Fat Tuesday, My Arse

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

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

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

Godsmacked

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

Back In The USSA

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

The Minstrel in the Gallery

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

Caine Enabled

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

Bon Voyage: Remembering Bon Scott

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

The Distinguished Gentleman

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

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

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

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

Armstrong, Legstrong

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

Cinderblockhead

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

Rhymes with Stupid

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

Look Into The Future

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

Survivalist of the Fittest

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history (February 12, 1809) that infamous British biologist, geologist and pain-in-the-arse-ologist Charley Darwin was born in Shropshire, England. The second son of a physician father, Charley lost his mum when he was 8, and was subsequently raised by his elder sisters and dad, who thought sonny boy to be something of a wastrel, for Darwin, like many lads of that period — though brilliantine by comparative measure — was content to while 'way the hours on his GAF® Talking Viewmaster, which resulted in his being sent 'way to Edinburgh University to get whipped into shape of sorts. Alas, there he fell in with the free-thinking intellectuals, the hipster douchebagalos with the fluffy sideburns, soul patches and chin hair for the stroking. His dad's hope that Darwin would study medicine were dashed when young Charley grew enamored with the natural sciences, taking himself and his studies to Christ's College in Cambridge, where he kicked up a ruckus with his interest in primates, the arse ends of which particularly captivated the lude buggerer. Darwin later headed for the jungles of South America where he went full commando, indulging his appetite for drinking, beetle collecting and, naturally, primate humping. Darwin would, of course, famously posit about the "origin of the feces," becoming the scourge of Creationist America — which is to say, all of Utah, Ohio, Oklahoma, Kansas, Missouri, the Virginias, the Dakotas, Florida, Arizona, Alabamee, Kanetucky, Tanessee, Georgia, Colorado and Texas. The station house has remained neutral on the merits of the hirsute survivalist's theories, but we do enjoy the one which claims that self-recognition in animals is an indicator of intelligence. To wit: Darwin observed the reactions of a number of species upon seeing their reflection in a mirror or reflecting storefront window. Those successful in said capacity included the “great apes” — gorillas, orangutans, chimpanzees and non-Christian humans — along with dolphins, elephants, whales and magpies, whatever those may be. Two animals who did not pass the test, however, are the two most popular housebound pets — canine and felines — which confirms something we've long suspected: Our four-legged friends, yours and mine, are not as smart as we think they are. To be sure, they can "sit," "stay" and "fetch the missus' vibrating massager" or bloody well defecate in a box in the utility room, but on whole they are as smart as a Hoover® upright. In any event, we remember ole' Charley Darwin on this day and light a birthday candle on a monkey-shaped crumbcake in his honour.

Deadeye Takes Dead Aim

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history — February 11, 2006 — that trigger-happy U.S. Viceroy Richard W. Chainy peppered a luckless 78-year-old attorney with bird pellets whilst quail hunting in Texas. 'Twas thought to be something of a stunt gone wrong, as Chainy had a reputation for being a notorious trickster, "pulling fast ones" and "fart fingers" on politicos, job creators and unamused First Ladys. By all reports, Chainy and one Harry Whittington had been chug-a-lugging — which is to say, "shotgunning" — tall boy Shiner® beers all morning in the bloody RV, before stumbling out into the daylight, where Chainy commenced to firing at Whittington's feet, commanding him to "dance, dance, dance," "you old cocksucker" and dance his sorta friend sorta did, until falling to his knees, where he was shot repeatedly in the arse, the head, neck and chest by his chicken-hawkish hunting partner. As Secret Service agents ably swooped in to shield Whittington, the sharpshooting prankster continued to fire away aimlessly at the pole barn, the windshield of the RV and the tires and cab of a nearby tractor. Whittington was whisked away to one hospital and helicoptered to another, whilst Chainy nobly returned to the RV to clean up and settle his nerves with generous pours of brown liquor. No birds were harmed that day and Whittington later apologized for the trouble he caused the put-upon, warmongering commando. Apology denied!

Little Women, Largely Forsaken

Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ to yarn-spinning inkspiller Laura Ingalls Wilder — of "Little Women" or, possibly, "Little House” fame — who took her knitting needles and parchment writing tablets to the great hayloft in the sky on this day, February 10, 1957. "Miss" Wilder — unmarried lasses weren't called "Ms." back then, as folks didn't know how to pronounce it — based her timeless tales of sisterhood, spinsterdom and dresses that were once tablecloths on her experiences growing up on Walton’s Mountain in a home without indoor plumbing. Young birds on either side of the pond — or rather, creek — were hooked and Hollywood soon came a-callin', resulting in 1933's "Little Women In A Little House," starring speech-challenged charmer Katherine Hepburn and a young Winona "Judd" Ryder. 'Twas remade for the next generation of love-starved dressmakers as a 1970’s television series, “Little House On A Large Prairie,” with curlicued cowboy Little Joe Landon playing father to pint-sized Little Melissa Gilbert. Ms. Gilbert would grow up and out in all the right places, settin’ her pa’s teeth on edge when she became the object of every single feller’s desires in a string of made-for-television heavy breathers — eventually settling down with one of them — “Scarecrow and Mrs. Kling" star Bruce "Box" Leitner, even taking his name for a spell, complicating matters for fans who bookmarked her Gilbert-Box-Leitner web page, which was deactivated following the subsequent divorce proceedings. The good news is, the problem has been rectified and fans of the youngest Walton sister — Erin or Elizabeth — can visit Melissa-Gilbert.com and click on the link to purchase her memoir “Prairie Tale,” now available pre-owned on Amazon® for the same price as the original “Little House” or possibly “Little Women” tome — which is to say, 1 penny. A fact that would have infinitely pleased money-minded Deathday™ girl Ms. Wilder herself. She would have been 163 today.

Hair Sprayed and Legs Splayed

If Memory Swerves™, ‘twas on this day in music history — February 11, 1989 — that costumed, hair-metal hip-swiveller David Coverdale wed his hair-sprayed, legs-splayed music video co-star Tawdry Kitaen. The onetime object of bachelor-partying Tom Hanks’ desires, Kitaen was a struggling hard-body on the LA scene who shot to relative stardom after writhing spread-eagle atop the Whitesnake — or rather, the Whitesnake singer’s Bentley® motorcar. ‘Twas a role the toothsome, fulsome actress won in an infamous audition where Coverdale (pictured here, second from right, or possibly left) lip sank, “Is this love that I’m feeling?” and Tawdry (pictured here, second from left, or possibly right) shot back, “No, it's my left jug,” causing the intoxicated front man to nearly spill his tumbler of Jack Daniels® into a production assistant’s mound of cocaine. Kitaen would perform in two of the usual soft-focus videos for the band — “Is This Love (That I'm Feeling With Some Urgency Under The Bleachers At The High School Gymnasium)?” and “Here I Go Again (With The Self Pleasuring On The Tour Bus)”— both still popular on VH1 Classic® shows like “I Love The 80’s (Even Though That Was 80 Pounds and A Full Head Of Hair Ago).” Sadly, if predictably, Tawdry and David’s marital journey strayed the course, collapsing in the wake of Kitaen’s rumoured infidelity with celebrity sports memorabiliast Orenthal “Juiced” Simpson and Coverdale’s horrifying musical dalliance with satanic, majestic Jimmy Page. Today, Coverdale continues to play the part of the leathery — skinned, lunged and panted — howler, holding out hope that his Whitesnake enjoys entry into the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Shame, whilst the tucked and plucked Kitaen is reactive on the Twitternet™, sharing indecipherable, emoticon-filled bleets and low-definition screen grabs from younger days. Bless them.

A Head of Her Time

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history — February 8, 1587 — that Mary Queen of Scots was beheaded, her giant, fearsome noggin' forever frozen in time, befittingly, as ole' Mar had a face that could stop a clock on the order of Big Ben. Mind you, cosmetics were in their infancy back then and — judging from the portraitures on display at Twitternet™ Search Studios — Mary’s attempts to apply a "pale mask of youth” met with frightful results, as her first cousin/second husband Lord Danley unwisely observed before finding himself dead in the garden at Mutha Mary’s hand, with an assist from James Hepburn, 4th Earl of Sandwich Trays™. Yet, while one doubts whether an army of smocked cosmetic counter lasses or a convoy of aproned Avon® ladies with truckloads of foundation crèmes, eyeliners and lipsticks could have done much with Mary’s cheerless countenance, we’re certain 'twasn’t poor skin highlights that led to the loppin' o' her giantine costard (look it up). No, ‘twas her misjudging the familial ties of first cousin “once removed” Queen Elizabeth I of England that led to her demise, for after Mary Contrary was found guilty of Lord Danley’s death — that buggerer Earl got off “scot free" and opened a sandwich franchise to the north — Mary fled southwards seeking her cousin’s protection, only to find herself “at-once removed” and confined to a castle in England. After many years of house arrest, rather like the non-beauty who became the beast, Mary was found guilty of conspiring to assassinate Elizabeth and was thusly executed in the famous beheading that found the beheader crying, “God Save the Queen,” whilst holding Mary’s gruesome, severed crown up high, which England’s Sex Pistols later immortalized in song. In related news, legendary face-painted pugilist Sylvester Stallone’s “Bullet to the Head” opened at the bottom of the Hollywood scrap heap on this day in 2012, the paltry $5 million in box office receipts surely finding heads rolling, possibly down the stairs, ala “Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte Beers.” All of which goes to show that all the makeup in the world can’t save murderously bad actors or actresses of any sort. God may have saved Queen Elizabeth I, but he left Rocky and/or Rambo to fend for himself.

John, Paul, George & Zingo

We were local lads with limited musical skillsets, but our aims were true and our intentions goodly. We weren’t the best-looking, the most monied or fawned over in the broadsheets, but parents could drop off their lasses at our gigs without fear of unwelcome canoodling backstage. We played a short set of skiffel covers in gymnasiums 'round the local hamlets, had but one original to receive proper “airplay” — “Parsley, Sage, Rosemary & Thames” over the grocer’s public address system — and had no plans for a “British invasion” stateside. We were thick as thieves and aside from squabbles over lasses and pomade product, were band "mates" in every sense. Here, for your time-traveling musical pleasantry, are John, Paul, George, Zingo and Yours Truly Dooley®...The Pollywoggs™!

Axel Broken

A salute of the finger to the classiest man in rock ‘n roll, formerly menacing head-and-body-banger Axel F. Rose, who's celebrating a birthday today. The impolite, megalomaniacal fashion disaster responsible for the inexplicable pairing of the backwards ball cap and the kerchief headband, Axel F. first began throwing out his vocal cords and storming off stage in drug-ridden Hollywood USA, a blight on the landscape where despair and delusion are always in style. Never one to shy away from insulting the people who paid to see him perform, Rose somehow managed to avoid getting the living shite kicked out of him long enough to achieve notoriety, at which point the scrawny sorta-singer began surrounding himself with a posse of paid hangers-on for protection. Rose and his bandmates almost single-handedly kept open the Lost Angeles tattoo parlors and Kanetucky distilleries runnin' 'round the bloody clock for the better part of a decade, until band infighting, angry hookers and flannel-shirted grungers put a final nail in the bacchanalia, sending Rose back under the rock from which he sprung. One imagines the never-punctual performer was born late on this day, February 6, 1962 — to a 16-yr. old mum, no surprise — in the redneck environs of Indy-Annapolis. Many happy returns and, you'll allow us, fuck you, too, Axel F. Rose.

Half Breed

Random Memorandum™ to would-be Humane Society® adoptee and self-described “go getter” Parker the Puggle: I wish I was writing with good news, chumley, but alas, I am not. We received your materials and cleverly worded e-missive — “Every dog has his day and I’m hoping mine is today” — but after much deliberation, we are regretfully declining your request for candidacy as station house pooch. Mind you, your paperwork was impeccable, Parker! I was indeed impressed with your curriculum vitae, as “friendly, loyal and loving” are qualities that will serve you well, wherever life takes you. Furthermore, a puppy who’s “fully housebroken and crate trained,” knows essential commands such as “sit, stay and don’t shite there,” while also enjoying home movies, food and wine pairings and erotic massage, will not want for companionship. Unfortunately, I am not partial to certain elements of your breeding, no matter how many assurances I get from trainers that all is well and fine, and ‘tis perfectly normal for pugs and beagles to mix and match — or rather hatch — and that it’s just another day in the dog park to see two lustful creatures of different upbringing nosing around one another’s portals before commencing to do the dog nasty as though it was as nature intended. When I first heard of your kind, and witnessed the curious proportions of your head and body, my reaction was immediate: “What in bloody blue blazes is a puggle?” Frankly, Parker, your parents ought be ashamed of themselves, though I don’t care to know which of those horny buggers was humping the other’s arse end, as I’m not accepting of it, no matter who was the mummy or the daddy. It may give you comfort to know that I'm not singling out puggles as I have similar ill feeling about bloody labradoodles, chihuahuasunds and other breeding abominations. Love and marriage may go together like a horse and carriage, but horses and carriages don’t have sexual relations with the intention of birthing a four-wheeled "horriage," if you catch my meaning. In closing, we appreciate you applying for the position, dewormed and deballed. A nice touch there, Citizen Half Breed! You’ve got doggy style!

Artisan Einstein, My Arse

Random Memorandum™ to the “artisanal” bakers at Einstein’s Bagel’s™: Forgive me for saying so, gents, but if bagel-making is an "art," I'm bloody Art Linkletter. Indeed, after examining the curricula at art schools on either side of the pond, I've found no mention of any formalized programs in edible “artistry.” I’ve even reached out to a number of arsewipes at those phony baloney art institutes — the ones that churn out the so-called commercial artists — the mural makers, comic strip illustrators and advert art directors in the skinny pants and vanity eye wear — again, nothing in their syllabi speaks to a field of study involving the "fine art" of mixing flour, yeast and water, whilst pre-heating a bloody oven to 375 degrees. I can only conclude that diplomas in “artisanal baking” are issued solely at the University In Your Dreams. While I understand that your wild-haired, namesake founder Albert was himself something of a university art-or-possibly-scien-tist, methinks the association ends there. I must insist that you cease any reference to the title "artist," in any sense, or risk a proper citation. On the bright side, please know this missive is not an attack on your puffy creations on whole, as we at the station house all delight in the generously-spiced Einstein’s Bagels of our “chew-sing.” Carry on then, Citizen Doughboys! 

The Day—Or Rather, One of The Days—The Music Died

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in music history (February 3, 1959) that bespectacled rock 'n' roll pioneer Vernon Wallis of Liverpool — aka, Buddy Holly — died tragically, along with American soul singer Noël Redding, in a plane crash off the dock of a bay in Monona, Minnesota. This, sadly, would not be the last crash to take the lives of geetar slingers and singers on either side of the pond, as this was a time when artists began disappearing from the airspace as though they'd entered the bloody Bermuda triangle. To wit: Jim Croce, Jimmy Valens, Ricky Nielsen, Patsy Cline, Eddie Cochran, Duane "The Big Bopper" Allman, Sonny "Bono" Vox, John "Denver" Deutschendorf and three shoeless, shirtless members of Linnard Something-Or-Other, all died in a downed fuselage. My advice to today's malnourished long-hairs: If you insist on taking your half-arsed acts on the rocky road, avoid single engine "Jefferson" Airplanes and hit the highways and back roads in the floating smokehouse vomitoriums that are your tour buses. #RIP.

Oh, for crying out loud!

There, there, luv. Dry you eyes with that Dollar Store® tissue and tell Yours Truly Dooley™ what this is all about. You've fallen for a bloke in uniform, you say? A certain Internet Patrolman who acts as though you don't exist and whose sweet, loving affection you fear you'll never enjoy? Oh for crying out loud, surely you don't mean me, madam?! ‘Twould be wholly inappropriate for me to have my way with every lonely bird who's sexted vignetted glamour nudes to my private cellular line! Besides, you’re young enough to be my hot daughter! May/December conjugality may be acceptable behavior at the picture show — where Michael Douglases mingle and cunnilingle at will — or online at Stumblr™ — where breast flashers cavort with flagellating scoundrels thrice their age — but in decent society, a senior official making a pantless advance on a vulnerable, cisgendered citizen is rather like that parfum by Dana, which is to say, Taboo®. Might I suggest you join a lonely hearts clubs or write a military man in a war zone foxhole or stake out the market and ask some dopey bloke for assistance whilst sizing up English cucumbers in the produce aisle? Surely a beauty such as yourself will have better success there than Skyping® your romantical intentions to the station house. By the by, be thankful I’m an honourable man or your cries of ecstasy would shatter the glass on your mobile device. Alrighty almighty, then, dearie. Gather yourself and go about your day with grace, whilst going easy on the vodka, as it'll dry your skin.