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!

Copping a feel

Random Memorandum™ to the half-clad cavalcade of coitally-inclined police officers, firefighters, flight attendants, schoolteachers, secretaries, sailor boys, nurses, French maids, meter maids, bunny rabbits, cowboys, injuns, vampires, witches, nuns and priests taking to the streets with morals abandoned on this Eve of All Shallow: ‘Tis all drunken fun and games 'til someone gets buggerered in the wrong hole. We caution you to role play with care lest your misdeeds shame and haunt you 'til next year, when you slut it up and do it again. On a more personal note, the station house asks the legion of costumed constabulary to be respectful of legitimate peacekeeping officials as you parade the streets in your tawdry ensembles and be mindful that handcuffs are lawful restraining devices whose usefulness extends beyond the shackling of a drunken stranger to the bedpost. Obliging givers and takers enamored with these phony-baloney badge carriers are warned that no matter how scant and revealing a plasticine uniform, there is ample cover for deceit; a mirror-shaded—not to mention face-masked—copper with his or her hands down your trousers or leather leggings has an eye on your wallet, not to mention your decency. Easy does it out there, Citizens of Sodom. Happy Whore-a-Ween™!

Remembering Sandy

If Memory Swerves™, ‘twas on this day in history, October 30th, 2012, that Hurricane Sandy lit into the Jersey Shore like shite-faced, torpedo-chested Jersey Girl Snooki Palooki into muscle-bounded meathead Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino. 'Twas the tail end of a whirlwind tour of destruction, sadly, for three days prior to visiting her wrath ‘pon Atlantis City, Sandy swayed vigorously to and fro — like a private dancer in the back room at Antonio Soprano’s Bada Bing Bang Boom® night club — wreaking havoc in Jamaica, Cuba and the Port of Rico Suave™, before heading in for last call, doing her dirty business inland, as 'twere. The damage stateside was immense — $70 billion — enough to give Jersey cowish mayor Chris Christie pause at the Golden Corral® all-you-can-stumoch buffet — and that doesn't take into account the damage to Jamaica — $100 milion — the Bahamas — $700 million — and Cuba — $70 billion—the lives lost, nor depth of hurt feelings suffered by fans and family of television’s original Sandy, “Funny Face” Sandy Duncan (pictured). The brazen, lone-monikered association of the superstorm’s savagery with the sparkly — if glassy — eyed cheerfulness of the lovable, Ms. Duncan was beyond the pale, freckled face indeed. Happily, time and charity heals all, as I have it on some authority that life in the above locales has returned to normalcy; better still, the social media scamps at Dunkin’ Doughnuts® are marking the memory of this tragic time — and their love for Sandy Duncan herself — with their "Remembering Sandy" promotion: Receive an autographed photograph of the impish, heartbreaking, scene-stealer and a free olden-fashioned doughnut with every purchase of the customary nutty brew, with all proceeds benefiting whomever it is would benefit from it most — the bloody doughnut makers themselves, for all I know.

Two for the Road

Random "Tandem" Memorandum™: Given the rank and tenure of our Internet policing assignment, we can safely say that our years as a uniformed foot soldier are well behind us. We remember those halcyon-der days fondly, however, and hold our earthly-bound, badge-carrying brethren in the highest esteem. Indeed, methinks there no pursuit more noble than one of a street-patrolling capacity, and no vehicle better suited for traversing the many roadsides than a bi-seated bicycle—a properly-appointed, police-issued cruiser with rubber-coated pedal blocks, handlebar streamers, chiming bell, white-walled wheels and wire basket for policing essentials. To be sure, one meets twists and turns requiring keen navigational skills and hills that demand you and your partner lean in and give it all you’ve bloody well got. There are bumps aplenty, loosely strewn refuse, discarded prophylactics and freshly slaughtered roadkill that necessitate a tightening of one's grip. But when you find yourselves sailing along, hunting the lawless with a gust at your backsides, the weight of your dutybound tasks are lifted, leaving only the joy of looking sweet, on a policeman's beat, 'board a bicycle built for two.

1/4 Flash + 1/4 Substance + 1/4 Persistence + 1/4 Luck = One QuarterFlash®

Well as I live and breath a superspreader cloud of Corona® branded viral particulates! If it isn't — as best I can determine — early MTV® era darlings QuarterFlash®, with their gravel-throated, Bette-Davis-eyed frontwoman Kim Carnes or perhaps Blondie® Tyler! Hailing from the Northwesternly Territories of Oregon or Sweden, the head-banded heart-hardeners in this sixsome — two bloody threesomes, if you will, and why wouldn’t you? — were long on satiny looks and synthesized hooks. One of the “saxiest” mixed gender "outfits" to grace a 1980’s concert stage, they were considered one-hit wonders in some circles, but not Yours Truly Dooley's™! Drop your socks and set back your clocks for the return of — upon further study — possibly ABBA®!

Fatso, Feted

Celebrating a Deathday™: Larger than life comedian "Fatso" Marco — look him up — from the "Golden Age of Television" — horrible bloody television, if you ask me — died on this day, October 27, 1962. "Largely" forgotten — outside of, say, a Wikipedia editors' meeting — Fatso was born Marco Marcella on October 1, 1906 in New York City, and was said to be devouring everything he could get his fat little fingers on from the moment his potbellied mum launched him like a cannonball in the 'livery 'vroom. In short order (cook), he was cleaning out ev'ry mamm'ry in sight, moving on to creamy custards and rich rice puddings before age 1, on to canned meats, porkened rinds and pickled eggs at 18 months, and by age 2 was eating half a dozen Boston Crème donuts for breakfast and a string of Nathan’s linked hot dogs for lunch. As fat kids are wont to do, Fatso became a class clown, capable of moving even the coldest of humankind — Catholic Nuns® — to gut-busting chortles. Labeled "Fatso" by a fat, neighborhood lass, young Fatso grew (and grew) to become an older, funnier Fatso, prat-or-rather-fat-falling drunkenly on and off vaudeville stages with showboating sideschtick Pat Harrington Sr., father of building superintendent Duane Schneider from “One Day at a Time Sweet Jesus,” starring formerly-thin fat actress Valerie Van Halen. Fatso got his start in radio and television with the "Texaco Star Theater," which eventually became the "Milton Berlinger Hour," where he played 'longside eye-rollin', cigar-chompin', camera-hog Uncle Miltie. Fatso Marco's time in the spotlight’s glare was brief, but standing 5 feet 5 inches tall and tipping over the scales at 300+ pounds, he cast an enormous shadow. Indeed, Fatso paved the way for future cine-fatties, including ample-breasted thespian Jack Nicklauson (studying his lines, above), kimonoed, karate-chopping fatty Steven Seagal, sitcom porker Kevin James, fat entertainer Cedric Somebody, loveable Canadian fatso John "Candy" Barr and his fatheaded sister Roseanne, disgraced fat sweatered funnyman Bill Crosby, fat former funnyman Dan Akroyd, fat singing sensation Jennifer Hudson, fat game show host Drew Carey, wheel-chaired fatty Perry “Ironsides” Mason and snarling, half-breed fatty Valmont Kilmer. In other corpulent sightings, mystery writer Rex “Stout” died on this day (in 1975) and I'll wager that if we were to check the funeral logs, we'd discover other heavyweight passings, because fat people — even famous ones — are always dropping like flies. Forgive me if this or that seems insensitive for, truth be well told, I myself come from a line of fulsome-figured types, whose sense of humour, decency and menu planning I've long — or rather, wide — admired. Had I been 'round the day they lifted Fatso Marco by crane from his home in South Amboy, New Jersey, I would have offered to assist, or at the very least, raised a proper malted milkshake in his honour. Happy Anni-hearse-ary™, fat sir.

Helen, Ready

Halt! Hold it right there, Helen! Not another button, not another clasp! I may be an honourable man, but I am not a blind one. I am in possession of my working male assemblage, as well, so be mindful of who 'tis you're flashing your fullness. Madame Mirren, when I agreed to provide counsel on your “Prime Suspect” police procedural, I had no idea how deeply you'd expect this uniformed official to dive in. Please know that Yours Truly Dooley® can instruct you on the ins and outs of law enforcement without going in and out improperly! Let me be clear: There is no bloody casting couch in the station house! You're not the first future Oscar de la Renta® winner who has attempted to stir the desirings of this uniformed official! If you're looking for Action, Wanda Jackson™, be advised to take it off elsewhere!

Canterbury Fails

Celebrating a Deathday™: The Canterbury chronicler — overpraised English scribe Geoffrey Chaucer — took his final, overwrit pilgrimage — up to the heavens or down to the fiery pits of hell, you bloody decide — on this day, October 25, 1400. Considered by many — but not Yours Truly Dooley® — to be the father of English literature, Chaucer was a medieval ink slinger of pomp and tiresome circumstance whose biography is as confounding as his endless and awful signature tale that I attempted to read in hopes of impressing a university lass in my youth. Though little is known of his early life, Chaucer enjoyed adult rank and privilege as an esquire, a courtier, a diplomat, a bureaucrat, an author, a philosopher and a poet. He is thought to have studied law, married a woman named Phillipa, sired an unnecessarily oversized brood of children who weaseled their way into society and all the rest of it. Blah-ba-dee-bloodee-blah-blah. Today, the Canterbury he immortalized — an enchanting cathedral city in southeast England — has been bastardized in name by an endless parade of insignificant parks, mediocre condominium complexes and lackluster golf courses. For that we can thank Geoff Chaucer. Dead and buried on this day, a thousand years ago. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

Costumed, Partly

Random Memorandum™ to the inventory-deficient dummkopfs at online retailers Oktoberfest Haus: 'Tis the season for costumed folly, by golly, so you'll imagine "meine" disenchantment upon receiving e-mailed notification that your authentic Alps Yodeler regalia is on back order. Blutige hölle, gents, calibrate your Swiss watches! If you don’t have the full line of floppy peasant hats, cloth suspenders and embroidered knee breeches on shelves in late Oktober, methinks you best hike up your lederhosen, blow out das Puppenkerzen® candles and call it ein nacht. Adding insult to grievous injury, the alternative ensemble you proffer — the KnackWursten Schützenfest Dangler™ — is an affront to propriety, looking rather like something Austrian fashion atrocity Brüno Gerhard (pictured) would wear. Are you suggesting that I parade 'round the station house nearly nackt arsed? Do you Deutschbags™ think I was born yesterday on the side of a Bavarian mountain?

Bang for your Buck

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in music history, October 23, 1949, that diminutive Mafioso song darling Francesco Alberto Sinatra released the song-and-dance curiosity "The HuckleBuck®." Originally a polka number out of Patrick Cudahy, Wisconsin, "The ChuckleButt," as 'twas first called, was retooled by song plugger and Jerky Boy Juggy Gayles, on orders of Signore Sinatra himself who said, "I don't Chuckle...no ifs, ands or Butts" and just like that the "ChuckleButt" became the bloody "HuckleBuck," sweeping the hoop-skirted, shiny-panted dance halls like a giantine O-Cedar® horsehair broom. Also recorded stateside by twister Chubby "Checkerboard" Evans, the song was given a righteous jumpstart on this side of the pond by the suit-and-ascot-neck-tied Royal ShowBand from Waterford, Ireland (whose other claim to fame was having the young Beatle Brothers open their show at the Pavilion in Liverpool in 1962.) Truth be well told, we at the station house have become altogether re-enamored with the "ChuckleButt," or rather "HuckleBuck", especially during the QuaranTeam™, as "pushing our partner out, hunching our backs and throwing a little movement in our sacroiliac" seems to be just what Immunology Dr. Ouchi™ ordered. So if you're feeling down in this time of Corona® branded viral contagion, we suggest you follow this simple song advice: "Wiggle like a snake, wobble like a duck, that's the way you do it when you do the HuckleBuck." Right-O!

A Storied Tradition

Random Memorandum™ to the legion of storytelling giants in the business formerly known as Advertising, which is to say, Content Marketing: Stories are unique to human beings and have been passed down since prehistoric times, when citizen artisans self-published memoirs on the stone walls of their modest cave bungalows. In the Internet era, as I understand it, the "stories" people want to cuddle up with and read in a comfortable chair are the ones you tell on behalf of the soapy suds or sodie pop companies who pay you to tell them. You are no hawker of wares, however; no mere copywriter of tiresome features and benefits. You are a yarn-spinner nonpareil! A bonafide, business card-carrying "Teller Of Tall Tales™" in the tradition of the greats. Consider this brief list whose ranks you join and in some cases supersede: William Shakespeare was a storyteller. Charles Dickens was a storyteller. Jane Austen was a storyteller. The Bronte triplets were storytellers. William Faulkner was a bloody storyteller. Mark Twain was a muddy storyteller. F. Scott Fitzgerald, DHL® Lawrence and Earnest Hemingway were storytellers. Joseph Conrad and Patrick Conroy were storytellers. Kirk Vonnegut, Virginia Woolf and Thomas "Tom" Wolfe were all storytellers. Who else? Agatha Christie and Harper Lee Childs were storytellers. Edgar Alan Poe, Brahm Stoker and Mary Shelley were storytellers. Leo Tolstoy and that Solzhenitsyn prisoner fellow were both storytellers. Some Guy named de Maupassant was a storyteller. Celebrated candymaker O. Henry set the chocolatine nougat bar high for his storyteller endeavors, as did Henry James, James Baldwin and Alex Haley. Epic, dream-weaving storytellers, all! So raise your head and pen high, sir or madam! Spiller of ink, tugger of purse-if-not-heart-strings and generator of colorful, carefully vetted brand content! You are a storyteller. A scene-setting, character-counting Citizen Storyteller™! It says so right there on your SlinkedIn™ page!

Parlez-vous, Francois?

52 years of age is too bloody young for anyone to die, even a wanker like French celluloid splicer Francois Ford Truffaut. Parisian born and bred — French bread — Truffaut was raised — hair-raised — by an emotionally unavailable — which is to say, French — mother, and an adoptive — which is to say, alcoholic — father. His granny shared in much of his child-rearing — and can we all just agree that gents who receive toiletry training from nattering grannies and/or sherry-swilling aunties are doomed from the get-go? Possessing both a first and last name given to mispronunciation, Truffaut fancied himself a dandy of sorts, eschewing — which is to say, bunking off — traditional schooling. He took to the arts like a duck to an insurance advert, beginning his career as the lowest bloke on the totem pole — movie house janitor/film critic — mopping up after unintelligible French, Eye-talian and Swiss curiosities before deciding he could do better — which is to say, no better — on his own. He purchased a GAF® “Talking View Master” camera and was off to the bloody Grand Prix® races. I watched his first feature “The 400 Blows” with a couple mates from the Academy and felt as though I had received 400 Blows to the head, stumoch and lower back, a sensitive area that houses the kidneys or something. ‘Twould be the first of many head-scratchers that Truffaut shot in black & white through plumes of cigarette smoke, which naturally earned him untold honours, while visionaries like M. Night Shymalan and Ronnie Howard go unrecognized. ‘Tis this lawman/cinefile’s opinion that Truffaut’s best work would be in front of the camera, in the role of a UFO-obsessed, papier-mâché volcano constructor in Steven Schpielberg’s “Close Encounters of the Third or Fourth Kind.” Sadly, Truffaut suffered a brain tumor that would lead to his final encounter with a hooded, scythe-wielding gent on this day, October 21, 1984. In addition to his debatable cinema brilliance, Truffaut will long be remembered as the founder of the French "New Wave," a vowel movement which resulted in foppish, now-unlistenable bands like The Human League, Duran Duran and The Cure — assemblages for which there are no known cures, haha — along with solo annoyances like blind scientist Thomas Dolby and horn-rimmed crank Aaron “Elvis” Costello. Happy Anni-hearse-ary™, then, Francois Truffaut.

Free Bird Flies High, Crash Lands

Jacksonville, Florida physical education instructor Leonard Skinner was a simple kind of man. “Nuthin’ fancy,” he’d say. Yet, according to the New York Times, this sometime charter pilot — and full-time vinyl record enthusiast — would become “arguably the most influential high school gym teacher in American popular culture.” Indeed. While he was known to have little tolerance for shoeless, floppy-hatted long-hairs, two of them, sadly — former students of his at Robert E. Lee High, brothers Ronnie and Steven Van Zandt — were killed along with Skinner, when the Convair CV-300 plane he piloted crashed in a Gillsburg, Mississippi swamp. We remember Leonard Skinner — pronounced 'Lĕh-'nérd 'Skin-'nér — and all those who died on that fateful day, October 20, 1977. Fly high, free birds. But be mindful of your altitude and fuel level in the bloody tank.

Rocket, Manned

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in sporting history — October 19, 1957 — that Maurice “The Rocketeer” Richards of the Montreal Something-Or-Others became the first NHL® player to score 500 goals in a single game. Now, I don’t know much about  bloody hockey — other than that it’s popular among toothless men, is virtually unwatchable from any vantage point in-person or on the telly, and that it’s the national sport of cold places like North Dakota, South Dakota and Minnesota, Dakota — but I do know that the laws of time and space dictate that 500 goals in one 60-minute game are unlikely. For anyone other than Rocketeer Richards, that is! He was an imposing man, standing, like, 6 feet, 14 inches or something, and weighing nearly 375 pounds in full regalia, and with his rocket-fueled jet pack — designed by Apple® in California — he flew past opponents as though they were standing shakily atop steel-bladed shoes. He shoots, he scores! Shoots, scores! And so on and so forth, red goal light flashing like a traffic signal. Bloody hell, he scored more than a Cialis®-happy sixty-year-old with matching bathtubs outside the barnyard. He was the greatest to ever play the game, outside of Ted Williams, who played a different game, and when he retired, the sculptors got to work on memorializing him properly. Alas, the statue that stands outside of the BMO™ Harris Ice Center (pictured) is a bloody replica from the 1990 Hollywood biopic that portrayed Richards as more of a superhero than ice skater, though  hockey fans would surely say he was both. Bravo, Rocket Man Maurice Richards!

Holy Roller

Well I’ll be a Monkey’s Relation! If it isn’t the Living Christ himself: Skateboard Jesus®, in full-tilt Nazarene regalia! On a day of worship, no less, bustin’ sick moves at the skate park! You got some fierce rails there, long-haired Lamb of God. The better to mongo-foot through the half-pipe, kickflip off the vert ramp, robe flowin' and mad skillz showin'! Playa’! One imagines his loose-limbed Lordship having absolute control over the rotational inertia that keeps his Holiness spinning 180, 360 or 5-bloody-40, or a quick call to his Heavenly Father resets the centripetal forces in his favour. Brilliantine! Delighted to see you grabbin’ air — and consenting Gen X bum, one presumes, haha! — on this fine day. GodSpeedo®, holy rolling Citizen Deity!

The Importance of Being Ernest

Quick, name a famous Ernie. American cricketeer Ernie Bangs? Check. Ernie Douglas, adopted, four-eyed, third sonny boy of absent-minded professor/widower Steven "MacMurray" Douglas? Check. Ernie, the shorter half of the closeted gay Muppet® couple Bert and Ernie? We thought so! Well, way back in the previous millennia, an altogether different Ernie would've topped the list: Television's original country bumpkin, Tennessee “Ernie” Ford. Born, one would assume, somewhere in the hellhole-ish backwoods of Tennessee, Ernie developed his shtick for hillbilly music and cornball comedy as a disc jockey in the Army. The ole' pea picker — as they called him, on account of his annoyingly folksy rejoinder, "Bless your pea-pickin' heart" — Ernie eventually found his way to television 'longside Joker-faced camera hog Lucille Ball. His namesake show would run for five seasons, though if you happened upon a rerun today, you'd be hard pressed to sit through five minutes of the thing. Like most God-fearing phonies of the era, the pencil-moustachieod, novelty-singing Country Music Hall of Famer was no stranger to Kanetucky bourbon, which would eventually, sadly, lead to his demise on this day, October 17, 1991. But up until that day, he and his dutiful, which is to say, willing and swilling, wife Betty would throw weekly whiskey wingdings not seen outside of a Dean Martini™ chug-a-long. Whiskey old-fashioneds, whiskey sours, whiskey Collins, whiskey Manhattans, whiskey and whiskeys. "What'll we serve on the front porch gatherin' tonight, m'dear?" "How 'bout whiskey, Ern?" Neat! Tennessee “Ernie” was preceded in death by his trainwreck of a half-brother, dramatist Tennessee “Williams,” writer of the not-horrible hit song “16 Tons,” along with a number of over-the-top stage plays that haven't aged well. Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ to the man who put the "he" in bloody "Hee Haw®." Tennessee "Ernie" Ford.

Severed Heads Will Roll

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history — October 16, 1793 — that infamous cakestress Marie Antoinette was beheaded before God and country, which just goes to show you can’t trust the bloody French. After all, this was their Queen, herself the daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor. According to the history books — which is to say, a random lot of wholly unsubstantiated Twitternet™ sites — her marriage to the Dauphin of France was initially championed; the citizenry were charmed by Marie’s beauty and goodly nature, however the French being French — ill-mannered, provincial and dastardly in the extreme — soon turned on her like a Ronco® rotisserie, accusing her of all manner of unseemly ways, including kissing her husband with open mouth and decanting cheap Australian wine in the good crystal. Alas, 'twas an innocent aside in the buffet line at a fútbol tailgate party that was her ultimate, tragic undoing. After helping herself to the Swedish meatballs, jalapeño cheese poppers and boneless Buffalo wings, she snagged a state fair crème puff at the dessert table, while leaving the celebratory sheet cake untouched. “A shame to cut into a cake this lovely," she said, "I’ll leave it for the others.” But that wasn't what the wait staff heard! As their story spun out of control, Marie was said to have dismissed the hunger pangs of the peasants with her mean-spirited rebuke, “Let them eat cake,” to which the cake eaters responded, “Off with her head.” And so 'twas that only months after the execution of her husband King Louis XYZ — he for his own misinterpreted comment about the quality of cigars at a poker game — that she too was taken to the guillotine. But unlike those phony baloney guillotines seen at haunted houses ‘round Halloween, this actually did the trick — sans treat — and her head tumbled off like Bruce Dern’s down the stairs in “Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (Or You'll Waken Baby Jane).” There’s a lesson to be learned here, citizens, and that is: Keep your bloody traps shut, in private company and especially the digital chit-chat rooms. You never know who’s within earshot or how they'll respond to even a harmless aside. You might say, "Canadian nu-metal band Nickelback is over-rated,” and an irate fan might say, “Blow up his house.” You might say, “That's the cleaning lady's job,” and the cleaning lady might say, “Steal her identity.” You might say, “Let the kiddies eat cake” and your psychotic sister-in-law might say, “Why don’t you just inject them with Type 2 Diabetes while you're at it?” One never knows, least of all Yours Truly Dooley®, Internet Patrolman™.

Flipping Out

Random Memorandum™ to the pink-swaddled finger-flipper making his/her way 'round the Twitternet®: I don't give a goo-goo goddamn how bloody old you are. I care not one whit whether you've been photo-shopped, chopped or lopped into infamy. You, young citizen, are complicit in this disrespectful charade, all the same. I raised a child of my own, mind you. I know that decent, God-and-authority-figure-fearing lads and lasses are too busy sucking their thumbs to bother balling their fists defiantly for the camera. 'Twould appear to this Internet Patrolman (IP) that had your opposable digit been properly plugged up its suckhole, PhotoChopping™ the picture in the manner displayed here would've been bloody impossible. So shove that extended finger that some call "the bird" up your teenaged mommy's keister and, as soon as you're capable of forming words, tell her boyfriend — the digital hooligan responsible for this profanity — the boyfriend who's not your daddy and never will be — to sod off. Yours Truly, Constable Dooley®.

Believe You Me

Random Memorandum™ to the National Patrolman’s Registrar (NPR): Please accept this submission for consideration in your radio series, “This I Believe.” Whilst not a summation of the entirety of my life’s beliefs, it does offer a uniquely lawman’s stance — excepting the stance I assume at the latrine: “I believe in the hereafter, the here and now, and Now And Later® chewable hard candies. I believe that good things come to those who wait, unless you’re waiting in line at a discotheque for the return of face-painted, new-wave warbler Adam “Goody Two Shoes” Ant, in which case it will end badly. I believe experience is the best teacher, especially when compared to the punishment methodology employed at Our Lady of Perpetual Penance in Lincolnshire. I believe that every action has an equal and oppose reaction, but that an improper overreaction — flaming dogshite drop on a uniformed official’s front stoop — will land you in the lockup. I believe in walking softly and carrying a big stick of chewing gum for a welcome, mid-afternoon burst of fruit flavoring. I believe in the power of prayer, if by "power," you mean "utter bloody futility." I believe that powdered sugar on one's pant leg is a small price to pay for savoring a wedge of warm crumbcake. I believe that a Timex® banded wristwatch remains the most reliable, solidly fashion-forward timepiece on the market, no matter what the fancy pants at Swatch® would have you believe. I believe that a Greyhound® bus can take you places you never dreamed possible — hello, Branson! — pretty boy flyboy Richard Branson be damned. I believe that social media will transform traditional advertising, delivering marketers not only customers, but brand advocates. (Haha! I don’t believe that for a second!) I believe that when overactor Kenneth Costner said he believed in “long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days” in that “Bullmoose Mullarkey” baseball movie, he was talking out his arse. I believe he had some nerve in saying “I believe in the cock, the pussy, the small of a woman’s back, the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch and that the novels of Susan Lucci are self-indulgent, overrated crap” and that if I had been within earshot when he said it — in mixed company, no less — he would’ve ended up in a jail cell without so much as a deviled hamspread sandwich to look forward to. This I believe — and I believe you've heard enough of it — Constable Doyle “Dooley” Johns, Internet Patrolman (IP).

Wondering Aloud

“Hello, Stever? Tip top o' the mornin' wood, young citizen! 'Tis Yours Truly Dooley, Internet Patrolman, calling. I trust I didn’t catch you at a busy time — sitting down to a heaping platter of breakfast bangers and jelly waffles, perchance — but not to worry and/or hurry; I’ll be as brief as my police-issued BVDs®. I just called to say 'twas on this very day — October 15, 1984 — that you were sitting atop the throne! No, not the toilet, my kimono-wearing friend, but the bloody Billboard® charts! Number One with a Constable’s bullet! You hadn’t forgotten, had you, chumley? ‘Twas a number of years ago — and judging from appearances, a good number of pounds, haha — so you’d be forgiven for not marking the occasion; though in my mind, ‘tis a special day, indeed. No New Years Day, mind you. No first of spring, no song to sing. No April rain, no flowers bloom. No wedding Saturday within the month of June. No summer's high, no warm July. No harvest moon to light one tender August night. But what it is, is something true, made up of these three words that I must say to you: I just called to say, 'I love you' — there, I said it — and thank you for a lifetime of “Wonder-ous”, tuneful pleasantries. Rest assured, I'll never turn a blind eye to you, if you catch my meaning, Citizen Sightless™. I mean it from the bottom of my heart.” (Click.)

Denver Nugget

Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ to nature boy-ish folk warbler John “Denver" Colorado. This “aw shucks” singer, songwriter, variety show host, game show contestant and sometime puppeteer will forever be remembered for his gentle ode to a lass named Annie, who filled up his senses like a night in the forest, until the lawyers got involved and — in protest over the divorce settlement — he took a chainsaw to the bloody marital bed. A real-life Appalachian Mountain man — and eldest son of prominent Mayberry jug band leader Denver "Pyle" Colorado — John Denver was a welcome, clean-cut change of pace from the hirsute — which is to say, hair-suited — dope tokers of the era. In his trademarked granny glasses, velour vests and Aussie® conditioned, fly-away straw bangs, this teetotaling troubadour got high on the sunshine on his shoulders, or possibly the sleepy blue ocean. When it came to lyrics — that is, the words, which often precede melody, but not always — Denver was a veritable statesman. He sang about the Colorado Rocky Mountains, where he witnessed hellfire raining in the sky. He sang of the country roads of Western Virginia and the sunshine — again with the sunshine! — in the Carolina in his mind. Alabammy, where the skies are so blue (and, we'll assume, sunshiney). Oklahoma, where the broom-handled wind comes sweeping down the plains. He sang of a Wichita, Kansas phone lineman and of American soldiers returning to a hero’s welcome on the shores of Galveston, Texas. What he didn’t sing was that goddamned “Delaware” song — “What did Delaware, boy? She wore a brand New Jersey. She called to say Hawaii. She sipped a Minnesota. She went to pay her Texas.” For that we can thank Perry Como or Jerry Vale or some other martini tosser of the day. Denver’s only misstep along the way was fathering a sandy-haired lookalike who took up residence as Cousin Oliver in television's cojoined Brady household, where bedlam ensued and ratings plummeted. Alas, 'twas the would-be pilot himself who plummeted — to his death — on October 12, 1997, after hastily scribbling a Post-It™ note on the counter of his mountain home — likely a log cabin with a compost-producing toilet. “I’m leaving on a jet plane,” the note read, “I don’t know when I’ll be back again.” True to his word, he never returned. We remember him with fondness, sadness and slight irritation over those movies with that cigar-chomping, wise-cracking centenarian actor bloke. "Oh God," is bloody right. John Denver, RIP.