Happy Mother's Day III: The Final Conflict

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Sundays With S.Z.: I Led Three Lives

Due to popular demand (well, Weird Dave nudged me in the comments below, but I understand he's really popular and kind of demanding), here is this week's edition of Sundays With S.Z., one day early, featuring the first in her multipart undercover series on the underbelly of the ubermenschen.

Originally published October 13, 2003:

World O'Crap! Surfing the entire world wide web, to bring you crap wherever it may occur.

Today our usual suspects didn't have anything that inspired us, so, in a desperate attempt to find SOMETHING to write about, we tried clicking on their ads and links. And now we bring you the results:

I Was an Undercover Conservative for World O'Crap!

I started my journey into the heart of darkness ("The Horror! The horror!") by checking out some of the The Official Ann Coulter Site links. The first stop was the horrifying Young America Foundation (WARNING: every time I visit this site, my computer freezes. I suspect they have liberal-detecting software in place).

Anyway, YAF is an organization founded to help students promote conservative values and time-honored traditions like patriotism, morality, and segregation on their campuses. The most noteworthy feature of this organization for George Bush Babies is "Club 100".

Club 100 "Where activism counts!" is the conservative movement's first and only campus activist rewards program. This unique program thanks YOU for constantly striving to promote conservative ideas to your fellow students.

And just how do I subvert my fellow students?

Well, mainly by pressuring my university to invite (and pay) conservative speakers to indoctrinate my peers. But Club 100 also offers me cell leaders . . .I mean, mentors, who will guide me in my efforts to return this country to the good old days.

Club 100 Activist Mentors 

Have you ever wanted to ask a Conservative Movement leader how to attract more members to your club or how to effectively promote conservative ideas on campus? As a member, you will have opportunities to talk with some of the Movements best strategists and tacticians. Club 100’s Activist Mentors Bay Buchanan, Reginald Jones, Star Parker, Kirby Wilbur, and Floyd Brown will offer you the chance to participate in special strategy sessions and members-only receptions.

"Strategy Sessions", "evil scheming," "plotting how to turn others to the dark side": Club100 has it all! But the best thing about Club 100 is the rewards! It's like a Frequent Flyer program for Fascism!

As you host Foundation speakers and attend Foundation programs, you will receive points for your activities. As you accumulate points throughout the year, you will receive rewards for being active. Some of these rewards include books from noted conservative authors including Ann Coulter, David Horowitz, Peggy Noonan, plus conservative videos, and exclusive Foundation merchandise.

Members who tally 100 points each academic year will be invited to attend a one-of-a-kind event, the Club 100 Reagan Ranch Retreat in April 2004! Held at the El Capitan Canyon north of Santa Barbara, this all-expenses paid event brings together the nation's leading conservative student activists with the Club 100 Mentors for a unique weekend of training, discussions, and an opportunity to explore the experiences Reagan enjoyed when he spent time on his ranch.

Wow, a week of conservatism training at Reagan Ranch Retreat, where you will have an opportunity to explore the experiences Reagan enjoyed! But don't let them keep you in the BrainWashaTron too long or you'll be enjoying the experiences Reagan currently enjoys.

This all sounded so good that I submitted my application to join Club 100. If I'm admitted, I can share my stories of smiting liberals and having cake bakes for Cheney with the other Club members. But if Bob Novak blows my cover and YAF realizes I'm not really an eager young conservative named Muffy attending Oral Roberts University, I fear for my life. I'll keep you updated on this.

The next Ann-endorsed link I tried was American Patriots for True Equality, a site dedicated to honoring the victims of 9/11 by getting rid of diversity (it's what they would have wanted).

It seemed to begin as a result of 9-11-01 that a new appreciation was brought to every Americans attention, that being, the value and worth of our freedoms in this wonderful country of ours.

Even the most apathetic individual was slapped in the face with reality on that day. A day that anyone cognizant of their surroundings, will be able to recall exactly what they were doing and where they were ... on that terrible morning that was to effect all our lives in one way or another.

Truer words have never been spoken, as it WAS a day that anyone cognizant of their surroundings will be able to recall where they were. And what better way to show we value and appreciate our freedoms than by keeping others from enjoying them, by restricting immigration.

Remember when families that immigrated into our great country wanted to speak "American English" and become part of our great society? When you could telephone somewhere and not have to listen to another language before picking the "English" option? When "The American Dream" meant raising a family, securing a home and piece of property and live the American Way? There was one American culture and it was the guideline that people lived and worked and raised their Children by until beginning late in the last century when for some, "Coming to America" meant grabbing all you can, sharing a habitat with several others and "Going Back Home" with all you could loot. A majority of the immigrants today, have no respect for America, and have gotten that opinion from their own government in the countries they are emigrating from. And the sad thing is we allow it! We have to stop the illegal flow of immigrants, and drastically cut the immigrants we allow in our country legally.

Yes, remember back to prior to 1980 or so, when there was one American culture? There were no Little Italys or Chinatowns or restricted country clubs back then, dammit, for we taught our Children by the guideline of that one culture. But that all started changing when we got this new breed of immigrant who disrespects America by speaking a foreign tongue. See, the Patriots conducted a scientific survey and determined that a "majority of immigrants today have no respect for America." They're just in it for the less-than-minimum-wage jobs and the crowded living conditions! Then, when they've looted America by picking our fruit, washing our dishes, and doing our other backbreaking, smelly jobs, they'll return to their home country and talk about us in their outlandish, non-American languages. The bastards!

So, the APFTE isn't going to let any more of these foreigners into our country, because if Americans have to listen to another language on voice mail, then it means the terrorists have won.

Americas Sworn Enemies Are Usually Past or Current Recipients of "Foreign Aid" From U.S. Taxpayers, Why Do We Help Them Hate Us? The APFTE wants ALL Foreign Aid Stopped To ANY Country That Has Not Sworn An Alliance to Our Country. We must heal our wounds, and unite and fight the fanatics and those that support their actions. It is they, who are the real enemy of America - Terrorists and terrorism and let's not forget to remember the false Friends that America has generated. Those that are totally ungrateful that without our help, they would have no country to call their own. France hardly misses an opportunity to stab us in the back, and was given back to them by American Blood not once, but TWICE in the last century!

If other nations want our aid, they must swear a binding oath in which they promise to do whatever we tell them to, be properly grateful, and to love us forever. Because it is terrorists and ingrates who are the real enemy of America--so France, next time you're invaded by Germany, well, we're helping the Nazis!

Foreign and sometimes domestic Islamic "Fanatics" teach their followers that ALL Americans are "Infidels" (Unless you happen to be an American of Islamic Faith that is...) and we and our American culture is the work of the Devil, and killing us is not a sin. [snip] This terrible divisive influence on our American Culture has to be brought to light, and addressed, before the cost gets too great to pay. Freedom of religion does not give a Zealot the right to infringe on others beliefs.

The APFTE believes that No group of Americans should promote hatred towards another group of Americans.

You know, we're glad to hear you say that, APFTE, because we know of a Zealot who promotes hatred towards another group of Americans, feels that everyone who doesn't believe the way she does is an infidel (or "traitor"), and who believes that killing us is not a sin. Yes, she even said "My only regret with Timothy McVeigh is he did not go to the New York Times Building." And it was her link that brought us to your page, APFTE. Maybe you should stop linking back to her site, since you're all about unity and love and stuff.

And for our last journey into the weird, bizarre, and unbalanced world of Ann's friends, we stop off at WorldNetDaily ("A Free Press for a Stupid People"), which Ann lists as a news source. It's top story today:

Ex-welfare queen exposes 'Uncle Sam's Plantation' 

It's about Star Parker (one of the mentors to the Karl Rovenkinder at Club 100), who has written a book blowing the lid off welfare, which "seems to keep the poor enslaved to poverty while the rich get richer." We can believe what Star is telling us about how state-sponsored plans harm the poor, because she used to be a lying, cheating crack 'ho! Here's her story:

Once caught up in the miserable world of welfare fraud, sex, drugs and abortion, she underwent what many have called a miraculous transformation into what she is today – one of America's leading advocates for true, faith-based success and empowerment of the nation's poor.

She recommends "personal initiative, faith, and responsibility," as a way for the underclass to "release the hold poverty holds over their lives." And since her plan will allow the Bush tax-cuts to stay in place by doing away with all that money we currently waste on social programs, WorldNetDaily is all for it! I'm sure it will work for everybody else as well as it worked for Star, and anybody who isn't well-off after reading her book just isn't trying, and so doesn't deserve any help.

WorldNetDaily also gives us Barbara Simpson, "The Babe in the Bunker" (okay, so she's got a little more meat on her bones than Ann Coulter, but I'd hardly compare her to the beloved animatronic movie pig). Today she gives us the thought piece, "Liberals Love Limbaugh's Pain." Her thesis is that liberals (whom she defines in her article as "Democrats") were so angry about Schwarzenegger being elected governor (even though said Democrats are all "celebrity whores", and so were actually glad that he won), that they are now dancing in the streets upon learning that Rush is a drug addict. Well, not a DRUG ADDICT, but just someone who's addicted to drugs. Barbara says that Rush confessed all, and asked for support and prayers.

So what does he get from the liberal media? Attacks. There's no sympathy for his medical ordeals. He's equated with street junkies and his addiction is compared to that of a guy in the alley mainlining heroin. Yes, chemically, street drugs and prescription drugs are similar and yes, the effect of opiates on the body may be the same, but liberals just miss the point. Lots of points.

The points are several of the items from my handy "Being There for Rush" list for pundits (see Saturday's entry), but chiefly the "Rush only got addicted to opiates because he used them for his PAIN, unlike the street junkie who sought out opiates for his pain one. Then Barbara delivers this stinging rebuke:

The same people who have compassion for the dregs of humanity on the street and for animals and insects cannot find an ounce of compassion for Rush. And we know why.

Because they just like animals and insects better than Rush.

And speaking of WorldNetDaily and being understanding of others, we loved yesterday's top story:

Cross-Dressing Wiccan Official Sparks Christian Mission Probe

A Christian mission serving homeless people since 1939 is under investigation for discrimination because its walls are adorned with crosses and other religious imagery. The probe was prompted by a city fair-housing investigator, who also happens to be a cross-dressing Wiccan.

See, this West Virgininian cross-dressing Wiccan did his investigation and now Charleston's Human Relations Commission is looking at the mission:

The commission voted last month to scrutinize the mission's policies, which include barring drugs and alcohol and not allowing unmarried couples to sleep in the same room. The panel, which enforces the state's fair-housing laws, is looking at allegations the mission discriminates according to religion and gender. The accusations include requiring people seeking help to reveal their spiritual beliefs, serving non-Christians in facilities with Christian imagery and making married men spend two nights under "observation" in the men's dorm before joining their spouse in the family dorm, the Daily Mail said.

The mission could wait and see what the Commission's final findings and recommendations are, and then either change their policies or stop taking Federal funds. But instead they're suing to stop the probe, which their lawyer says seeks to "put a cork in the First Amendment rights" of their pastor. The lawyer asks, "How would you like them to come into your church and tear the cross down?"

Well, since my church doesn't have a cross, I guess it would be just okay. But what I'm interested in is how WorldNetDaily (and the Pulitzer-winning Charleston Daily Mail, which is where WorldNet got their info), knew that the inspector was a cross-dressing Wiccan.

Apparently, the first clue was that he filed his report, because "Nobody, unless they had an agenda, would do this," claims the lawyer. Well, maybe a Fair Housing inspector would, if that was his job.

But somebody did a web search and found that the investigator had a website. And on that site was a piece he had written "which criticizes religious institutions for creating a culture that punishes non-traditional definitions of masculinity and femininity." Um, okay--he's a Wiccan, all right.

But how did his cross-dressing come to light? Per WorldNetDaily, "The Daily Mail said Napier occasionally dresses in women's clothes and performs as a drag queen under the stage name Miss Ilene Over." So, I guess somebody from the mission must have caught Ilene's act -- while ministering to the homeless, of couse. We await further stories about the dangers posed by cross-dressing Wiccans, and urge all of you to be on the lookout for Badly-Dressed Atheists.

So, Ann's neighborhood. A scary place to visit, but we wouldn't want to live there.

Tune in tomorrow when we infiltrate Consertative Matchmaker.com, EHarmony.com, and National Review for Kids. If YAF hasn't terminated us by then.

Beefcake or Death?

Let me state upfront that I like Italy. I’ve spent time there, I enjoy the cuisine, the culture, the landscape and architecture, and I find their politics more entertaining than Bravo’s entire lineup of reality shows. So I don’t mean to perpetuate any stereotypes when I say that if you’re a Greek small businessman who operates a Mom ‘n’ Pop pantheon, you really shouldn’t allow more than three Romans inside at a time, or they will shoplift the crap out of your gods. And not just the major, big ticket deities either – they’ll swipe the demi-gods and heroes off the impulse rack near check-out, too.

Hercules, of course, is a Roman knockoff of the designer demi-god Heracles (you’ll note that when filching intellectual property, the Romans are smart enough to change the names a bit so they don’t get a takedown notice from Viacom). But they don't confine themselves to taking the Greeks’ theological sloppy seconds; no, they even knocked off their own knockoffs, as witnessed by the long and undistinguished film career of Maciste.

Created for the epic Italian film Cabiria (1914) and played by a moonlighting longshoreman, Maciste was a super-strong slave who just got stronger and more super and less slavey as the decades wore on, until by the 1960s his physical prowess was the equal of Hercules. But despite his enormous popularity in Europe (okay, Italy), in the U.S. Maciste remained the moral equivalent of a regional store brand of soda – the Shasta Cola to Hercules’ Diet Rite.

"You ever considered manscaping?"

Which is why Embassy Pictures, which started the whole greasy beefcake craze with its release of the Steve Reeves Hercules, bought up all the Maciste films after the craze cooled and slapped on new titles, giving the off-brand demi-god a variety of assumed names (Samson, Colossus, Goliath) and making it very difficult for Maciste to qualify for even a subprime mortgage. They packaged the whole mess for syndication under the rubric “The Sons of Hercules” and added a kickass theme song, an earworm so fiendishly catchy that once heard, it is never forgotten:

The mighty Sons of Hercules,
Were men as men could be!
These men of steel,
Had curb appeal,
And skin-tight Beefy-Ts!

Okay, maybe I don’t actually remember it all that well…Let’s just get on with our feature presentation, originally titled Maciste, l'uomo più forte del mondo (Maciste, the Strongest Man in the World).

Mole Men Against the Son of Hercules (1961)
Directed by Leonviola
Screenplay by Marcello Baldi and Giuseppe Mangione, Based on a Story by Leonviola

Maciste stands at the shore and pulls on a big rope, grunting and squatting and flexing as he plays tug of war with the ocean. Eventually he hauls in a blue whale, which is pretty good for surf casting, particularly since he’s using fairly light tackle – 11-foot rod, Penn Spinfisher reel, and a 4/0 circle hook with a sliding egg sinker on 40 lb test line.

He stares dumbly at the leviathan for a moment, trying to figure out how to stuff it into his creel, when two groups of horsemen approach. Group A are typical Greeks – swarthy men in micro-mini tunics, while Group B are mysterious masked figures dressed in white robes (which I understand were widely available in 1961), who are busily shooting arrows into Group A.

With no clue what’s going on, Maciste pulls his blade from the whale (and is rightwise declared King of Sea World) and just decides to start killing, stabbing one from Column A, and one from Column B. But before he can work up a decent body count, the sun rises and the Klan members shield their eyes. moan histrionically and writhe around before collapsing into the whale-flavored surf. So, these drama queens are the Mole Men, eh? I wouldn’t have expected a burrowing species to wear white, especially after Labor Day, but perhaps they’re big Tom Wolfe fans.

Maciste goes to Group A’s village, and finds that the Mole Men have razed it to the ground and abducted the inhabitants. He resolves to hunt down the bloodthirsty albinos and punish them for getting top billing.

He finds his quarry standing around in a clearing at high noon, which is confusing, because we’ve already established that sunlight makes Mole Men melt, but the filmmakers would appreciate it if we’d pretend it’s night time even though they couldn’t be bothered to put a blue filter on the lens and shoot day for night because jeez, do they have to do everything around here? Maybe we’d like them to tie our shoes and wipes our butts too, huh?

Anyway, the M&Ms have got a big, brawny black man tied to a tree, and are prancing around him in their white robes. Maciste cuts their victim free before squaring off against the Dancin’ Klansmen, so we can get a gladiatorial twist on The Defiant Ones, a delicious and ass-kicking chocolate-vanilla layer beefcake. Despite his muscular, well-oiled physique, however, the black dude just pops his eyes like Mantan Moreland and shinnies up the tree.

Oh well, that just means more Mole Men for Maciste to manhandle, and he proceeds to drive them off, but not before their leader loses his mask, revealing that he’s actually David Bowie from the Thin White Duke era.

Maciste coaxes the frightened bodybuilder out of the tree, and the man promptly flings himself on the ground and tenderly places Maciste’s foot on his own neck, whimpering, “I will be your slave forever.” Hmmm. You know, I should probably check the Freshness Date on this thing, because I’m beginning to think there was a typo on YouTube and it was actually made in 1861.

Anyway, the black guy is named “Bangor.” I’m a little disappointed by his lack of an authentic Down East accent, but I’ll meet the filmmakers halfway and just imagine all his lines being spoken by that guy from the Pepperidge Farm commercials. Bangor, by the way, is played by Paul Wynter, who was crowned Mr. Universe in 1960 and immediately cashed in his fame for a role in this piece of shit, a decision which later made Vanessa Williams feel much better about her bumpy reign as Miss America.

Next morning, Bangor serves Maciste breakfast in bed. Bangor has obviously been up for hours, because he’s had time to split a coconut and apply a fresh coat of glistening body grease. The two engorged specimens eye one another over the rims of their respective nuts as they gulp down the milky contents.

Okay, sorry, just had to get that out of my system. I should be fine for the rest of the movie.

The Mole Men have cleverly disguised the secret entrance to their hidden base, but they made one fatal error: they left all their still-saddled horses tied up next to it, so even a lead shot-for-brains like Maciste can figure it out. He immediately hatches a brilliant plan to get inside, which involves taking a nap.

Meanwhile, the Thin White Duke’s dad performs surgery on him without anesthetic, while Bowie screams and writhes and drips poster paint. It’s supposed to be harrowing, but I was too distracted by dad’s headdress, which eerily resembles the hat worn by the Grand Poobah of Fred Flintstone's lodge.

The cameraman finds the blue filter so it can be night again, and the M&Ms sneak up and surround Maciste, who lies on his back, pretending to be asleep, confident for some reason that these guys won’t all just stab their swords into him like so many ruffled toothpicks plunging into a chafing dish of Vienna Franks and cheese fondue.

Instead, they tie up Maciste and Bangor and take them underground, where they find Group A being forced to work in the M&M mines, and to listen to that one Midnight Oil album.

The prisoners castigate Bangor, who was supposed to be guarding their ruler, Princess Salubrious, and not practicing Japanese rope bondage with photophobic Klansmen, or sucking coconut milk with his beefy new friend.

Maciste and Bangor are put to work with the others. For the purposes of this film, “mining” means pushing around a giant wooden merry-go-round while screaming with excitement like you’re on a rollercoaster. Unsurprisingly, there isn’t a long line for this ride, and even without a Fast Pass the wait is often less than half an hour.

"This is so bogus."

Meanwhile, Queen Bouffant, the evil but shapely monarch of the Mole Men makes a pass at Princess Salubrious, then snaps, “Put this girl in chains!” and suddenly I couldn’t love this movie more. Who needs Persian Kitty?

Queen Bouffant is betrothed to the Thin White Duke, but spends most of her time peeping through the drapes and watching Maciste and Bangor sweating, bulging, and glistening as they run around the merry-go-round. This comes as a surprise, because she doesn’t look like the kind of chick who would normally date carnies.

Later that night, the Queen’s black handmaiden, Sophocles Jones, goes to the prison cells and tells our heroes that the Queen plans to sacrifice Princess Salubrious, then make Bangor and Maciste fight to the death, because apparently achieving orgasm was a lot more involved back then.

Cut to a gravel quarry, where Queen Bouffant unveils a cage which contains a huge and savage ape (and the worst gorilla suit this side of the Nairobi Trio), and announces that anyone who defeats it gets to be her husband.  I'm sorry, but this is the wackiest episode of The Bachelorette I’ve ever seen, and I’m seriously tempted to switch over to Ice Road Truckers.

Bowie can’t fight the monster because he’s still on the 15-day DL, so Queen Bouffant tells Maciste and Bangor they can fight each other, and the winner gets ten minutes in the cage with the monkey. Suddenly it’s the end of Spartacus, where Kirk Douglas and Tony Curtis are forced to duel, each trying to spare the other a long painful death by crucifixion by stabbing him. Except here Bangor and Maciste are fighting over the right to wrestle J. Fred Muggs, and they don’t really fight so much as they just sort of squat there and repeatedly trade light slaps, like they’re auditioning for a Skin Bracer® commercial while suffering from a bout of diarrhea. Hilarity ensues, however, when Bangor takes a fall, and rises with sand sticking to every inch of his baby oiled body, making his pecs resemble two panko-encrusted chicken breasts.

It all finally ends when Bangor head-butts Maciste, and knocks himself out. Maciste realizes his friend was only trying to save his life, and he honors this beau geste by squatting on the unconscious man’s chest like he’s about to deposit a Cleveland Steamer.

After the implied German fetish video, our hero gets in the cage, kills the gorilla costume, and is declared the rightful fiancé of Queen Bouffant. But Maciste is a confirmed bachelor, and he runs off with the comatose Princess Salubrious in his arms and escapes on a surprised horse who didn’t really want to get involved, and was just there to watch the primates wrestle.

Maciste takes Salubrious to Cypress Gardens, Florida, where they shower under the waterfall and watch The Go-Gos perform a precision aquaplaning exhibition. Then he heads back to the Mole Men’s subterranean empire, where he plans to stick a garden hose down their hole and drown them.

Meanwhile, the Grand Poobah wants Bouffant to punish the Mole Man who let Maciste escape. The Queen sentences him to lay on a beach towel until dead, and sure enough, the condemned guard doesn’t get through even one Top 40 hit on his Panasonic Toot-A-Loop transistor radio before the rays of the sun burn all the flesh off his bones, leaving nothing behind but the great smell of Sea ‘N’ Ski.

Hey, anyone hungry? Because we’ve got a steam tray full of plot nuggets over here. Grand Poobah tells David Bowie that Queen Bouffant isn’t actually a Mole Man – she was born on the surface, which means she’s got melanin, so the Thin White Duke has to breed with her, so his children will grow up to frolic on the beach and get their pants pulled down by a Scottish terrier.

Bowie baits a trap for Maciste by tying Bangor to a tree again. And again, Maciste arrives to free his steroidal sidekick, except this time he falls into a Malay Mole Mancatcher, then he gets hoisted up in a net, and then presumably minced and canned in spring water.

We cut to a Mole Man hitting a giant gong, and experience a brief surge of hope that we might have somehow switched over to TCM in time to catch a Rank Organisation film.

Nope. Queen Bouffant wants to see if Maciste is actually the strongest man in the world like it says in the title, and fortunately, Mole Man Land has a machine designed to test that very thing. It’s kind of a Rube Goldberg device, and the only thing I remember about the scene is the part where Sophocles Jones runs to give them water, and we get to watch two muscle men tongue a sea sponge.

I think I had a dream like this in Junior High...

But Maciste busts out some awesome feats of strength, and the Queen gets so turned on we suspect her throne could benefit from a few sea sponges. She frees Maciste so he can be her husband, because Bouffant doesn’t know she’s actually an above ground model, like a Doughboy Pool, and figures if she mates with our hero, then her kids will be able to tolerate sunlight. And if not, at least they'll look good in skin bronzer.

The Grand Poobah is pissed, and sets “the sacred lions” on them. But Maciste grabs the mallet from the gong and bonks the lions on the head, knocking them silly and dealing the worst blow to leonine dignity until Daktari.

Saved from certain death, and even more turned on by his ability to stun large cats, Queen Bouffant commands her minions to conduct Maciste to the Royal Booty Call Suite. But Poobah and Bowie slip him a roofie, then dump his body on that conveyor belt that Lucy and Viv worked at in the chocolate factory, except this one leads to a Bronze Age auto press.

Finding her booty call is getting a busy signal, Bouffant fears that Maciste has run off to be with Princess Salubrious (remember her?) and she decides to ride to Busch Gardens. But the other Mole Men (except for Bowie) refuse to accompany her because it’s almost dawn and they have to get up and go to work in the morning.

Back at the conveyor belt, Maciste regains consciousness and throws a spear through four guys who were walking single file because he woke up hungry and in the mood for shish kebab.  Then he frees all the slaves. But it turns out that Mole Man Land is a gated community, because the Grand Poobah locks all the exits, trapping them underground, and this is the signal for Maciste and Bangor to hold hands and stare into each other’s eyes.

It goes on for quite a long time, but they seem really comfortable with it, so who am I to judge? Suddenly, Maciste gets the idea to use a chain and the merry-go-round to pull down the ceiling, and everybody escapes.

Meanwhile, back at Bouffant, Bowie dies from third degree dawn (and it’s a prolonged and overacted death, according to ancient Mole Man tradition), while Bouffant realizes that she’s not actually an albino, and probably will be fine with just a little Bain de Soleil. She sees the world flooded with sunlight for the first time in her life, and it is glorious. A rainbow arches overhead as the awestruck queen walks to the edge of a waterfall, her once stern features softening into a child-like look of wonder. Then the sun gets in her eyes and she falls to her death.

The end.

So what have we learned from all this? Hell if I know – I’m too heavily medicated.  What do you guys think?

Please Line Up and Mellow Out

Next Tour at 4:20.

Cane And Able

Shout out to all my Crappers.  Just dropping in to thank everyone, again, for the well wishes, friendly advice, adventures in opioids, and Christopher Walken trivia, and to update you on the Great Spinetacular of '13.  It's been two weeks since the injury, and while I'm still confined to the apartment (and sometimes the bed), there has been some progress, which I would cautiously describe as "baby steps" (in that I can now take baby steps without the cane).  I'm still only semi mobile and quasi modo, but I try to remind myself that I've been through this before, and eventually recovered.

In the meantime, Mary is trying to lighten the mood by emailing me Facebook ads, which apparently means we've reached that inevitable scene from a marriage in which the two parties are reduced to communicating entirely in memes.  (I'm no expert, but I believe this typically occurs after the point when a wedded couple begins to resemble their pets, but before they start to march around the mall every morning in matching velour track suits.)

Anyway...Are you a waifish, hydrocephalic refugee from a Walter Keane portrait?  If so, then you may be qualified to (become a) SOCIAL WORKER!

Have you ever wondered what happened to former United Press correspondent Helen Thomas after she was forced to retire following some impolitic remarks on Palestine?  Well, you'll be happy to learn that the one time dean of the White House Press Corps has landed on her feet.  Ms. Thomas is now working the Anal Hygiene beat for Facebook, breaking stories and wind and explaining how toilet paper is like Alta Vista or HotBot, while Moist Flushable Wipes more closely resemble Google:

(click to embiggen, if you dare)

Finally, via the Fabulous Stacia of She Blogged By Night, a series of newspaper ads for the NBC fall line up from 1973, courtesy of Scenes From The Morgue (Banacek!  Police Surgeon!  Chase!  The Magician!  Diana Rigg in a sit com!)

And please check back in a day or so -- I hope to have some new movie stuff for you. 

Of Toil, Trouble, and Troll Dolls

UPDATED BELOW with Special Guest Villain

Just wanted to check in and say that I'm not dead -- I just wish I was -- and to thank everyone for the very kind well-wishes.  They lifted my spirits considerably, which is good because physically, things have gone all to hell. I've had to cut my intake of painkillers below the recommended dosage because they were making me ill, and if there's one thing that could take this condition from mere Agony to Martyrdom, it would be suffering the paroxysms of reverse peristalsis while bent over the toilet.  Not that I'd be likely to even reach the bathroom in time, given my current top landspeed (although Riley -- an aficionado of recreational vomit who's turned three-quarters of the carpet into museum quality pieces of abstract expressionism, considers this a plus; but I'd still face a race against time to find a clean spot before hurling, lest I be accused of disrespecting a fellow tagger's work).

Rather than indulge myself with yet another lurid paean to pain, I'll simply quote, in part, Chris Vosburg's comment to the post below, which offers an apt description of my routine:

I think I'm familiar with the "getting out of bed" deal from my bicycle v car crash days: a complicated combination of rolling, momentum, clutching at tabletops and then lamps, and finally, maybe, upright (well, almost!), with clenched teeth.

And then okay, now what, you say, 'cause it's not really any better from there, as you hug a wall across the room.

In fact, this description is so eerily precise that Mary wondered if he'd been watching some reality show of which we were the unwitting stars -- America's Next Top Hunchback, perhaps, or, So You Think You Can Hobble?

On the bright side, in order to pick up anything sitting on a desk or table or other low surface I've been forced to perfect the Bunny Dip, bringing me one degree of separation closer to Gloria Steinem.

On the not so bright side, they're making a Troll Dolls movie:

With an animated film based on the Troll doll toy franchise already in development, DreamWorks Animation has gone one step further and bought the entire brand... 

Deal with the Dam Family and Dam Things of Denmark now makes DreamWorks Animation the exclusive worldwide licensor of merchandise rights for the Trolls, except for Scandanavia, the birthplace of the characters, where Dam Things will remain the licensor.

I'm sure DreamWorks knows what it's doing, but I wouldn't be so quick to discard the products Scandinavian origins.  Personally, I can't think of a better way to describe these dolls than "Dam Things."

Unfortunately, after that news I can't possibly achieve a lower opinion of my fellow creatures, so there's really no point in seeing what Dr. Mike is up to this week.  Instead, let's check the referrer logs and answer our Top Ten Google Queries (although I don't know how much longer I can stay in this chair, so I don't promise to make it all the way to ten):

1.  Anal secretrye:  It's the rye whiskey that's strong enough for a man, but made for a Rick Santorum fan.

2.  the most scariest phiranna in the world:  "Eats my candy, drinks my brandy, gnaws my face off..."

3.  vaginal exam hidden cam: I should have expected something like this when Dateline NBC first announced they'd hired Annie Sprinkle as a correspondent.

4.  please don't poke the ymir:  In this episode of the 1965-67 NBC sitcom Please Don't Eat the Daisies, identical twins Trevor and Tracy find a steel capsule containing an embryonic bipedal lizard from Venus.  The boys try to raise the creature in the rumpus room without their parents' knowledge, but comic hijinks ensue when it grows unexpectedly large and devours them, forcing Mom (Patricia "Pat" Crowley) to gut the creature the way Zeus disemboweled his father Cronos in order to free his siblings, whom Cronos had swallowed -- probably because he was on Jenny Craig and experiencing food cravings.  That happens a lot.

5.  thomas kincaide full of shit: Well, I suppose it's a more accurate byline than "painter of light."
5a.  Thomas kinkade painter of shite:  ibid.

6.  josef mengele savior:  Following the heady success of Jesus Christ Superstar and Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber took a slight misstep with this overly ambitious follow-up.

7.  the bench thinker Kevin mccullough:  Okay, this actually seems more of a misnomer than "painter of light," since I seriously doubt that Kevin McCullough could out-think a bench, or virtually anything you'd find a wino sleeping on.
7a.  Kevin mccullough is full of shit: ibid.
7b.  Kevin McCullough sex slavery:

"Yes, Mistress, I have been a naughty, disgusting little worm.  Say, does this shirt look okay? I've got to appear on Hannity later, and I don't want the dog collar to show..." 

8.  oh crap exorcism: said the Devil in Mercedes McCambridge's voice. 

9.  what does amniotic fluid smell and look like: I'm guessing this query represents the initial R&D efforts for a new impostor fragrance ("If you like Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific, you'll love Hey, I Think Your Water Just Broke!").

10.  swiss guard penis:  Clearly, someone thinks the Pope is a dick.

Bonus Query (since you guys have been so patient with me):

11. clown bomb:  Disgusted by President Johnson's refusal to drop the Bomb on Hanoi, General Curtis LeMay spearheaded a project to develop kinetic weapons which would produce similar devastation, but without the resulting fallout, and asked for volunteers to crawl inside a shell casing.  Quickly discovering that the weight of one man was insufficient, he theorized that a bomb no larger than a Volkswagon Beetle could contain a near limitless number of clowns, and demanded the Pentagon establish an ROTC program at Clown College in Sarasota, FL.  He was later sedated. 

And with that, I'm going to go lie down and time how long it takes before I'm upholstered in cat ass.

UPDATE:   Speaking of trolls...Man, you make one joke about exorcism, and the next thing you know, Jim Treacher is manifesting in your comments (below, and here).  Clearly, I need to send the Pope one of those FTD "I'm Sorry" bouquets ("I'm Sorry flowers from FTD can speak louder than words. No matter the offense, flowers are a great first step toward forgiveness. You can choose from gerbera daisies, lilies and many other great apology flowers.").

But which one?  Since I'd like credit for taking a great first step toward forgiveness without actually having to move, I'm partial to FTD's GOP BFD Bouquet, which doesn't say "I'm sorry I offended you," but rather, "I'm sorry you're offended," thereby evading any admission of liability, while implying that the injured party is a bit of a puss.  If this doesn't work, however, I'm going to need an old priest and a young priest, a piece of string, and a picture of Eve Arden.

And after rereading Jim's comment to the previous post ("Oh no. You're in pain? I guess I should show you as much sympathy as you've shown me...Just kidding. I wish you well"), I guess I also owe him a floral mea culpa.  Fortunately, FTD offers a nice "Apology Flowers for Algernon" Bouquet.

Oh the Pain, The Pain...

Sorry for the lack of posts lately (although I think I deserve a little credit for the frequency with which I apologize for not posting more frequently).  I really expected to be back to more regularly scheduled blogging by now, but I plead guilty with an explanation; unfortunately, I've got too much pain on the brain to actually explain at the moment, so I'm taking a risk that Mark Zuckerberg might sue me for violating his copyright to my words by porting over my last few status updates from Facebook:

April 5

Here's my State of the Union Report on what condition my condition is in. In a word: Ouch. In a more expressive and accurate word: [Expletive Deleted]. Apparently gnomes have been sneaking into my room at night and replacing my spine with a string of Black Cat firecrackers smuggled over from Tijuana, because when I picked up a 24 lb jug of cat litter yesterday and leaned over to pour it out, my vertebrae began exploding one after another.

Without hyperbole, this is the worst pain I've experienced in 3 years at least. Practically immobilized yesterday, and today, getting out of bed was a laborious process that involved a good deal of trial and error, the improvisation of various Rube Goldbergian devices for acquiring leverage, and more weeping and cursing than the Russian Roulette scene in The Deer Hunter.

April 6

State of the Spine report: Spent 9 minutes trying to get up this morning, displaying the grit, determination, and gracelessness of an inverted, ruptured tortoise attempting to right itself. Seriously considered just giving up and wetting the bed, but suspected that might prove legitimate grounds for divorce, so eventually I just put a washcloth in my mouth and pretended I was a cowboy biting down on a hunk of rawhide as I lay wild-eyed and feverish on my saddle, while the chuckwagon cook squatted in the flickering glow of the campfire and used a jackknife and a toasting fork to dig an arrowhead out of my back.

Finally, it came free (which is to say, I got a foot on the floor and a hand on the night stand). Cookie staunched the blood flow with a sweaty neckerchief, then the Trail Boss pulled out the harness strap I'd nearly bitten in half and allowed me a long, grateful pull of whiskey before they rolled me over and cauterized the wound with a branding iron. (Side effects may include pain, infection, unmanly shrieking, persistent scar tissue, and the tendency to be mistaken for a steer while standing in a bucolic environment. Ask your doctor if branding is right for you.)

However, now that I'm upright enough to swallow a pill without choking, I'm finding that helpful meds are helpful, and the pain is less constant, and more like brief, intense floggings with a cat o'nine tails, so I'll probably be switching to "The Story of O" fantasy for the remainder of the day.

April 7

Today's Beast With One Malfunctioning Back report begins with the Riddle of the Sphinx: "What moves on four legs in the morning, on two legs at noon, and on three legs in the evening?" If you answered, "Man," then you correctly guessed that A) I finally answered one of those spam emails for Male Enhancement, or B) I shamefacedly asked Mary to buy me a cane so I can make it from my desk to the bathroom. In related news, a lion with the head of a woman just burst into flames somewhere, and I say Good Riddance, because I think these Monsanto genetic modification products have just gotten out of hand.

So the bottom line is, things are much worse today. I can't straighten up, the meds are barely touching the pain, and I may have to sleep in the recliner tonight, because Mary's back at work tomorrow and I can't get out of bed unassisted. On the bright side, I did manage to slip a Sophocles reference into my daily bitchfest about my back, so while I'm whiny, I'd also edifying.

Okay, this is now officially the most self-indulgent post I've ever written, having navel-gazed all the way through to my backbone, but I wanted you guys to know why I haven't made good on my promise of more regular posts, and why any future posts over the next few days may sound a little on the opiate-assisted side.