Turkey Day of the Living Dead!

If you're like me, and I know I am, you're still suffering separation anxiety from the annual Mystery Science Theater 3000 Turkey Day Marathon, even though that custom died out some time during the senescent phase of the 20th Century.  The good news is, everything old is new again, and just like anti-communist paranoia, Turkey Day has made an unexpected return.

Starting at noon Eastern, you can tune into Mst3kturkeyday.com, and watch a mini-marathon of six episodes, selected by fans and hosted by Joel Hodgson, who I imagine will be doing his impression of a baked Robert Osborne. Cool, huh?  I know what I'll be doing this Thanksgiving (since I don't cook and am not allowed in the kitchen on national holidays); assuming the live stream works, of course.  I'm willing to give the liberal elite a mulligan on healthcare.gov, but they'd better not screw this up.

Speaking of cooking -- by which I mean food, since I'm pretty sure even people who make meth for a living take Thanksgiving off (narcotraficantes may be savage, hot-tempered, and blood-thirsty, but they're generally not quite the same caliber of remorseless asshole as you'll find in the upper management tiers of Wal-Mart) -- what are you guys doing for the holiday?

This about sums up our plans...

Mary's actually a gifted cook and really wanted to put on a traditional Thanksgiving feast, but when you've spent the last ten years of your life writing for a blog called World O' Crap, you really can't say No to a Sack O' Sauce in a Can O' Meat, now can you?

Happy Thanksgiving, guys.

There's More Wattles Around Here Than The Reagan Administration

Jean Arthur and Lillian Roth hunt down Early American pants thieves in Pardon My Blunderbuss!

Happy Turkey Day, guys.  I hope whatever your plans for the day, they come off smoothly, without stressful traffic, discomfiting diatribes from conspiracy-quoting relatives, or untoward diplomatic incidents with your Native American hosts.

Mary and I are traveling about 11 feet today, from the bedroom to the living room (well, she's going all the way into the kitchen, so it's probably more like 15½ for her, which is why I advised her to leave early), and will be having something food-like while watching Santa Claus Conquers the Martians.

And in that spirit, enjoy a quick compilation of classic bumpers from the Mystery Science Theater 3000 Turkey Days of yore:

Oh! I've Got a HORN!

The entire 2012 Presidential Election in condensed, evaporated form, courtesy of Mystery Science Theater 3000:

MST3K Meets The Mommy Of The Future

I grew up in a house -- then a condo, then a series of increasingly shabby apartments -- that could best be described as a sort of parental Fail Blog, so I was never much tempted to breed and continue the cycle.  But whether by chance, or because the Universe has a particularly virulent sense of irony, I happen to know a number of exceptionally Cool Moms, and in several of the cases (my sister KT comes to mind), the very coolest of Moms seem to have had the very worst of role models.

I don't know quite what to make of this, and I'm not trying to postulate a Unified Field Theory of Motherhood, I just think it's interesting, and perhaps indicates that the animal handlers at Sea World who train their dolphins, seals, and orcas with food and affection rather than punishment have it wrong, and those embittered high school P.E. coaches who taught us good driving habits by screening 16mm films of gruesome automobile accidents had it right.  In fact, they probably didn't go far enough, and should have turned the Drivers Ed. simulator into a giant Skinner Box.

But I digress.  Cool Moms beget Cool Kids, and my friend Elizabeth is definitely one of the former, while her son Wes is a distinguished example of the latter. A musical prodigy and fashion trendsetter, Wes is preternaturally verbal (but not in a creepy, Children of the Damned sort of way; more in a cocky, Children of the Damn I'm Good! way), and almost as soon as he could talk, he dubbed Elizabeth "Mommy of the Future!" for reasons that were never explained.  (At least, I hope they weren't, and if they were, I hope no one explains it to me, because it remains one of my favorite non sequiturs.)

Anyway, like s.z., I originally bonded with Elizabeth (many, many years ago) over a shared devotion to Mystery Science Theater 3000, so I've been waiting for the day she introduced her child to the series, since I've always wondered if it was hereditary, like Hitchhiker's Thumb, cleft chin, or the congenital syphilis in Ibsen's Ghosts.  As it turns out, the results were more than I could ever have hoped for.  Here's a taste (Wes, at this point, was in first grade):

(Note: THE FOLLOWING CONVERSATION ACTUALLY HAPPENED. I’m not proud.)

Ten minutes pass. He comes out. “Mommy? I think the Mike episodes are better.”

“WHAT!?”

I solemnly urge you to click here and read the whole, hilarious thing; I guarantee, you will not regret it.

I mean, come on -- have I ever steered you wrong before?  Except for that one time?  And maybe that other thing?  Besides that?  Never.

MaryC's Holiday Gift Report: Santa's Bringing You Crap for Christmas! Literally!

It's a familiar conversation, one you've probably overheard dozens of times at the pet store, or while waiting in line to see Santa at the mall:  a little boy or girl wants a puppy for Christmas, and the parents caution the child that "having a dog is a big responsibility.  You'll have to feed it, and walk it, and clean up after it."  Well...this toy isn't for those kids.  This canine simulacrum is apparently intended for a slightly narrower niche: kids who don't particularly want to walk, cuddle, or even play with a puppy, but who really like the sound of that whole "clean up after it" thing.

In short, this is the perfect toy for the budding coprophiliac in your family.  I give you...Doggie Do.

To paraphrase Martin Lawrence in Bad Boys:  "Shit just got fake."

So...Yeah. It's a plastic dog that poops. You feed it, and it poops.  This is actually my least favorite part of pet ownership, but apparently the Fresh Air Fund is sending kids to Fecal Fantasy Camp these days.

I wonder, is this a gift for people who live in "no pets allowed" buildings, but still yearn to clean up after a defecating dog? Do they roam the sidewalks of their neighborhood, plastic bags in hand, hoping against hope that at least one of their neighbors has thoughtlessly neglected to curb their Akita and collect the steaming pile, so they could swoop down on it like a carrion bird with a fetish so disgusting it makes the other vultures in the flock uncomfortable and faintly nauseated?

I think, in this case, the only person who could possibly provide an appropriate reaction to this is Dr. Clayton Forrester:

Happy Birthday, Brian and Julia!

Please join me in wishing a very festive natal day to Brian Schlosser, commenter extraordinaire, and Mystery Science Theater 3000 scholar par excellence.  We'd also like to say Many Happy Returns to the sublime Julia, who is fairly MST3K-literate herself; once, when I nearly missed posting about Mary's birthday, and feared she would follow the example of Jimmy Wilson from I Accuse My Parents, and fall in with the world's wimpiest gangsters, Julia huffed:

Oh, fine, we won’t talk about the essay. Everyone just wants to forget the essay.

We’ll just pretend Jimmy never wrote the essay.

Are you happy now?

Well, we're happy in our work, and that must count for something.  And on that note, we've thrown together a little video souffle, consisting of all the birthday gags from the aforementioned classic episode (the industrial short on truck farming has been omitted for clarity) to honor our celebrants.

Maestro?

Brian?  Julia?  Be Happy in Your Birthdays, guys!

Have A Patrick Swayze Christmas!