LOS ANGELES- Citing irreconcilable differences, singer/songwriter George Thorogood's liver has applied for a legal separation from its host of 59 years.
Thorogood's popularity peaked in the 70's and 80's as the creator of hard drinking songs such as "One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer", and "I Drink Alone". It is hard to imagine a pool hall jukebox not stocking at least one of his blues rock hits.
Yet on Tuesday in the L.A. County courthouse, George Thorogood's liver appeared via teleconference seeking to finally end what it deems an abusive relationship.
“I've done my job faithfully,” said the liver as it read a prepared complaint, it's speech slurred and often halting. “For almost six decades, day in, day out. All George ever gave me was unending toil and ingratitude, never once considering me or my health.”
“You come into this job with a sense of purpose. Like you could change the world,” it read. “But when you see how there's no light at the end of the tunnel, how you're being taken advantage of, (there is) only so much one small liver can do”. Fighting back tears the yellowing, sickly organ concluded its statement, “sometimes I feel he's just trying to slowly poison me.”
The liver said in an earlier released written statement that it hoped to find someone more deserving and appreciative of its labors. "I'd like to find a nice quiet place where I can rest and maybe one day write my story."
Judge Lamar Quincy asked Thorogood if he had anything to add. The musician merely grunted, saying (his liver) should “quit being such a pansy and bone up." He then flipped the monitor the middle finger and the signal was disconnected.
If the request is granted, it would be the first time a major organ succeeded in having itself removed from its owner since Ron Wood's lungs successful bid to separate as soon as a viable donor was found.
WILTSHIRE, ENGLAND- Proof of alien life or elaborate hoax? Some farmers call them otherworldly art and are thrilled to discover one of the mysterious visages gracing a hillside. Others say it is outright vandalism, no more than a waste of valuable grain by mischievous pranksters. Whatever your belief, in the world of crop circles the southern region of England is the place to be. No other place on Earth has a higher concentration of crop circles than right here.
And it was in the county of Wiltshire last week that Mr. Jeremy Benthingham first discovered his fields had joined the ranks of the ethereally decorated. On the morning of October 30th shortly after the farmer pulled his tractor from its barn, Mr. Benthingham first saw the mysterious designs. And he was not impressed.
“If you ask me it looks like a damned joke. The fellow must have been bloody blind” he said. “Or just learning” he added with a chuckle.
In place of a soothing circular pattern or complex geometric mandala, the field had been transformed into a mishmash of drunken squiggles. “It's embarrassing” he said. For farmers of this and the neighboring counties which make up the breadbasket of England, the first crop circle is normally a badge of honor. But despite his disappointment, Mr. Benthingham is not alone in his less than stellar experience.
In June a farm 30 kilometers to the south was visited by a mysterious crop-circler that left behind a barely discernible representation of a human form. “The left arm was completely out of proportion from the body like a fiddler crab,” said one witness of the amateurish attempt. “It had no neck, sort of a stick figure with a crooked spine.” In the nearby town of Saxsbury a mangled rendering of the Solar system was said to resemble “a rather unsuccessful Etch-a-Sketch” said the landowner Jamie Spitts. Not only were the orbits wavy and badly skewed, but there were only seven planets. One of which embarrassingly intersected with the Sun. An area of crude back and forth swipes has many believing it to be an attempt to cover a mistake. “Like second grade art class.”
While some state the entire episode is a hoax on a hoax, Ken Potter of the Crop Circle Alliance disagrees. “Could it be there's a hidden meaning in the misshapen forms, and that our primitive minds can't understand them?”
Crop circle enthusiasts disagree on the reason for the recent spate of poor quality visitations. Some of the believers say the ethereal beings responsible are indeed training new artists or trying out new equipment. “Even the military has training exercises” says Potter. “Or for all we know, the circles we've seen all these years were performed by a handful of very talented beings. Perhaps the torch is being passed. And no one's born a Picasso”, said Potter. “Except Picasso I suppose.”
Whatever the reason, most agree that 2010 can only be an improvement over what many are calling the lost year of the crop circle.
They just get thrown away. Or do they? I can't imagine the things ever wear out. And even if yours starts to show some age it's not as if you'll be embarrassed if someone sees the shape it's in, because as a rule people don't see other people's dildos. Unless a moving day goes horribly awry.
This goes for male or female shaped latex goodies of course, I'm not just picking on the ladies here. Feel free to substitute the words “pocket pussy” in place of dildo if it makes you more comfortable, we're all adults here.
And it's not like most people are eager to have to buy such things more than once. Once suffering the humiliation of their first sexual aid purchase, most slink from the store with the paper bag clutched as tightly and hopefully inconspicuously as possible to the chest thinking to themselves and the heavens “Well that's over with”. It's a relief as profound as finishing a public speech or meeting the in-laws. You only hope you never meet the clerk who sold you the thing at a church/school/business function.
Would a rusted steel dildo ever be turned in for scrap? Price of iron is up. Maybe your melted-down dildo could one day end up part of a skyscraper. It would be an ironic turn of events to say the least, a phallus reborn. Or would it be polished one afternoon to restore its onetime gleam? I'll bet a fiver the web already has instructions on how to do this. Perhaps it would be disposed of with the hopes the neighbor boys didn't pick your trash. My uneducated guess is that it would be hard to be parted with, maybe hidden away like an old lover for 'lean times' before it was eventually forgotten and misplaced. Perhaps a generation later a suddenly scarred descendant would notice what that old paperweight on grandpa's tool bench really was.
You'd be surprised at some of the pathetic objects people will haul into the pawn shop hoping for a buck or two. I once saw a man happily accept three quarters for an old extension cord and a hacksaw blade. Would a similarly illiquid crack fiend actually try to cash in a used sexual device? More importantly, what would it fetch? I'm tempted to go undercover just to catch the reaction of the aged pawnkeep's face as I argue how it was barely used. Maybe if I swear it had been boiled in hot water.
Oh this is just great. I give every last one of those damn kids a candy bar, and one of them decides it would be funny to throw a rock through our glass storm door. Watch your feet, dear. Trick or treat? Oh this trick is just Hilarious!
Honey, where's the dust pan? And while you're at it, where's my baseball bat? I'll play ball with the wonderful little sprites!
Sigh...no dear I'm not going to do anything drastic. Yeah they're just kids, but dammit look at this mess! I pulled some pranks in my day, but this is over the top. Are we out of Hefty bags? What? No, Hefty bags! You know, the really thick ones. I think they're by the water heater!
Forget Snickers, next year they're getting a jawbreaker each. Those generic ones. Or Bit o' Honey, I'll bet those are cheap. No wait, trick gum! The kind that gets really hot. Oooh boy, next Halloween's gonna be FULL of tricks let me tell you!
Owww! Damned glass. Can you bring me a band-aid too, honey? I can see how that whole razor blade in the candy thing got started. No dear, I'm just joking. Jeez.
What do you mean the rock looks familiar? It's just a rock. You gave one of them a WHAT?! Holy mother of God are you kidding me? The grumpy kid with the flying ace dog and messed up ghost costume? You've been giving him one every year? Why not give him a roll of toilet paper and a can of spray paint while you're at it?
Talk to his mother? And say what? He returned the rock we gave him? A rock! Brilliant. You're the one that should be cleaning this up.
Um, have you seen the cat this morning?
* Encore edition sounds so much more dignified than "rerun", doesn't it? Then again unless you've been following this jalopy for a year now, it's new to you. Even if Letterman does reruns, I feel I need to ask your forgiveness: I've got my hands full rebuilding a small block Ford right now and figured this post might just need to become an annual ritual.
I know, I know, the ancient Chinese warned us against pursuing our wishes. Let me start out by saying, to hell with the ancient Chinese. But I do recognize the need to be careful what you wish for, or at least be prepared if those wishes come to fruition in strange, twisted ways you hadn't envisioned. If the stars are in an ornery mood get ready for a curve ball.
It would be my rotten luck that I would finally meet Bill Murray in a men's room at some hotel bar. I step up to the urinal for some routine business and there he is taking a leak one stall over. Do I dare break the Golden Rule of the men's room, striking up a conversation with a stranger in mid-flow? As I silently cursed the Universe for putting me in such a conundrum I'm sure my mind would race for a loophole, some way of acknowledging one of my greatest heroes without being added to his mental list of autograph assholes.
In the unlikely event I ever fall into such a circumstance, I've prepared a statement. “Sorry Mr. Murray, but I'm just not going to bother you for an autograph with your cock in your hand.” I'd then give a friendly nod and walk back out to the bar like nothing had happened. I think he'd appreciate it.
That's the dream of all us fans, to meet our number one living figure and say something so clever or devastatingly cool they not only laugh, but possibly offer up a dinner invitation, or ask if you have any interest in seeing their record collection.
Since I have no idea when I will meet Bill Murray, I find myself preparing for every possible contingency. If we become trapped in the same elevator, I will say “Emergency call buttons are for pansies!”, and volunteer to be the guy that tries to climb through the ceiling hatch thingy and up the greasy cables, heedless of any damage to my clothing or person. There is no film in which this escape route has failed to work.
If we find ourselves at the same DMV getting our licenses renewed I will pipe up with “You know Bill, if you put Organ Donor on your license it makes for a great dirty pickup line.” I wrestled with the question of whether I should use his first name so soon, then came to the realization I'll have to gauge each situation accordingly.
Another challenging introduction would be accidentally backing into his Mercedes as I leave the airport parking garage at two in the morning. I'm loaded down with jet lag and sleeping pills, fumbling for the radio when BAM, a familiar looking gray-haired figure is fuming in my rear view mirror. But I am prepared. “Tag, you're it Bill!” I think that one calls for a first name basis, just to break the ice.
Of course, delivery here is crucial. I don't want to anger him further by treating the accident like my lucky day. His dream wasn't to meet me, and I probably just made him late for something. I'll make sure the man isn't hurt, then offer to buy him a steak. Or if I signed for the extra insurance on the rental, offer to let him take it for a wild ride around town, not worrying about the bodywork. Everyone wants to scrape a rental car along a Jersey barrier doing forty.
With any luck we'd end up drinking Johnny Walker on his veranda, smacking golf balls onto the roofs of his neighbors. No one minds if Bill Murray hits a golf ball onto their roof. They get a thrill when they hear one hit, knowing its source. Very few people on the planet have this power. He'd tell me stories about hazy weekends at Hunter Thompson's farm or the time he joined the Mile-High club with a Lufthansa stewardess en route to film “Stripes”. And oh the laughs we would have doing donuts in Harold Ramis' lawn.
Now I'm no stalker. Nor will I subject myself to kidnapping and tying up his pool cleaner for an opportunity to sneak onto his estate in disguise. I'll instead allow the hands of destiny to work their magic. Of course trusting in fate to introduce me to Bill Murray runs the risk of frankly, running out of time. Let's face it Bill's not getting any younger. And with his hearty passions for life's pleasures, I personally don't see him pulling off a George Burns-style longevity gig.
A friend suggested I steer my efforts into landing a bit part in the next Wes Anderson picture, of which he has starred in all but one. This plan presents another level of complexity, but one thing it has going for it is that as Mr. Anderson is my favorite director, I wouldn't feel any guilt in using him so. Time to get cracking with some acting lessons. That or bribe his casting director. Either way it's just a matter of time. I can feel the stars at work already.
There's something unmanly about passing out in our culture. It's normally portrayed as the stuff of the meek or anemic, bringing to mind images of ladies in large feathered hats falling into someone's waiting arms when a mouse is spotted in the kitchen. But I'll be man enough to admit I do it all the time. It happened when I had my tattoo. It happened one New Year's eve as my broken scapula was being set in the emergency room. It happened when I had a grout splinter pulled from beneath my fingernail. To be fair that last one would have probably made anyone's reptile brain reach for the emergency brake. It even happened to me before surgery after my IV line was inserted. The thing that pissed me off in retrospect was that they actually revived me before administering the anesthesia.So of course if blood is being drawn, get ready to test your strength catching 210 pounds of my lifeless ass. I warn all my phlebotomists beforehand. I learned to do this after a panicked RN summoned an ambulance when the local she administered before removing a biopsy sent me into dreamland. Most shrug my warning off with a laugh and tell me I have nothing to fear. It's as if their skill has been called into question and now they need to show me just how talented their light touch can be. There is no one so prideful in their work as a phlebotomist.I can usually even make it through the entire procedure before I feel the dizzy warmth start to creep over me. When it happened yesterday we had completely finished the draw. More than a minute had passed and 'Ms. Pearl' had labeled the sample and filled out some form. I had even complimented her accent as something that brought to mind Ms. Cleo. But once I feel that harbinger of the certain unconsciousness to come, there's nothing more you can do but tell them to get ready to test their strength. Even still they always assure me, no honey you did great, everything is fine, just take a few deep breaths. How about a cookie? I make a few jokes and then comes the nothingness. Once my body senses even the slightest drop in blood pressure, the shutdown sequence begins and there is no turning back. It's like sugar in the gas tank.There is nothing and I mean nothing so utterly peaceful as when you're out like a light. And nothing so utterly confusing as when you're coming out of it. The first time I can remember taking an involuntary nap was in the fifth grade. We were outside for recess and I was standing against the wall. You stood against the wall of the schoolhouse and watched the other kids play if you had done something bad and had the misfortune of getting caught. That spring I seemed to spend a lot of time against the wall, though the reason is now lost to the ages. Two other kids that did the same were Mac and Alison. That afternoon Mac and Alison were having an argument about something, but for some reason I ended up getting stood between them. Probably to keep them from each other's throats. At some point Mac said something that must have really gotten the girl's goat, because the next thing I knew a melon-sized chunk of asphalt was hurtling our way. And then I found myself opening my eyes and wondering why I had been sleeping on the playground on such a lovely day. The letter of apology Alison had to write my mother was priceless. “Dear Mrs. Soyke, I'm very sorry I hit Eric in the face with a rock. I was aiming for Mac.” I hope my mother still has it.Yogis practice all their lives to shut out external stimuli. I can do it before you can say “pass the smelling salts”. I've been through the routine so many times now you'd think it would be routine. But waking up on a hard lab floor as panicked nurses slap wet paper towels over your face can get old.I'm tempted to conclude from my manifold pseudo-near-death experiences that there is no afterlife. I base this on the fact that when I'm out, there is nothing. No dreams, no beckoning lights with robed figures, no sound of harps or visions of myself floating through the ceiling. Just nothing. In the incident in the surgery room, the doc told me he'd never seen anything like it before, that my pressure had bottomed so low he was worried he was going to have to fetch the electric paddles. I think he just wanted to test the things.Over the years I have become convinced that the brain is just a machine. A computer. And you can track the progress of your booting sequence as each system comes back online. Slowly, very slowly, the first system to come back online oddly enough is intuition. This probably wasn't what you were expecting, but thinking back it's a common thread. You just sense that something is wrong. Like you've forgotten something as you're leaving for vacation times ten. Or if you've ever woken up first thing in the morning and had that feeling like you're not sure if you should feel joy or dread for the day to come, that's what I'm talking about. Then you decide on dread. There's an unmistakable feeling that something is terribly wrong with this world and it's starting to make you mad, but you can't put your finger on it. I guess this is the id beginning to stir.Next come your senses. Hearing is first, though speech recognition isn't up just yet. After the ringing begins, you'll soon be able to hear other noises that after 10 or 20 seconds you will recognize as human voices. They'll be very faint and you will wonder why you are hearing them. Eyesight comes up soon after. But now even though you can technically hear and see, you have no idea what on Earth you are hearing or seeing. Those faces hovering far, far above you are still just distant shapes that make no sense, just like their words. You can't but wonder if this what stroke victims feel. Or maybe insects. You have no idea what year it is, who you are, or why there are so many wet paper towels on you. This is when the weirdness begins.Did they say something about someone passing out? Sucks for that guy, as you can't remember ever feeling so relaxed before. Soon comes understanding. After catching a few more words you slowly gather you're the guy everyone's talking about. A few pieces of the puzzle click into place. The urgent need to remember something important is overpowering now. And then you have it, the riddle is solved. You had a blood test today. You are now lying on the floor. You're soaked with sweat. Dammit.Next online is speech, and the very first thing you will want to say is how perfectly fine you are. No need to worry ladies, I'm perfectly, perfectly fine. I do this for kicks sometimes. Of course other than your eyelids and vocal cords you still can't move a muscle, that doesn't come for another twenty helpless seconds or so.
I've never seen myself during or after one of these slips, but apparently you turn whiter than an Elk's Lodge in Utah. By the time they're lifting your head off the linoleum, you've already sweated more than if you had just spent the past hour on a stair master. In the Mohave. And even though the entire ordeal lasted maybe two minutes you would swear you had slept a solid two days.
When you've blacked out so many times that you begin to consider yourself a connoisseur, there comes the realization that our consciousness is quite probably just an illusion, cooked up by too many synapses and tiny squirts of dopamine. That even our most involved dreams and spiritual experiences are nothing more than an extremely confusing sequence of chemical reactions. Maybe Einstein was right and we are just finely crafted timepieces created by a watchmaker that decided on a permanent vacation once his shift was over, and we are all just ticking away until the tiniest of springs goes pop. Or maybe death is the beginning and those who have never passed that door have no idea of the kingdom to follow, etc. Either way, next time I'm giving blood laying on a couch.
BANGKOK- After a harrowing two month ordeal, The Snowed In Bunker is pleased to report that its star reporter and founder Eric Soyke was finally rescued from a North Korean prison camp earlier this week. The daring pre-dawn operation was the culmination of extensive preparation and training by none other than Roger Clinton, half brother to the former President.
Mr. Soyke is believed to have been spirited away by agents of the hermit kingdom due to a story he penned in July. Deemed to be guilty of publishing slander “insulting and demeaning” to the nation's leader Kim Jong Il, Mr. Soyke was sentenced to 13 years of hard labor.
Following weeks of intense diplomacy which would ultimately prove fruitless, the operation was given the go ahead to send in Clinton. State department officials deny reports that Mr. Clinton was considered expendable, but freely admitted Mr. Soyke was considered as such.
“Despite our concern for all US citizens and the outrageous behavior of the DPRK in carrying out his abduction” said State Department spokesman Arne Mularky, “frankly we've gone over the so-called 'reporting' being done at his website and didn't feel his return warranted a full effort on the part of this department.”
Clinton says he was first made aware of the situation at a dinner party with his sister in law, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton. Describing himself as a longtime fan of the site http://www.snowedinbunker.com/, (Roger) Clinton immediately volunteered for any potential rescue mission.
“Bill had already pretty much blew his wad with the TV chicks” said Clinton, referring to the ex-President's negotiated release of two reporters in August. “I wanted to make sure noone thought he was the only fella with any pull in our family.”
Despite the severity of the reported conditions he has been kept in since July, Mr. Soyke appeared in prime health at a news conference in Thailand. Nursing a number of hickies he refused to explain, Mr. Soyke sipped coffee as he warmed himself in a Mandarin Oriental Hotel bathrobe. Commenting on the bold action of Mr. Clinton, he told of the remarkable way in which his unlikely savior charmed border guards with a bottle of smuggled Chinese rice wine and jokes he had rehearsed in their native tongue.
“Roger was smooth at the Dandong river crossing. And who knew he was so good at Kung Fu? I owe him my life.”
Mr. Soyke grew visibly annoyed at the suggestion that he had been on sabbatical all this time, and that the entire escapade had been an elaborate hoax to cover a summer of sloth. He shortly afterward called an end to the meeting, thanking everyone involved in his repatriation. “Now if you'll excuse us gentlemen, Mr. Clinton and I have a mini bar to raid.”
SEOUL- Following news that North Korea's leader Kim Jong Il has pancreatic cancer, more reports are beginning to make their way out of the hermit kingdom. Disputed eyewitness reports and hearsay describing the declining state of the “Dear Leader's” health have trickled out over the past two years, but the recent admission that the dictator indeed has cancer seems to have opened a floodgate of news.
Perhaps sensing a change in leadership being imminent, once loyal associates of Kim Jong Il have been fleeing the nation in droves, fearful they will not be included in the new power dynamic. Their stories have been startling. Though it is still impossible to verify their veracity, a number of analysts agree the tales are eerily similar to earlier reports floated by defectors and North Korea experts.
In addition to his weekly Brazilian waxing, the dictator apparently enjoys a daily enema administered by the current winner of the country's annual beauty contest. Contestants know that this along will be their only duty, yet ruthlessly vie for the title for the extra daily allotment of rice.
Another favorite ritual was bathing in the breast milk of nubile young mothers, performed ritually each morning in the presence of his ministers and close associates. Teams of “Divine milkmaids” are constantly milking the countryside dry as they search for enough donors to fill the 25 gallon tub he soaks in between breakfast and lunch. For years Kim Jong Il insisted the regiment was beneficial to his constitution, all the while swilling copious quantities of Johnny Walker Blue and eating pound after pound of imported lobster.
Anyone he felt had been disloyal or otherwise displeasing to him could face the hideous prospect of being Kim Jong Il's “chauffeur”. The victim would be forced to provide day-long piggy back rides in the nude for the diminutive leader, who would often ride wearing nothing but high heels which he would dig into the sides of his hapless “horse”, a blood red leather thong, and a riding crop which he wielded mercilessly. One victim that later escaped over the Chinese border still has vicious welts along his backside, along with fingernail marks in his shoulders from where he was clawed for hours as he jogged the streets of Pyongyang beneath his cruel jockey.
But the wild, curious ways of Kim Jong Il may be coming to an end soon. According to one former General now living in hiding in the South, the dictator has been undergoing regular chemotherapy treatments.
“He trusted me”, said the officer. “Every other Tuesday he would cry when he was told it was time for his medicine. Sometimes he would shoot at the feet of his nurses with a pistol. The Colt .45 is his favorite. But I would take his hand and tell him everything would be alright. Sometimes I would sing him show tunes to calm him. Afterward I would drive him home to his castle, dress him in his favorite pajamas and put on a DVD. Usually he chose Magnum P.I.”
Light has also been shed upon a rumored DPRK military biological facility known only as “Unit 260”. The secretive building housing the lab was first identified by satellites early last year and initial fears were that it was working on the weaponization of biological agents. But in a debriefing with the South Korean military, an oncologist turned defector reported the true purpose of the facility is to attempt to develop technology in an effort to restore the leader's beloved buffant hairstyle. Numerous citizen “volunteers” have undergone gruesome follicle experiments, often leaving their hair hideously tasteless and clown-like.
This makes sense, says a senior government official in Seoul speaking on condition of anonymity, given the recently smuggled photograph of Kim's balding, distraught figure. “Ravaged by chemotherapy treatments, diabetes, and a lifetime of poor health choices, his once proud mane has been reduced to a few scraggly hairs even Charlie Brown would be ashamed of.”
The depths of the dictator's ill health may be sinking even further than once thought. A spokesman for Italian fashion maker Gucci announced it had been approached by a shell business believed to surreptitiously acquire luxuries for the privileged ruler. Its request? Customized gold lamé adult diapers. “Though we were never told who they were for, the buyer suggested that the intended recipient was a powerful, proud man, and the use of flecks of real gold in the fabric was hoped would mitigate his humiliation.”
North Korean state media rejects rumors that the leader is incontinent, sternly warning that making such allegations its Dear Leader has been reduced to a piddling old man would be “tantamount to an act of war”.
LOS ANGELES- Citing irreconcilable differences, singer/songwriter George Thorogood's liver has applied for a legal separation from its host of 59 years.
