So I obviously have no insight to the goings on in the conclave of cardinals other than what everyone else already knows: That no one was elected pope on the first try. Yet, I can’t help but have a sense of what’s going on inside the Sistene Chapel ….
Cardinal 1 [*finishing counting votes*]: All right—it looks like we don’t have a winner here. We’re going to have to burn these and do it again.
All cardinals: Groooooaaaannnn.
Cardinal 2: So anybody else hungry? Should we send out for some food?
Cardinal 3: Sounds great—just no Italian.
Cardinal 2: Agreed. How about some Chinese?
Cardinal 4: No—too much MSG. Not good for my high-blood pressure.
Cardinal 5: How about some Thai?
Cardinal 6: Mexican?
Cardinal 7: Both of those are too spicy. Don’t want any rumbling in the cloisters, if you know what I mean.
Cardinal 2: We could go with some Subway—everyone could order their own.
Cardinal 8: Sandwiches are so … common. Look around—a foot-long BLT would clash with the opulence.
Cardinal 3: True.
Cardinal 6: Spanish?
Cardinal 7: Again, another way of saying too spicy.
Cardinal 3: Shawarma?
Cardinal 6: Do we look like the blessed Avengers?
Cardinal 2: Well, we do wear bright robes . . .
Cardinal 4 [*long sigh*]: My patience is waning, as is my blood sugar. Can we get something decent to eat here before Revelations comes about?
Still, I wish that certain people were still here to help … in fact, here are
Five Dead Brilliant People Whose Wit We Still Need
1. Mark Twain
Can you imagine how the man who said, “Suppose you were an idiot, and suppose you were a member of Congress; but I repeat myself,” and, “It could probably be shown by facts and figures that there is no distinctly native criminal class except Congress,” would be tearing up our political system right now? Holy leaping frog of Calaveras County! Considering the wonderfully nasty edge he displayed with comments like, “I didn’t attend the funeral, but I sent a nice letter saying I approved of it,” ol’ Samuel Clemens—possibly our first insult comedian—would be right up there in the chorus with the likes of Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert.
2. Dorothy Parker
If you’re not familiar with this brilliant author, poet, critic and charter member of the Algonquin Round Table, let’s just say she was a little less vicious than most feeding sharks. Here are a few of her gems: “If all the girls who attended the Yale prom were laid end to end, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised;” “If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to;” and “Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clean to the bone.” Without a doubt, she’d be the perfect blogger and media critic, considering she said of one book, “This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force.” Could only imagine how she would eviscerate Twilight or 50 Shades of Grey.
3. Tallulah Bankhead
Wikipedia describes her as “an American actress of the stage and screen, talk-show host and bonne vivante.” Nowadays you might go with “a hot mess”—think of Charlie Sheen without all the …. well, actually, think Charlie Sheen, period. She was brassy, bawdy and a boozer. Some quotes: “I’m as pure as the driven slush;” “Cocaine isn’t habit forming. I should know—I’ve been using it for years;” “My father warned me about men and booze, but he never mentioned a word about women and cocaine;” and, channeling her inner warlock, “Nobody can be exactly like me. Sometimes even I have trouble doing it.” I could see her with her own one-woman show, talking about her life and destroying all comers.
4. Groucho Marx
In addition to literally being a comedy icon, the leader of the Marx Brothers was the very definition of quick-witted. I’ve seen various interviews with him later in his life, and I can’t get over how fast and sharp he was. A few great comments: “I find television very educational. Every time someone switches it on I go into another room and read a good book;” “No one is completely unhappy at the failure of his best friend;” “Here’s to our wives and girlfriends… may they never meet!” and “I don’t want to belong to any club that would have me as a member.” His lightning wit was an asset when he hosted “You Bet Your Life,” which would make him the perfect talk show host today.
5. Erma Bombeck
She may have seemed like a frustrated housewife, spinning stories laced with gentle humor, but there was a sharp undertone in her books and columns. “I haven’t trusted polls since I read that 62% of women had affairs during their lunch hour. I’ve never met a woman in my life who would give up lunch for sex;” “Never have more children than you have car windows;” “When your mother asks, ‘Do you want a piece of advice?’ it is a mere formality. It doesn’t matter if you answer yes or no. You’re going to get it anyway.” In addition to continuing writing books and columns, I wouldn’t be surprised if she had her own TV show like Dave Barry did. Of course, they’d have to go with the title of one of her most famous books: “The Grass is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank.” I’d watch that!
This week, we have JERKS of the week, and when you discover why they are being so (dis)honored, I think you’ll agree with me that they are more than worthy of sharing the “distinction.”
Meet husband and wife JERKS OF THE WEEK—
GREGORY AND LaQURON LACY
“Okay, that looks like a pair of mugshots,” you might be saying to yourself. “That can’t be good.” And you would be right.
The Lacys were arrested for allegedly running “an exotic strip club” in their Perris, California home, complete with a stage, stripper pole and private “erotic zone.” Although illegal and generally frowned upon by more prudish neighbors, that isn’t exactly jerk of the week material.
Investigators found seven adopted children, all under 11 years old, living there and at least five ecstasy pills sitting on the kitchen counter, the documents said.
According to the documents, the children told officers that LaQuron Lacy, 43, would hit them with “fists, belts, hangers and metal objects, which caused them traumatic injuries and scarring,” and that she “often refused to feed them and often locked them in their bedrooms.”
The children told officers they witnessed late-night strip club parties that lasted until the early morning, the documents said.
Four of the seven children “described being hit … with belts and a metal cane” by 60-year-old Gregory Lacy, and a 6-year-old child said he threatened them with a Taser, according to the documents.
A 7-year-old girl also told officers Gregory Lacy had recently sexually assaulted her on a bathroom floor, according to the documents, an act apparently witnessed by some of the other children.
Sometimes, “JERK OF THE WEEK” isn’t strong enough a term for someone. I’d very passionately argue that this would definitely be one of those times.
I’ve often stated I understand how some sorts of child abuse can happen—I’ve been occasionally driven to absolute frustration and anger with my kids, but then I have that little thing that goes off in my brain that says, “Okay, calm down. They’re just kids. You love them, they love you . . . big deep breaths . . . let it goooooo . . . .” But then there are some times and some stories—like this—that I can’t even picture how someone could get to the point where they would treat another person, let alone innocent children, in such a fashion. I’d say it’s unreal, but a glance at the full dockets of juvenile and family courts tell me that it’s all too real.
As many of you know, I don’t believe in God, which means heaven and hell aren’t concepts I buy into, either. Thus, I hope that there’s some sort of special retribution meted out on these two subhuman creatures in this life, maybe something in front of prison cameras so we can all watch, and then mentally slowly tuck a buck in the waistband of the inmates who provide justice. Not that it’ll help those poor kids . . .
This is one of those times that after I read the story, I just sort of went over, hugged my kids and told myself that even though I sometimes make mistakes as a parent, things are generally pretty damned good in my life.
Really, I’m not sure that I have anything else to say that isn’t already obvious. Buy my book, thanks.
As I’ve said numerous times while pimping out my book, there is all flavor of jerk out there, including lovable. And there may be no better example of this than legendary showman, P.T. Barnum.
Barnum is known as “Prince of Humbug,” but I’m not sure everyone knows what that the means any more. “Humbug,” as Barnum referred to it, was excessive hype or publicity, often related to a hoax or in jest.
When most hear the term nowadays, they tend to think of Ebenezer Scrooge and his famous line, “Bah, humbug!”—Scrooge was suggesting that Christmas was overhyped. (Way ahead of his time, obviously.) But somewhere along the line, the word has changed meaning, gaining a more negative connotation. When used now, it seemingly suggests that rather than trafficking in humbug, someone is a humbug, i.e., that they are Scrooge-like in their behavior. “Don’t be a humbug,” as in “Don’t be a grouch about Christmas.”
Anyway, Barnum’s more “pure” version of humbug revolved around hype, and his personal view on it was that any amount of publicity—be it truthful or not—was okay, as long as those being hyped received some sort of value or entertainment in the end, even if it wasn’t exactly what was promised.
Barnum lived one of the most interesting and well-documented lives in American history—he wrote his autobiography in 1855 and continually updated it in subsequent printings—so I had *a lot* of material to consider for his chapter. One thing I didn’t have space to include was his relationship with his grandfather.
In his memoirs, he wrote of his grandfather, saying: “My grandfather would go farther, wait longer, work harder, and contrive deeper, to carry out a practical joke, than for anything else under heaven.”
Here’s an excerpt from Barnum’s autobiography to show how that maybe it was genetics that led him to become a lovable jerk.
Previous to my visit to New York, I think it was in 1820, when I was ten years of age, I made my first expedition to my landed property, “ Ivy Island.” From the time when I was four years old I was continually hearing of this ” property.“ My grandfather always spoke of me (in my presence) to the neighbors and to strangers as the richest child in town, since I owned the whole of ”Ivy Island,” one of the most valuable farms in the State. My father and mother frequently reminded me of my wealth and hoped I would do something for the family when I attained my majority. The neighbors professed to fear that I might refuse to play with their children because I had inherited so large a property.
These constant allusions, for several years, to “Ivy Island ” excited at once my pride and my curiosity and stimulated me to implore my father’s permission to visit my property. At last, he promised I should do so in a few days, as we should be getting some hay near “Ivy Island.” The wished for day arrived and my father told me that as we were to mow an adjoining meadow, I might visit my property in company with the hired man during the “nooning.” My grandfather reminded me that it was to his bounty I was indebted for this wealth, and that had not my name been Phineas I might never have been proprietor of “Ivy Island.” To this my mother added :
“Now, Taylor, don’t become so excited when you see your property as to let your joy make you sick, for remember, rich as you are, that it will be eleven years before you can come into possession of your fortune.”
She added much more good advice, to all of which I promised to be calm and reasonable and not to allow my pride to prevent me from speaking to my brothers and sisters when I returned home.
When we arrived at the meadow, which was in that part of the “Plum Trees” known as “East Swamp,” I asked my father where “Ivy Island” was.
“Yonder, at the north end of this meadow, where you see those beautiful trees rising in the distance.”
All the forenoon I turned grass as fast as two men could cut it, and after a hasty repast at noon, one of our hired men, a good-natured Irishman, named Edmund, took an axe on his shoulder and announced that he was ready to accompany me to “Ivy Island.” We started, and as we approached the north end of the meadow we found the ground swampy and wet and were soon obliged to leap from bog to bog on our route. A mis-step brought me up to my middle in water, and to add to the dilemma a swarm of hornets attacked me. Attaining the altitude of another bog I was cheered by the assurance that there was only a quarter of a mile of this kind of travel to the edge of my property. I waded on. In about fifteen minutes more, after floundering through the morass, I found myself half-drowned, hornet-stung, mud-covered, and out of breath, on comparatively dry land.
“Never mind, my boy,” said Edmund, “ we have only to cross this little creek, and ye’ll be upon your own valuable property.”
We were on the margin of a stream, the banks of which were thickly covered with alders. I now discovered the use of Edmund’s axe, for he felled a small oak to form a temporary bridge to my “Island” property. Crossing over, I proceeded to the center of my domain. I saw nothing but a few stunted ivies and straggling trees. The truth flashed upon me. I had been the laughing-stock of the family and neighborhood for years. My valuable “Ivy Island” was an almost inaccessible, worthless bit of barren land, and while I stood deploring my sudden downfall, a huge black snake (one of my tenants) approached me with upraised head. I gave one shriek and rushed for the bridge.
This was my first and last visit to “Ivy Island.” My father asked me “How I liked my property ?” and I responded that I would sell it pretty cheap.
Good to know that even the Prince of the Humbug had one put over on him on occasion.
Like many of you, I’ve been watching the Olympic games this week. I’ve been at turns moved and amazed by the athletic performances that I’ve witnessed.
And sickened on occasion.
I can’t embed this boxing clip from earlier this week, but it’s amazing—in it, Japan’s Satoshi Shimizu beats the bejeebus out of Azerbaijan’s Magomed Abdulhamidov in the final round of their match, repeatedly knocking his opponent down, which in Olympic boxing, should end the bout. For reasons that seem a-whole-lot-less-than-the-Olympic ideal, the referee allows the contest to continue, repeatedly giving Abdulhamidov an opportunity to get back up, and then, despite the whipping, the judges award the match to the guy who spent the majority of the time on the canvas. The announcers throughout it are particularly entertaining as their disbelief grows then finally erupts into outright disdain for the entire sport by the end. Classic.
In retrospect, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised—I mean, if you can’t cheat at the Olympics with only about A BILLION people watching, then why even bother, right? Sheesh.
Still though, I do enjoy the Olympics, even if it is a bit over the top at times. The opening ceremonies were not exactly an exercise in restraint, and the fawning TV coverage of every move Team USA—did you know as of Sunday, China actually had the most gold medals and more medals than the U.S. overall? Couldn’t tell by NBC, that’s for sure. It makes almost gets you to the point where you start rooting for other countries, especially in sports like basketball where American players like to tell the world how great they are even before the first game is played. Hard to embrace that.
In fact, some of the sports are hard for me to embrace. You can’t convince me that “women’s” gymnastics are anything other than sanctioned child abuse. As I posted on Facebook the other day, I just can’t see how training that hard and for so many hours at such a young age doesn’t result in long-term issues, both psychological and physical. Plus, the pressure they put these kids under, and for what? “I got a shiny piece of gold that says I was better than everyone else at a skill that’s not really all that important for a few minutes.” Then if they don’t win the gold—which the majority of them just can’t—will they spend the rest of their lives thinking about how their childhoods were wasted? Just seems cruel.
In addition to gymnastics, I’m not a big fan of competitive diving, synchronized swimming, that thing with the hula hoops and streamers—any of the events that involve judging as opposed to contests that are decided objectively by whomever runs the fastest, jumps the highest, throws something heavy the farthest or the team who scores the most points. Now I’m not saying you have to purge those subjective events completely from the games; rules modification is certainly an option.
For instance, put all the gymnasts on a giant set of parallel bars at the same time, and whomever is left hanging on at the end wins the gold. I’m thinking instead of synchronized swimming, there could be something a little closer to an aquatic battle royal, where everyone gets in the pool at once, and then try to throw each other out until there’s one left floating, either face up or down. A diving champion could be determined by either raising the board higher and higher and seeing who can survive, although I wouldn’t be opposed to something like this—
Now that deserves a medal!
Recently, Charley Monagan, the editor-in-chief of Connecticut Magazine and the man who is directly responsible for my professional writing career—and indirectly, who you can blame for what you read here—has written about a few forgotten Olympic competitions, including the tug-of-war and the plunge. Good stuff.
I think there should be some new events added. For example:
Competitive eating – Sure, that Kobayashi guy might be a shoo-in for a gold, but the U.S. can counter with Joey Chestnut, although there may be someone lurking in Mississippi waiting to take a bite of biggest American appetite.
Competitive drinking – This might be more of an interesting contest as you would think that certain countries rally around stereotypical beverages—Germany, Canada and Ireland enjoy various warm and cold beers; Mexico parties with tequila; Japan goes for sake; Russia loves its vodka; the U.S. drinks whatever can be made into jello shots; etc. But according to the World Health Organization, the gold medal winner in this contest might come from the tiny nation of Moldova, which I’m pretty sure is either a made-up place from a Seinfeld episode or lorded over by Dr. Doom.
“Ninja Warrior”/”Wipeout” – Any sort of obstacle course that requires either incredible physical strength, agility and endurance to scale Mount Midoriyama like “Ninja Warrior” or simply has the crazed hazards like human catapults in “Wipeout” would be a true challenge. It’d also be ratings platinum! Platinum, I tells ya! Speaking of …
Creating reality TV shows – Seriously, there is NO country on the planet that makes more of these than the U.S., with the possible exception of Japan. I’m pretty they’re actually some sort of sophisticated TV virus or bacteria that’s reproducing and only when it’s too late it’s overwhelmed us will we realize that there was an electronic pandemic.
Handfishin’ – Take one of them thar Oly-im-pic pools, a-fill it with catfish, then let a few good ol’ boys get in and see how many of them critters they can pull out in a minute or two. I would guarantee the U.S. sweeps this, but there’s a chance that some of the poorest countries in the world might be familiar with the concept for foraging for food without any sort of equipment. (Lookin’ at you Best Korea.)
Grasscutting – Only because all those years while growing up when I was mowing lawns at our various homes, I fantasized about it being a competition to get me through the tedium of it. “Here he comes, the kid from Milford, he’s setting a world-record time … look at the edges … the lines … this kid’s a natural like this sport has never seen before. He is a true champion, through and through …”
Yeaaahhh … that, and this post, is about as close as I’m getting to “the Olympic ideal.”
Okay, many of you have probably already seen this, but if not …
I actually got a bit misty the first time I saw this the other day. Like many of you, I grew up on “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood,” and consequently considered Mr. Rogers my friend—hey, he told me that he liked me just the way I was every time he saw me! So really, he’s also to blame for the way I turned out, when you think about it.
It’s funny. I always heard he was a devout Christian, but the way Fred Rogers actually lived his life puts to shame those who now claim to love baby Jeebus—you know, the ones like Westboro Batpist Church and others who hate homosexuals (Hey, North Carolina and other states, where’s the legislation to ban divorce if marriage is so sacred?). Or the ones who continue to subjugate women and protect child molesters in the name of their god.
The heck with Christians—can we get more Neighbors?
Seriously, so much time and energy and money has been devoted to venerating and patterning ourselves after characters whose deeds and words are open to debate, from Jeebus to Yahweh to Mohammad to Buddha to Zeus, why can’t we get behind someone who actually walked the walk and talked the talk, often to a snappy melody. Fred Rogers personified everything good and decent in the world, and should be a role model to whom we all aspire.
Of course, we’ll have to rectify the whole “You are special” mantra that he espoused. That doesn’t exactly jibe with everything I believe, but I’m down with the general idea of treating your neighbor like you want to be treated. The wardrobe might not exactly be something I’d be on board with, either; cardigans and loafers are too d-bag hipster for me. I can also do without all the puppets—Lady Elaine sort of freaked me out, but not because she was clearly the first lesbian puppet on TV, but because I thought she went a bit too heavy on the rouge. (Ladies pinch, whores paint!)
And is it me, or does X the Owl remind anyone else of Jamie Hyneman from “Mythbusters”?
Just sayin’.
Anyway, I still want a bitchin’ toy trolley that runs throughout my house! I’m thinking from the bedroom to the kitchen would be a good route, especially for midnight snacks. The magic picture frame was pretty cool, although we now call it “the intrawebz.”
Then again, there was Mr. McFeeley … …. uh … a lot of … stuff … there … to …
… Must resist … no “speedy delivery” jokes about his package … grrrr…. DANG!
Okay, clearly, I can’t help myself from mocking something as pure and good as Fred Rogers and the childhood utopia he created for me. Not that I actually thought I had a chance of being anything remotely decent like he was, but you know, I could try, right? Or at least *make believe* I could be.
Now that I think about it, this blog is like my own Land of Make Believe. Hmmm … and you all are my special neighbors. Oh sure, I shake my fist at the clouds and try to chase a few of you off my lawn, but maybe there is hope for me, after all.
How’s this: “An imagination in every brain, a friend in every neighborhood and a food-toting trolley in every house.” I think Mr. Rogers would let this dream grow in his garden.
