankery and anonymous sexting of their genitalia. Crikey, Mum, if this is the day the Lord hath made, be thankful He or She made six others, for the sinfulness that I once witnessed as a uniformed foot soldier has only escalated in my online patrolling capacity. Perhaps Monday will hold greater promise.

Just the Five Of Us

Ode to polygamist patriarch Kody Brown and his stable of child-bearing cohabitants, the Sister Wives: Love is patient, love is kind, love is plural, love is blind. Love is not easily angered, though it keeps a detailed record of wrong-doing and retaliates in goodly measure. Love never fails to find fault. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices in group fore — or rather four — play and costumed role reversing. Love is self-seeking, but never self-pleasuring, not to the best of anyone’s knowledge. Love is boastful, bottomless and sensibly-heeled. Love shares, love swaps. Love competes, confronts and confounds. Love climaxes in multiples of four, daily.