No Custom Pies!

The customer shuffles slowly up to the counter with his hands in his pockets and a grimace of intense concentration on his face. Never taking his eyes off the menu just above Tony's head he says, "Howyadoin'?"
"What can I get ya?" Tony says rubbing his hairy hands together in the slightly flickering fluorescent light of the pizza shop. "Ummmm, gimme a large Tony Special", shrugging his shoulders like there was nothing else he could order.
"You got it." says Tony punching the dough with the well rehearsed movements of a prize fighter. "Actually, throw a few pineapples on that" the customer says as an after thought. "Tony special don't come with pineapple." Tony says looking at the customer as if he were a grade school student.
"Yeah, yeah, just throw a few on for me, I like a pineapple with my jalapenos." He began to take a large stack of napkins from the metal tin on the greasy table behind him.
"No custom pies" Tony says dropping the dough into the light dusting of flour on the counter. "What?"
"No custom pies, I said. You want pineapples get a Hawaiian deluxe, or else no pineapples." Tony now pointing up to the menu without breaking eye contact.
"Whoa, take it easy, I'm not askin' for a custom pie, I'm just askin' if you can take a few pineapples and throw 'em on there."
"Look, you take a handful of pineapples throw 'em on a Tony Special, it aint a Tony Special no more, it's a You special, and since You don't make pies here you don't get to make a special, only I do, you know why? Because I'm Tony, and this is my place, that's why." He begins pounding the dough again shaking his head in disgust.
"So what's the big deal?"
"The big deal is this, I make your pie YOUR way then everybody's gonna want that. It will be in the New York Post, on NY 1, John Stewart on the Daily Show will be telling the whole city 'Hey, go to Tony's! He don't make is own pies, he's just some fuckin' idiot standing behind a counter waiting to be told how to make a pie by every Starbucks drinkin' fatchalagots in the city!' I'll be a clown, a laughin' stock, I'll lose my business, my wife! I got three kids in school!" Tony began to become dizzy and had to steady himself on the counter. He was sweating profusely and the large veins in his neck were pounding.
"Do you know how stupid that sounds, Tony?" the customer says, smacking himself in the forehead, sending long strands of greasy hair into his eyes.
"No, no I don't! If I DID know how stupid it sounded, I wouldn't have said it, now would I?" Tony was beginning to regain his composure.
"Well, you understand how stupid it is now dontchya?"
"Yeah, I understand it NOW, but that's only because you told me."
The customer now looking at Tony with a confusion in his eyes that said "I don't know where this conversation is going".
"Hey" Tony said, "I know a lot of things, I know that light is both a particle and a wave, I know that the Earth day is increasing by .oo18 seconds a century because the moon is drifting away at a rate of 3.8 centimeters a year, I know that 142857 is a cyclic number, i.e., its digits are rotated around when multiplied by any number from 1 to 6. Like this:

142857 × 1 =  142857 
142857 × 5 = 7 14285
142857 × 4 = 57 1428
142857 × 6 = 857 142
142857 × 2 = 2857 14
142857 × 3 = 42857 1

But just because I know that shit don't mean I could have come up with it myself, alright.
Now, I ain't gonna tell you again, NO CUSTOM PIES! Got it?"
"Yeah Yeah, alright keep your fuckin' pineapples, I'm going to Luigi's!"
the customer says waving Tony off and walking out.
"Alright, say hi to your mom for me, Chris." Tony says going back to punching his dough.
"Yeah, yeah...ok Tony, see ya."

The Amazing Mr. Kitley: The Final Chapter

Walter slowly opened the door to Mr. Kitley's room.
"Misstah Kitley?" He whispered in a kind and slightly condescending voice. "Mr. Kitley, you in there suhh?"
"Yes Walter, I'm here, over by the bed." A weak voice drifted out from the stale air.
Walter poked his head through the door, one hand on the door knob the other on the handle of a twelve inch, razor sharp knife he picked up in the kitchen.
"OH! There you is Mr. Kitley! How you feelin' now? All good? Ready to go to the zoo? Ready to go see that panda bear that's there waitin fo' us?"
"Yes...yes Walter, I'm ready to see the panda bear." Kitley resigned.
"Oh! Missstah Kitley! That's great, that's just wonderful news! I'm just so happy!" Walter strode into the room beaming, the knife still clearly out of sight, pressed up against the back of his white jacket.
"Alright Mr. Kitley, let's get you dressed!" Walter walked over to the wardrobe, threw the doors open with one hand. He examined the the strange collection of hanging garments and pondered for a moment what the panda bear might respond to the best. Perhaps something casual...an ascot and a pair of chinos? Or maybe some formal attire, something black and white.
"So what should we go with Mr. Kitley, something casual or something more appropriate for this momentous occasion?" Walter swung his head around with a huge smile and lightly closed eyes. He was met with a heavy brass paper weight across the chin. A hot white flash of pain and shock shot through Walter's face and settled in the back of his head. His legs buckled, and he dropped his knife. It slid across the floor and under Kitley's bed. His face hit the highly polished floor and three teeth, roots and all, bounced out across the floor leaving little tippy toes of blood in their trail.
Walter, stunned, tried to get to his feet, but in a moment Kitley was on top of him with both of his white bony hands wrapped around his throat. Kitley struggled with all of his strength to keep a hold. Walter, his eyes bulging reached blindly under the bed for the knife. Patting his hand around he finally felt the handle, grabbed it and smashed Kitley across the temple. Kitley collapsed and rolled to one side, instantly Walter, a much younger man, was on top of him, pressing the cold blade to his neck. Kitley's paper thin skin crinkled and began to give way to the blade.
"Don't make me do this Mr. Kitley! I don't wanna take your head off, but I will!"
Just as Kitley was losing the struggle the house cat, Theodora, entered the room and strode up to the two men. Her head was cocked to one side and she seemed to understand the contest afoot. Their six eyes locked. The two men were transfixed. Slowly the pressure of the blade began to give way and the both bodies began to relax. Walter started to whisper "Ninteen...sixty-two..." Then Mr. Kitley, "Forty-six...twelve...eighteen..."
The two men turned to each other and started to laugh. Theodora ran out of the room just as Katelyn Kitley appeared. "What on Earth is going on here?" She said, looking at the two men on the floor. "Oh, ummm, nothing dear, I...um...fell and Walter was helping me up."
"Yes, uh...yeeesss missss Katelyn I was helping your father up and then I done fell over too! How 'bout that!?" Katelyn shrugged in annoyance and left the room calling for Theodora. Walter turned to Mr. Kitley, "We's gonna be rich Mr. Kitley, you know dat!?"
"I am rich, Walter, I am rich."


The End

Static

The only meaningful thing that you get out of television is the sentence you hear the moment before you turn it off. Because that bit, that kernel of knowledge, that fragment of an idea will cause your mind to work on its own. The television is a hijacker. It grabs hold of your mind like a wrestler. It causes it to spin and think but won't let you reflect. A mind thinking without reflection is an idle motor, burning up precious fossil fuels without going anywhere. The spinning mind is in a state of flux, malleable, susceptible, weak and exposed. Fertile. Any idea can be implanted and its evolution controlled. When the vile contraption is switched off you go spinning off on your own, reflecting, examining, you have time to digest instead of constantly eating...shit.

Calculus, Motherf@$#er!

Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz squinted his eyes in the low candle light of his small study. The calculations on his parchment were complete. He tossed his quill triumphantly into its well and stood tall amongst his papers. "I have invented calculus!" He exclaimed to the heavens. "I am a genius!"
At that exact moment a loud crash came upon his chamber door. Then again, and again. Finally the door burst forth revealing a shining white, high heeled shoe and stocking clad leg.
"What the fuck did you just say, bitch!?"
Sir Isaac Newton stood in the doorway, a halo of white powder drifting around his wig and heavily made up face.
"I SAID I just invented Calculus" Leibniz gestured to his many papers, "And who you callin' Bitch, Bitch?"
"I'm callin' you bitch, punk! I invented calculus! And you're gonna need some mad differentials to calculate how infinitesimal your nuts are gonna be when I'm done stompin' on 'em!" Newton began rolling up his frilly sleeves and cracking his knuckles.
"Try it fool, and I'll smack that sissy-ass powdered wig straight of yo' head!" Said Leibniz brushing back his thick black curls.
"At least my wig don't look like some busted-ass jerry curl!"
"JERRY CURL?!" Leibniz grabbed a shining, curved blade that sat on his desk.
"Ahh Ahhh Ahhh." Newton said wagging his finger back and forth as he lifted up the lacy hem of his waistcoat to reveal the highly polished rosewood handle of a single shot, front loading pistol. He cocked his head to the side, screwed up his face and said "Oh, what? Not so big now, huh. C'mon big man, come at me your blade, I dare ya."
Leibniz dropped his knife leaving it standing in the floor with a twang. "We'll see what the Royal Society has to say about this, Newton."
"Yeah, we'll see." Said Newton as he slowly walked out of the room without breaking eye contact.

Read more about this and other historical events at your local library. For more on the invention of Calculus go to:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calculus

The Amazing Mr. Kitley: Part Two

Mr. Kitley rang his bell furiously, foam shooting from the corners of his mouth. Katelyn ran into the room with one hand on her heart the other in the air.
"What is it Father!? What's wrong!?"
Kitley began jabbering furiously while still ringing the bell. The foamy spit and words mingling together into a lost concoction of madness.
"Father, Father!" Katelyn yelled as she grabbed the bell from his shaking hand. "In the good lord's name what's going on here?"
Walter continued to make the bed ignoring the scene completely.
"It's...IIItttt's Walter! It's Walter, he's gone mad!"
"Mad?"
"Yes, yes, yes he is going to cut my head off show it to a telepathic panda bear and make millions, millions I tell you! Then he is going to feed my face to the lions! He told me all about it just a moment ago!"
"Father! what the hell are you talking about! Walter?"
"Can we speak outside for a moment Ms. Katelyn?" Walter said calmly with a slight peppering of concern.
"Yes, Walter" Katelyn said, a little shaken, the pounding of her heart clearly visible in supple pressure of her cleavage.
"NO! No, don't leave me alone Katelyn!" Kitley pleaded.
"It's fine Father, I'll be right outside the door. Please Walter, come this way."
"Yessum" said Walter leaving the bed undone.
The two made there way out of the room, first Katelyn then Walter. As Walter closed the door he glared back at Kitley with a demonic little smile then, click, the door was closed.
"What is going on, Walter? Is he ok?"
"Well Ms. Katelyn..." Walter's voice became low and serious, he took her by the hand and cast his eyes to the ground.
"He has good days, and he has some bad days too, today, ummmm might be one of them bad days."
"OH Walter!" Ms. Katelyn began to cry and collapsed into Walters caring arms.
"It's OK, it's Ok, child. He gonna be alright, I'll see him through this. We's gonna go to the zoo today and see his favorite panda bear, get us some fresh air it's gonna be alllllllriiiiight."
"But, but, didn't he say he was afraid of the panda bear?"
"You just leave everything to me Ms. Katelyn, he gonna right as rain by tomarrah, I promise you that."
"Ok Walter, see to it, please. I have to go lay down now, it's time for my medicine."
"Yes, yes Ms. Katelyn you have yourself a good rest."
"Thank you, Walter."
Katelyn made her unsteady trek up the long staircase for her long medicinal nap. Walter watched her drift up the stairs like a ghost and knew the minute she was in her her room she would have the door locked, medicine cooked and shot. She would be out for hours. Mr. Kitley was easy prey.

Tune in next week for the shocking conclusion!

The Amazing Mr. Kitley

"'Monin' Mr. Kitley! Howdya sleep lass night suhh?
"Fine Walter fine! Now where is my paper!" Mr. Kitley growled.
"Right here suhh, right here fo' ya.", Walter said in a slow soothing voice as he snapped the Daily Examiner open with one hand and presented it to Mr. Kitley.
"Urrrmmmmmm" he replied, taking the paper as Walter adjusted the blanket over his withered and useless legs.
"Stop that, Walter! I'm fine."
"Now, now...don't be salty, Mr. Kitley! We's goin' the zoo today, and we knows how much you like the zoo.", said Walter continuing to tuck the blanket between Kitley and the side of his wicker wheelchair.
"Zoo! I think not, Walter! I'm an 85 year old man, I'm not going to any zoo."
"What now?" Walter plastered an over exaggerated look of shock onto his smooth brown face which slowly melted into it's usual pleasant grin. "Remember what happened last week Mr. Kitley? We went to that zoo, and we went up to that panda bear, and you remember what happend?"
"No I don't, Walter." Kitley said mindlessly paging through the paper.
"He looked right atcha! Didn't he?"
"He was looking at everyone, Walter, what else is he going to do, he's in a goddamn zoo for christsake!"
"But he didn't smile at everybody, did he? No suhh, just you!"
"What the hell are you talking about, Walter? I'm staying right here today!"
Walter's face froze, stuck in a grin so well rehearsed that it took no effort at all to maintain. But his eyes frosted over with a cool, calculating rage.
"You goin' to that fuckin' zoo Mr. Kitley if I have to roll your crippled ass there myself."
"What did you say to me!" Kitley's trembling face flushed pink, then red, then purple."
"I said you gonna see that panda bear, Mr. Kitley, whether you like it or not."
"Bu..but why?"
"Because last week when that panda bear looked at you and smiled..." Walter began to drift off, looking out the window and stepping away from Mr. Kitley's chair. "I could hear what he was thinkin', and the numbers six-three-eight-five-two popped right into my head, yeeees ssssuuuuuhhh clear as day, clear as a bell. And I played them numbers and won $1200 dollars cash money, just like that." Walter turned from the window to Mr. Kitley and knelt down to eye level, "And this time, I'm gonna win a million dollars, a million of them motherfuckin' dollars, and bitch, you gonna be servin' me that Cream of Kentucky Whiskey, ummmm hummmm." Walter bolted up and started making the bed.
"Well, suppose I won't go, Walter, what then"
"Then I cut you motherfuckin' head off, put it in a sack, bring it down to that panda bear, get them numbers and toss that shriveled-ass pink face of yours in the lions den. Whatchoo think ahh dat!"
Kitley grabbed the large bell from the breakfast table and began ringing it wildly.
"I'm telling Katlyn EVERYTHING!!" He yelled, frothing at the mouth.
"Go ahead." said Walter still doing up the bed.

Tune in next week for the shocking conclusion!

Dehab

Let's end the war on drugs! Let's ease the prison population! Let's make the streets safe again! Let's make people happy! Let's legalize drugs!

The war on drugs has now cost the United States billions of dollars in cash and prizes, and the benefits have been absolutely nothing. So let's break it down and examine this problem once and for all.

People want to get fucked up, there is no getting around that. So unless we put lots and lots of money into making people happy we better put a little money into making them sedate. Drugs (by that I mean mainly Heroin and Cocaine) cost almost nothing to produce, but laws have driven their cost into hundreds of dollars a day for junkies across the globe. And when you add to that the cost of fighting the drugs it's more like hundreds of thousands of dollars a day. So why not just set up hospitals (any abandoned building will do, and plenty are available thanks to urban decay) where junkies can get their fix on at no cost at all!

Just show up, whoever you are, tie up and shoot yourself silly for no cost at all. Chances are they will stay in that place 99 hours a day, safely tucked away, and off the streets . All the needles and injections will be administered by qualified health officials with clean instruments and the most primo fucking smack this side of Kabul!

Sure they might stumble onto the street for a moment or two, but not long enough to hurt anyone, and why would they? No need to commit crimes, they have all the junk they need to stay cool in mainstream society. Perhaps bum a smoke or two off the passers by.

And when they finally succumb to the toxic substance building up in their bodies we simply toss them onto an ever growing pile of corpses 'round the back of the hospital. Oh! they won't mind the smell! And when the pile gets too high we will just toss them into the incinerator and generate electricity from their burning bodies. It would be a win win situation. Normal citizens get free power and the junkies get relieved of their useless lives. It would cost a thousandth of what it costs us today, and everyone would be so much better off. So I say let's do it! Legalize it and don't criticize it.

Why I Am TOTALLY Against Gay Marriage!

I am totally against gay marriage for the simple reason that it is unnatural. It is so totally and completely as UNNATURAL as: Toxic waste, nuclear weapons, political prisoners, political parties, Coca-Cola, television, shopping centers, birthday cakes, Hollywood Super-Hunks, dentistry, automobiles, refined flour, cosmetics, bone marrow transplants, radiation therapy, space flight, digital photography, regular photography, umbrellas, monetary systems, sex toys, pollution, religion, ozone depletion, popular music, cartoons, trans-fatty acids, Las Vegas Nevada, iPhones, comic books, hair dryers, clothing, air-conditioning, Botox, open heart surgery, downhill skiing, artificial limbs, houses, cities, national boarders, electricity, LSD, McDonad's, ice cream, Mickey Mouse, guns, glass, running water, plastic, pizza, candy, higher education, Vodka and Red Bull, plutonium, sky scrapers, Viagra, sun block, SCUBA gear, GoreTex, fine art, running shoes, anti-depressants, penicillin, symphony orchestras, padlocks, Cesarean sections, childhood obesity, adult obesity, marriage, video games, velcro, the pursuit of happiness, liberty and justice for all.

Beam Me Out, Scotty.

There are a lot of fun gadgets in the world of Star Trek. I'm sure anyone who is even remotely familiar with the show will find something on it that they wish they had. Whether it's a phaser, to do away with your enemies leaving nothing behind but some sub atomic particles, or something to fulfill all of your sick sexual desires, like the holodeck, there is something there that appeals to all of us.

I have always been intrigued by the Transporter Beam. Not for the possibilities of travel, or its power to cure all the damage being done to the earth by our present means of transportation, but more for the accidents. Who knows what's going to happen when you trust a computer (which, by the way only has three sliding faders on it) to keep track of every atom that makes up your body?

There have been a few slight problems caused by transporter malfunction. Captain Kirk was divided into two versions of himself, one evil, the other a mama's boy. One episode had the landing party transported to an alternate universe where Spock had a beard and the skirts for the female crew members were even shorter. Imagine that! Even shorter! But what about death by transporter, this scenario contains a strange paradox for me.

When you are killed in a transporter accident you simply don't materialize on the other end. Your atoms are scattered to the wind like the seeds of a dandelion. So I guess that means your dead. But aren't you in that state for a moment during every transport you do. Most crew members log hours and hours in transport over their careers, so were they dead during that time?

You could be listed as missing, except they kind of know where you are and there is no way of getting you back, so isn't that like death? And what if you are religious? How long does God wait for your transport to end before declaring you dead, and welcoming you into the Kingdom of Heaven or where ever it is you are expecting to go? You know, come to think of it, the transporter would be great for suicide cases, just climb in and disappear. Anyway if such a thing ever existed it would probably just be used as a weapon. I'll end here.

Ga Ga, Blah Blah (Blah)

When you type the letter "L" into Google's image search the first word that comes up in the infinitely annoying list of suggestions is "Love".

The second is "Lady GaGa".

Now, never having heard her music it would be unfair for me to comment on it, but what I have to comment on is how I am constantly being updated on everything GaGa without trying...at all.

I am well versed in her many faces, having seen her radically different looks plastered on almost any surface that an image will adhere to. Her antics are described to me in one-liners at the periphery of my vision every single time I try to check my email. Seriously, every single time. All of her videos are controversial. How could something this popular be controversial? Record labels don't want controversies, they want as many people to accept their product as humanly possible.

It's getting to a point that I cannot remember a time before this creature existed. And a Lady GaGaless future seems like a far off, dreamy nebula of abstract thinking that I am having trouble comprehending. All of this and I have never heard even one of her songs.

I was utterly perplexed by this until I had a thought. If her music were any good at all perhaps they wouldn't have to sell her so hard. The worse a product is the better the advertising has to be. You know, I feel the same way about God.

Insanity...When Is A Good Time?

This piece is actually about Charlie Sheen, not Aileen Wuornos (pictured) but they both bring up an interesting question for me...When is the most socially acceptable time to go completely insane?

Let's face it, insanity is tolerated under the right circumstances, but what are those circumstances? To find out I think we should work backwards on this question. When is insanity really NOT cool?


1. When you are poor.
Insane homeless people are pretty much unacceptable anywhere at anytime. Though they may be mildly entertaining when accosting other people, they are simply too unpredictable. Will they sing and dance for nickles, or smash your head in with a paving stone? You never can tell.
Charlie Sheen: Rich
Aileen Wuornos: Poor.

2. When you are violent.
Ok, Charlie Sheen may have smashed a few cameras in his day, and roughed up a few "nobodies" at his favorite watering holes, but he has not killed. Aileen Wuornos shot and killed seven men that picked her up on Florida freeways. Being a Hollywood badboy is one thing, but sending a .22 caliber bullet rattling around some poor john's head for sixty bucks and a beat up Buick Skylark is another.
Charlie Sheen: Mildly Violent
Aileen Wuornos: Extremely Violent.

3. When you are ugly.
The bloom may be a bit off the rose with Charlie, but still we all remember him from Wall Street and that carries a lot of weight. Plus men get more "distinguished" with time, women are unfortunately not awarded that luxury. The better you look the more chance you have of getting away with insanity.
Charlie Sheen: Good Looking
Aileen Wuornos: Ugly

4. When you talk too much (at the wrong time).
Incessant ranting and rambling on daytime television, fine. Incessant ranting and rambling on the stand at your own murder trial, no. Charlie knows when to behave. When you are talking to some shmuck on Fox News or Oprah Winfrey, sure, rant away. When the judge is about to hand down a sentence, shut up.
Charlie Sheen: Knows When To Shut Up
Aileen Wuornos: Don't.

Basically if you are rich, good looking, mildly violent, and know when to shut up, feel free to go insane. If not, try to hold yourself together because you won't be on Oprah Winfrey talking about rehab and what it was like to work with Michael Douglas, but you may wind up in Florida's lethal injection chamber.

Why I Shave My Head...Periodically

When I was a child, perhaps 6 or 7 years old, my mother would comb my hair after my bath. I used to look down at the bottle of "hair tonic" my father had next to the sink, and tell her to comb it like that. The guy on the bottle had a classic comb-over, what they call a 30/70 in Japan. That means 30% on one side and 70% on the other.

Anyway, as the years wore on my hair follicles became permenantly frozen in this configuration. No matter how messed-up my hair became a mere flick of the wrist would send it flying back in order as if to the shout of a drill sergeant. So I had become more or less resigned to the fact that this is what I look like.

However, I began to feel that my personality was becoming too caught up in my appearance. That is to say, I felt that what I looked like was who I was. I found this profoundly disturbing. So in a fit I shaved off all of my hair, and it was absolutely cathartic.

Having no hair to comb, wash, run my hands though, look at in the mirror, check in the window of parked cars, apply gel to, mess up by wearing hats, or otherwise think about in any way was pure heaven, freedom. I felt totally liberated from having to think about what I looked like. The benefits of which were felt in almost every aspect of my life.

Everything had been reset. I woke up earlier, I chewed my food more thoroughly, my posture improved, my relationships with others improved, I had more energy and more sexual drive, I watched less television and read more, I was able to beat burly truck drivers in arm wrestling contests, I could run further than ever before, complex mathematical problems were done with the greatest of ease, and wild animals bowed before me, licking my hands and feet. I was like a reverse Sampson.

So for this reason when things are not going my way I rid myself of hair and am born anew.

Alone

Kisses crept like lazy spiders

Across her neck

White as linen sheets

Blood flowed far beneath

A dead current

Television static filled her eyes

“Do what you want”, she said

While looking for the remote control

The Unlikely Adventures of Carlton Fitzroy, Man About Town: The Pirate Princess

Benigno and Carlton walked down the road, their hands jammed into the pockets of their coats, shoulders raised in an effort to fight the cold.

“Benigno, suppose you tell me how it is that you are not dead.  Last word I got was that you and Captain Snatchworthy were mauled by a Bengal tiger in the billiards room of the Raffles Hotel, Singapore.”

“Ahhhh, yes, it’s quite a story, Carlton.  You see I noticed the tiger’s tail sticking out from under the table as Snatchworthy was lining up his winning shot.  In an effort to disrupt his enevitable victory I stomped on the beast’s tail just as he hit the ball.”

“You don’t say!”

“I was so drunk I could hardly stand, but when the beast leapt toward me I…”

“Not now Benigno! Look there is the Tavern that I told you about! Dead ahead, mate!  Come, refreshment awaits!”

Carlton kicked the door open, one hand pointing to the sky and yelled:

“Barman! Two gin and tonics at the back table!” The pair made their way through the crowd of bargirls and their companions, to the back of the room.

At that moment they were noticed by a mysterious beauty of Swedish and Japanese descent.  Her eyes black as coal, her corset tied so snugly that the fruits of her womanhood threatened to break free at any moment.  She stood to approach the two when a piggish looking man with gravy on the front of his ill fitting suit grabbed her by the arm.

“Well, a beautiful flower from the East, blown in on an oriental breeze no doubt!  And what might your name be my dear?”

“Fuck off.” She said curtly as she pulled her arm away.

“Well my girl, you might be embarrassed to know that that phrase has a rather unsavory meaning in English.”

“I’m speaking English your gastropod, now be gone before you’re chasing your balls down the street!”

“Umm, yes, I think I will seek the company of a more well mannered lady for my evening’s company, good night.”  And the man receded into the smoky dark of the tavern.  With that she lifted herself from the bar and drifted silently toward Carlton and Benigno.  When she reached their table the gentlemen stood up and straightened their collars.  Carlton's face still covered with soil from what he supposed was Beningo's grave.

"Hello my lady!" Carlton said with much cheer.

He was greeted with a smack across the face so hard his tongue went numb and tears began to assemble themselves in his eyes.

"Usually, I recognize a woman who hits me that hard, but this time I am at quite a loss." he mumbled.

"You may not recognize my face, but perhaps you will recognize the name Norman Leibenstrasse!"

With that, Carlton froze.  "Ah ha he, yes, yes...ummm...how is old Norman these days?"  He said with nervous laughter dribbling from the sides of his mouth like the drool of a mental patient.  

"He's dead." She said calmly.

"Ah, yes well, well, you must give him my regards."  Carlton was now collecting his change from the table without looking down.  Unaware that he was dropping coins onto the floor.  Benigno, once again, was forced to calmly back toward the exit.

Just then Benigno felt a cold and foul smelling hand clap him on the shoulder.  He spun around to meet the woman from the last tavern and a few of her disorderly companions.

"You again!" Benigno said with shock and a touch of fear.

"Grizelda, you know these two gentlemen?" The mysterious bargirl asked.

"Yes, my Lady, they interrupted my anniversary party earlier this evening."

"Ahhhh so it was an anniversary was it?  Celebrating the day you escaped from the zoo? Carlton, said, trying to smile but his face now swelling quite badly.

"No, my first kiss." Said Grizelda.

"KISS! You don't mean to say that a man actually lent himself to the loathsome task of engaging your mouth with his own?  I find that prospect nauseating at best."

"No, Carlton." said the bargirl, "A 'kiss' is how they refer to the act of biting off a man's genitals as he sleeps.

Grizelda leaned in and lightly kissed Benigno on the ear giving a wink to Carlton.

"Grizelda! Enough of this.  Get these two idiots to the ship, we are sailing for the Island tonight!"  

"Hear that Benigno! Get your tanning oils ready we are going to the Islands!" Carlton mumbled one eye now swollen shut.  

"Oh I'm afraid you won't have any time for the beach Mr. Fitzroy." The girl said pressing her perfect form up against Carlton, caressing his swollen cheek.  "You see the sun never shines on Death Island." 

"We got our heads stuck in the pickle jar this time Fitzroy." Said Benigno.

"Indeed, Benigno, and worse yet, no gin and tonics."

How will our heros get out of this one? Stay tuned for the next installment!

The Unlikely Adventures of Carlton Fitzroy, Man About Town: Ladies Night

Carlton and Benigno skipped arm in arm down a well beaten path to the door of an inn, which looked to be full of merriment and young ladies .
"Here we are squire! Drinks and company await!" said Carlton with much fanfare.

Benigno opened the door for his friend, removing his hat and giving a deep bow. Carlton passed through the door with his head held high, Benigno right behind. Both of them however missing the brown paper sign tacked to the door with the words "Ladies Only" scratch across with an aged quill.

"Hi Ho ladies! A drink for me and my Spanish friend here! Gin and tonics might do the trick I should say!" Carlton threw his coat tails out as he perched himself upon the stool sliding a note across the splintering bar.

His hand almost reached the end of the plank when he felt the note curling up before his dainty fingers. Sliding his glance down his frilly sleeve he noticed a large bowie knife, newly sharpened and standing in the center of his bill. At this point it became impossible not to notice a rather rough looking lady, several teeth shy from a smile, glaring at him from only inches away.

"Who invited you to my party?" She whispered into Carlton's ear, Benigno now slowly edging toward the door.
"I did not realize an invitation was in order, madam." Carlton calmly replied.
"Can't you not see there is a party afoot? There be music, dancing, and general merriment abound, be there not!" Her voice now growing sharp. Her breath, a combination of whiskey and tooth decay singed our hero's mustache. Carlton allowed one eye to survey the room, the other firmly planted on the razor sharp knife pressing against his well manicured fingernail.

The collection of ladies was a motley crew indeed. They were clad in the sort of tattered rags that would embarrass a beggar. There were not enough teeth, eyes and limbs to be evenly distributed among the lot, and Benigno would be jealous of at least two of the mustaches.

"Ummm...you ladies do seem to be engaged in a gathering of some sort" Carlton's words now quivering with a degree of fear.
"OH? And what sort of gathering do ye think that may be, friend?" She said, turning her gaze to Benigno, now pressed against the door with his hand on the knob.
"Well! Let's see now!" Carlton was regaining his strength.
"Charm School reunion?"
"Christian housewives biweekly knitting circle?
"Oh! I've got it! Annual meeting of the Miss Countryside beauty pageant runners up!" Suddenly Carlton leapt to his feet smacking the knife from the hags hand. It whistled through the air and landed squarely between Benigno's legs.
"Go you fool!" Carlton yelled, and Benigo, regaining his composure, slid through the barely opened door, Carlton right behind. The two ran down the dirt path hats in hand.
"Know any other taverns in the area?" Benigno asked.
"Just one, but it's a little rough." said Carlton.

Tune in next time for the shocking conclusion.

Grimace: An Intimate Portrait

Walter Grimovskovich, better known as "Grimace", rose to super stardom in the 1970's and 80's by appearing in McDonald's restaurant television commercials. But it wasn't all glitz and glamor for this unusually talented performer.

He was originally cast by the McDonald's Corporation in November of 1971 shortly after leaving the Julliard School of Drama in New York City. Thinking this would be a short term gig to make some money before looking for more serious work, he signed a contract to appear in just three ads as the "Evil Grimace", a hideous character with four arms which he used to steal McDonald shakes and Coca-Colas from the children of McDonaldland.

When the contract was up Ray Kroc, CEO of the McDonald's Corporation, personally asked him to say on and continue the fine work that he had started. Grimovskovich grudgingly agreed but had definite ideas for the future of the character. He felt that the "Evil Grimace" lacked depth, and was a waste of his dramatic training. Also, the set of extra arms were causing pain and irritation to his sensitive purple skin. Kroc agreed, the arms were gone, and in 1972 "Grimace" was reintroduced as the lovable oaf we know him as today.

However, the whirlwind of fame and fortune throughout the 70's began to take its toll, and by the early 80's Grimovskovich was left with a $500 a day cocaine habit and three ex-wives. His weight ballooned from a slim 350 pounds to an amazing 600. He began to make embarrassing public appearances just to keep the money coming in. In January of 1985 Ronald McDonald and several of the Fry Guys intervened and told Grimovskovich that he needed help. He was not only destroying himself but taking all of the McDonladland characters with him.

He agreed to go into detox and within a few months he was back to his old self. Although Grimovskovich never made it to the big Broadway heights he had always longed for, he created something special. He is the heart and soul behind "Grimace", more than a fat, purple, milkshake guzzling blob, more than just a comic foil for Ronald McDonald, he became a true American legend.

The Unlikely Adventures of Carlton Fitzroy, Man About Town: The Return of Benigno Avocado Jr.

Carlton stood sadly at the grave of his beloved friend and confidant Benigno Avocado Jr. The heaviness of his heart caused the roses he carried in his ungloved hand to wilt.
He stood for several minutes pursing his lips then, finally, dissolving into a fit of hysterical grief, Carlton threw himself onto the moist Earth of the freshly dug grave of his late friend. He smeared the soil into his face and hair and screamed:
"Benigno! Benigno! You fiery Spanish bastard! How dare you leave me! How dare you taste the fruits of the afterlife before me! ME! Carlton Fitzroy! The man who gave you everything! Everything! Everyyyythhh..."
"Really Fitzroy, this is most displeasing, and that's my grave your mussing up old chap!", a spicey Spanish voice drifted over the tombstone. Carlton lifted his head, his face covered in soil, his hair standing on end like a specter.
"Benigno?"
"Yes."
"Benigno Avocado?"
"Yes."
"Benigno Avocado Junior?"
"YES you idiot! What are the chances that it is a different Benigno Avocado who knows you and is standing at the grave of Benigno Avocado Jr!"
"Oh! Yes, I get your meaning, umm.....fancy a drink?
"Let's go." Benigno said looking off to the horizon knowing that this would be the beginning of a new set of adventures.
The two walked arm in arm into the setting sun leaving the graves and sadness behind.

Tune in next week for the stunning conclusion!

ALIVE: A Book Review

I must say after reading Alive: The story of the Andes Survivors, I was totally satisfied. Peirs Paul Read's amazing account of the survivors of Uruguayan Air Force flight 157 from Montevideo on the 13th of October, 1972, was delicious. I could really sink my teeth into the juicy tale of horror that unfolded in the Andes that fall.

True, some of the descriptions of suffering are hard to swallow, and may leave a bad taste in your mouth, but in the end you will be wanting seconds.

I do wish Read would have stayed on course, and not excused himself from the table by chronicling the parents search in such depth. The sheer feast of drama, back at the plane, was like a cornucopia of human endurance. But I guess it helps you to digest the buffet of pain and suffering by cleansing your palate on some normality.

You could gorge yourself on the decent sized portions of heroism and sacrifice that were displayed on the mountain. Though most of the survivors were dishing up all they had, some were happy to sit back and be served a banquet of assistance. But in the end they all pulled together like the staff at a five star restaurant to make it through to the final course of this terrible meal.

It will tenderize your heart to see how, through the love of friends and family anything can be pulled out of the fire. All and all I have to say this was a great book, not too much sugar not too much spice, done to perfection in the oven of a great journalist. It will melt in your mouth. Bon appetit.

OMG! I Met Tom Cruise!

A word for word transcription of a conversation I had with Tom Cruise, the world famous actor, at a Hotel in Melbourne Australia on May 26th 2010.

TC: Mike Migliacci? Tom Cruise.

MM: Wow, Tom Cruise! Nice to meet you.

TC: No, no…no…no nice to meet YOU!

MM: Really?

TC: Yes. Don’t you think so?

MM: I don’t know, I’ve never met myself.

TC: Oh…but haven’t you?

MM: No. I have been in a perpetual state of knowing myself since birth.

TC: Yes, well you may think that, but in fact, it’s not true at all. You see, your cells are in a constant state of flux. Living, dying, regenerating… you are a totally new person all the time.

MM: Well, that may be, Tom, but still my life has a great deal of continuity. Not only on the biological scale, but historical as well. The past can't be changed, and it constantly informs the new person I “am” of the old person I “was”.

TC: Michael, that’s the most absurd thing I have ever heard. If the cells in your body are in constant flux, then certainly your brain cells are in flux, changing your understanding of who you are!

MM: Well not exactly, Tom. I mean, the cells themselves carry only genetic information, not life experiences. True there are chemicals in the brain that store sensory memory information, but they only work as a cohesive whole incorporating chemical reactions and billions of cells. The birth and death of an individual cell has no bearing on that, whatsoever.

TC: Oh I see…have you tried those crab cakes over there?

MM: No, not yet, but I was about to!

TC: Yeah, me too.

The End.

Der Fuhrermobile

Kraft durch Freude means "strength through joy" and was Adolph Hitler's pet project of making Germans into happy fighting machines by getting them out of the house and into the country in their very own Fuhrermobile.

An excited Adolph Hilter drew this picture in a restaurant in Munich in 1932, and presented it to Jakob Werlin, the head of Daimler-Benz.
Clearly, it went on to become the Volkswagen Beetle.

But really only the convertible beetle looked truly Hitleresque, I think.

Take a look at this picture: