A Riot is an Ugly Thing

Another one bites the dust

Larry Harmon, Bozo the Clown, dies!  I was nowhere around; I didn't do it; you can't prove nothin'!

Roast in Hell, clown!

The horns of a dilemma

	I have reached an existential crisis.  In the last couple of days, a question has formed in my mind, and I am confused when I try to answer it. And you may ask yourself, "Where is that large automobile?" Oops, sorry wrong question, and you may ask yourself, "Uncle Keith what is your dilemma?" I answer you, "Is The Joker a clown?"  I'm not afraid of The Joker. In fact, he's always been one of my favorite villians. Yet, I am afraid of clowns.  I flinch at the sight of clowns, but I have no trouble looking at The Joker. If The Joker is a clown, I'm afraid of him, but I'm not afraid of him, therefore he must not be a clown. Or, I'm afraid of clowns, The Joker is a clown, but I'm not afraid of him, therefore I must not be afraid of clowns.
	Let's investigate the notion that The Joker is a clown.  First, he is often referred to as "The Clown Prince of Crime". That seems like he's a clown. Secondly, he wears grease paint and garish clothing, just like a clown. His tools are clown-like, often employing poison gas squirting posies on his lapel or throwing razor sharp playing cards. Thirdly, he's a homicidal maniac. You can't get more clown-like than that. It seems evident he is a clown, though he didn't start as a clown.  Oddly, I have never thought of The Joker as a clown till the publicity started for the latest movie.
	This is a stunning incongruity. I have OCD; I'm not happy with inconsistency. What am I to make of this development? This is a fly for the ointment, a monkey for my wrench, if you will. Sweetie calls it a breakthrough. While I implicitly trust Sweetie, I'm not so sure. If I cannot rely on my own rigid consistency, what am I to rely upon?
	All that being said, even though she's only a cartoon character, I would so bone Harley Quinn!

I'll never be fashionable

These are the new Paris fashions for men.  Really?  Men are going to wear these? Really?  I'm talking about cops, firemen, plumbers, and truck drivers? Really?  Did people applaud? Are people being rewarded for these ideas? Really?

Even though I'd look great in them, I don't think I'm going to wear them.  I still have socks and underwear I got for Christmas that I haven't worn yet. 

Guess the Musical

In this episode of Guess the Musical, guess the musical from this lesser known verse of a very well-known song.  Don't cheat and google it.  Well you can, but then don't act like you guessed it.

I used to have a girlfriend
known as Elsie
With whom I shared
Four sordid rooms in Chelsea

She wasn't what you'd call
A blushing flower...
As a matter of fact
She rented by the hour.

The day she died the neighbors
came to snicker:
"Well, that's what comes
from too much pills and liquor."

But when I saw her laid out like a Queen
She was the happiest...corpse...
I'd ever seen.
 

Song Lyric Thursday

My song lyric for today is Short Skirt, Long Jacket by Cake.  I heard it on the radio last night, and had to agree that if one were to get something one wanted; that would be a nice thing to get.

I looked on the Internet briefly for an image of a woman in a short skirt and a long jacket, but couldn't find anything in my limited search.  So, I grabbed an image of Kate Beckinsale, who could pull off the short skirt and a long jacket look quite well.

I would also like it noted that any member of the Riot Squad could do it, as well, and quite easily!

Short Skirt, Long Jacket

I want a girl with a mind like a diamond
I want a girl who knows whats best
I want a girl with shoes that cut
And eyes that burn like cigarettes
I want a girl with the right allocation
Whos fast, and thorough, and sharp as a tack
Shes playing with her jewelry, shes putting up her hair
Shes touring the facility and picking up slack
I want a girl with a short skirt,
And a loooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong jacket

I want a girl who gets up early
I want a girl who stays up late
I want a girl with uninterrupted prosperity
Who uses a machete to cut through red tape
With fingernails that shine like justice
And a voice that is dark like tinted glass
She is fast, thorough, and sharp as a tack
Shes touring the facility and picking up slack
I want a girl with a short skirt,
And a long, long jacket

Nanananananananananananananananananananananananananananana

I want a girl with a smooth liquidation
I want a girl with good dividends
At citi bank we will meet accidentally
Well start to talk when she borrows my pen
She wants a car with a cup holder arm rest
She wants a car that will get her there
Shes changing her name from Kitty to Karen
Shes trading her mg for a white Chrysler LeBaron
I want a girl with a short skirt,
And a
Looooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong
Jacket

Nanananananananananananananananananananananananananananana

Stupid TV

The stupidest commercial on TV at the moment is that dumb "Viva Viagra" commercial.  A bunch of mid-life douche-bags are sitting around having a jam session, at 1:22 AM in Nashville, singing "Viva Viagra'".  Would people really do this?  They are making it look like a recording session.  Will the country music airwaves be peppered with playings of "Viva Viagra"?  Will it be a most requested song?  What's the name of the group? I suggest the 'Limp Willies'.  Will "Viva Viagra" go on to win a Grammy?

Speaking of Awards...Did I see that the Tyra Banks show actually won an Emmy?  You must be joking? That might be one of the stupidest shows on TV. Don't get me wrong, I would fuck Tyra Banks like her ass held the cure for cancer, but that show is dumb!  I saw ten minutes of a show where women with self-image problems wrote down on a scale of 1 to 10, what they thought their appearance should be ranked, and then they hold up a card to show it to the audience. That's not too bad; here's where it gets bad.  Tyra then had her entire studio audience vote on what they thought the woman's rating should be. 

One unfortunate woman, with low self-esteem, rates herself as a '4'. Let's go to the all-female studio audience to give her a sanity check, and boost her self-esteem. The audience has given her a '5'. You've got to be kidding me?  Why didn't they just hand the woman a bottle of sleeping pills and a fifth of Grey Goose.  The woman is heart-broken.  How does Tyra comfort her, "A '5' is better than a '4'." Mathematically speaking Tyra, a 5 is better than a 4, but it ain't much better.  Third degree burns are better than fourth degree burns, but neither one is going to be on anybody's Christmas Wish List, either!  If this was an all male audience, it would be decried as the worst case of sexism, since I said "I would fuck Tyra Banks like her ass held the cure for cancer."  The whole concept was stupid. It's a good thing Tyra was a '10', because her brain is probably a '5'.

Flashback V

My final post in the flashback series is a testimony to how sadly juvenile I really am.  It was posted on July 1, 2007.  It is one of my favorites, because no matter how many times I see it, I still laugh like a 5th Grader. 

Yes, I'm juvenile 

I'm sorry; I can't stop laughing at this.  I think it's the swinging yambag.   As an interesting aside, this could not be me, as I had to have my tailbone removed due to a severe fracture.  I apologize to everyone that this offends, but just remember; you knew this wasn't mensa when you came here.

Flaskback IV

My next post in the flashback series takes us back to a simpler time.  It's February 10, 2005.  We were all younger then.  The post details one of the many nera-death experiences that I have...well, experienced.

Elvis and Tupac

In August I had a near-death experience.  In the tunnel as I was walking toward the light, I met Elvis and Tupac.  Elvis admitted that he had summoned me to give me a task, and that I would have to go back to my life on Earth.  In years past, I used to be friends with a specific Elvis impersonator.  For the sake of anonymity, we'll just call him, "Jackass."  I met "Jackass" when I was in high school, and we used to be pretty good friends.  However, he is one of the most lazy and selfish individuals I have ever met.   After I graduated, we remained friends for another 10 years, but I gradually outgrew him. 

Shortly after getting married and looting his wife's bank accounts to pay for his $8,000 credit card debt,  he decided to quit his job with health insurance benefits to pursue the life of an Elvis impersonator.  His only job is as an Elvis impersonator for nursing homes and county fairs.  "Jackass", now in his mid-40s, has a wife and a profoundly retarded child who could use a husband and father that are worth a damn, one who has a job with health insurance.  However, that would get in the way of his Elvis impersonating dream. 

In the tunnel Elvis said to me, "Hey Uncle Keith, I want you to go back to the world and put a stop to this cat who's impersonating me.  Man, my daughter married Michael Jackson.  I died on the toilet with 20 pounds of red meat impacted in my colon, but nothing is as embarrassing as this guy impersonating me." 

I said, "Elvis, how am I supposed to stop this guy?"

He said, "You figure it out, Jack!"

I asked Elvis, "Hey King, what's with Tupac?"

Elvis told me, "Pac knows where to get the best weed in heaven.  Now take care of this guy impersonating me.  That will please me greatly."

The next thing I know, I am back on the floor of this restaurant with the rescue squad working on me.  I guess this story really doesn't go much further except now I have to take blood pressure medicine, and I have a quest from Elvis.

Flashback III

My next flashback is a little more recent.  On May 3, 2007, I had this inquiry for Uncle Keith's Advice Column.  They say there are no dumb questions, just dumb people. In this case, it's both!

Uncle Keith's Advice Column

Dear Uncle Keith,

Is it OK to have sex with a really hot zombie?

Curious in Corona

Dear Curious,

Are you crazy?  It's a fuckin' zombie, man; not a fucking zombie!  In The Zombie Survival Guide: Complete Protection from the Living Dead, Max Brooks warns that to get any closer than an arm's length from a zombie is too dangerous. So, unless you are Ron Jeremy, you're going to be a bit too close to your living dead partner to be safe. 

The thing is going to try to bite you, and if you are stupid enough to want to have sex with a zombie; you're probably stupid enough to stick your dick in it's mouth.  Do I need to draw you a picture, dumbass?  If it bites you, you'll become a zombie, and if it bites your dick off; you'll be a dickless zombie.  Need I say more?

Besides the personal danger, it's a zombie, the living dead.  Why would you want to have sex with a zombie?  If it were just a hot dead body, that's one thing.  The hooker in the pit in your basement dies before you can replace her, and you have needs...hey, we've all been there, right? 

Zombies are just different.   Zombies aren't for sex.  They may still have the parts you want, but it's just not right.  I mean, you wouldn't have sex with a clown would you?  No self-respecting person would have sex with a clown.  Now, that's just wrong, and no getting around it. I have explained before that zombies and clowns are exactly the same. So, no sex with clowns and no sex with zombies.  Now get your head out of your ass, and act right.  Having sex with a zombie for Christ's sake...

Flashback II

Today's Flashback comes from May 9th, 2005.  It is but one of my epic, and mostly losing battles, in my constant war with Wal*Mart.  Sweetie and I made an ill-fated trip to the Wal*Mart on Mother's Day to set building supplies for the show To Gillian on Her 37th Birthday.  It's a little selection I call:

Wal*Mart...my ancient enemy

Damn you, Wal*Mart! Damn you all to Hell!  I went with Sweetie to the neighborhood Wal*Mart to buy supplies for set building.  While there, we were treated to the various locals proclaiming, "it's a mob house in here" and the even more delightful, "it's mudder's day."  All this from a plus-sized woman in red sweats. Her t-shirt was tucked in the back and untucked in the front, which was fortunate because it allowed us to witness the inexorable pilgrimage of her sweatpants up the crack of her ass.

"Towards thee I roll, thou all-destroying but unconquering whale [Wal*Mart]"

We finally arrived at the paint aisle, where we instructed a fellow with less than 23 matching pairs of chromosomes to mix a half-gallon paint color A, a half-gallon of paint color B, and full gallons of paint colors C & D.  We leave Aristotle to his work and hurried off to take in more of the wildlife and look for properties for the show.

"to the last I grapple with thee"

We looked for citronella candles for a patio scene, but they appeared to have been used by the VC during the Tet Offensive.  We did manage to pick out several specific magazines (magazines for teenaged girls) that will work for the beach scene.  We rolled along.  Sweetie went to find beach bags (they all looked like crap), while I left the cart to walk 20 feet to grab tic-tacs to serve as prop potassium pills in the show.  While walking to get the tic-tacs, the paint mixer passes by me, mumbling "algebra...algebra...algebra." I got no idea, either.  I grab tic-tacs and walk back to my cart to find some lazy-assed bitch shopping from our cart.  She's grabbed some of our magazines and started walking off.  I shout, "Hey! Hey! that's our stuff!"  Hearing my plaintiff West Virginian "Hey! Hey!", Sweetie rushes to the cart, 'cause she's got my back like dat!'  The woman apologizes and gives me back my stuff.

"from hell's heart I stab at thee"

We decide to grab our paint and make a tactical retreat.  We get there to find that Johannes Kepler has mixed a gallon of everything.  I guess half gallons required too much "algebra...algebra...algebra."   Sweetie paid the tab, and we bolted.

"for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee."

As my trunk is already full of props and scripts, I put four gallons of paint in the floor of my back seat in my 2000 Volvo S70 sedan...can you predict what's fixing to happen.  We get back to the theater and lift out the first bucket of paint, and surprise the employee of the month didn't put the top back on the paint securely.  The paint can tips slightly, pouring a wine glass full of paint on the floor of my back seat, the seat, and my $290 telescope that is also a prop for the show.  The paint poured directly into the gears that allow you to adjust the telescope up and down and side to side with the fine adjustment knobs.

"Sink all coffins and all hearses to one common pool! and since neither can be mine, let me then tow to pieces, while still chasing thee"

At this point, I lost it.  I will admit that one of my worst faults is my use of profanity, which is often more genrous than I would like it to be.  Upon the paint debacle, I issued forth a stream of 'F-level' profanities, which Sweetie said emptied all the trees in our small town of birdlife.  As I could no longer think straight, Sweetie took over.  She called Jim to bring up the cleaning supplies.  The theater is under-rennovation and actually clean cleaning supplies are hard to come by.  Jim arrived with some kick-ass George Foreman spray (this stuff is great), clorax wipes, a butt load of paper towels, and Guiness (cause you know, "when you are feelin' down, pet a hound.")  We spent the next hour cleaning the telescope and my car.

"though tied to thee, thou damned whale! [Wal*Mart] Thus, I give up the spear!"

In the aftermath, the car is fine, but I think I've lost the floor mat.  The telescope survived.  The lenses were not affected, and we were able to clear the fine adjusment gears.  Once the show is over, I will take it apart and give it a good second cleaning.  We soaked the paint in cleaning fluids, so the latex didn't set and now it peels away from the plastic and metal parts like a skin.  I cannot go the Wal*Mart without fear of committing a felony, but I may write them a nasty letter (that will teach them!)  The worst part of the whole thing, they still have birds flying around in that damn store!!!!