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With apologies to Henry for
a nonexistent happenstance July 12, 2009 The dream occurred
in the late night hours of July 9 or the very early hours of July 10. They would
have to been early hours given that I was up for the day at four AM. The dream opened with me in my car, dressed for work.
I am rushing on my way to pick up my wife who is suddenly ready to give birth. Something which I can’t now recall occurs
and I end up changing my route and then getting lost. I find my way again and am now in a parking garage, but without my car (don’t know why). I have to give a Hallmark
greeting card to a cat. Not a cartoon feline, not a mutant talking animal – a run-of-the-mill hairball-hacking, meow-meowing,
in-a-box-pooping cat. Apparently, this exchange allows me
to have use of a riding lawn mower conveniently parked there. I head out
on the mower – slowly – and find myself in another garage which, in my dream world, I take to be at my own house,
or possibly my parents, though the dream garage looks nothing like the real ones either of us have. There, someone (Maybe
my dad) tells me that my wife was already taken to the hospital in my car. (I am looking at my car parked there in this perfect
garage as I hear this, but the spatial paradox is, of course, of no concern in dream land) My wife’s benefactor was Goofy. Not as in a wacky sort; As in Goofy,
the cartoon pal of Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck. to add further insult, The Goofster was apparently miffed that he had to
use my car small car – a Civic, necessitating folding his lanky frame up into a most undignified shape – even
for the star of “Goof Troop.” Before I can
finally head out, though, I find out my wife has had the baby in my absence. I think I find this out by hearing my wife’s
voice in my head. I have failed as a father even before
the baby arrived. I let little Henry down. The four-o’clock
alarm sounded and I woke up disappointed in myself, but fortunately, my July 10 reality was much brighter than my dream. My
wife and I –together - made it to the hospital and Henry arrived in due course at a healthy 7 lbs, 2 0unces. We took my wife’s car. Goofy still won’t return my calls. Check out the
Carnival of Glee and William Pepper on Twitter and Myspace! Pick up a Copy of the awesome Holiday Novel good for anytime “In the St.
Nick of Time,” a Santa Claus story for adults. Email us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com
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THE MACGYVER EFFECT: BRINGING DOWN AMERICA December 28, 2008 As the eighties moonwalked to a close, we all just said no to drugs, put on our multi-colored sweaters and
tuned into “MacGyver” every week. Mac, of course, was the secret agent anti-Bond, who never used a gun or drank.
Instead, he used science to save innocent bystanders from the mob, ended the Cold War (Think Reagan ever made an airplane
out of a garbage bag? Please.), and made the mullet cool in a way Billy Ray Cyrus never could. Mac was also really into nature
and microscopes and computers and junk. He made it cool for kids. And now, less than a
generation later, there’s a war on terror. Coincidence? Follow me here. I’ve been reading
about a movement among twenty and thirty-somethings (prime age for Mac’s viewers of original and first re-run episodes)
to do their own scientific experiments. And we’re not talking about potato clocks or sea monkeys type stuff. Computer
programmers are, for example, genetically altering yogurt bacteria so that it glows as a warning if there is melamine in the
yogurt. People are really excited about this in a way that they are not excited about, say, social interaction or
complete sentences. Websites are popping up to help give the public access to chemicals and equipment. And you thought MySpace
was a pox on society. You might be tempted to say good for the youth of America. It’s great to see young people taking the
initiative to bring science to the masses, to find new and better ways to do things, to make our world a better place. Isn’t
that what Obama’s campaign was all about? But consider: this is the same
generation that convinced the world that text-messaging was a good idea. And now we’re breeding millions of people who
can’t spell or even form coherent thoughts and turning them loose with chemicals. We’re terrified
that terrorists – who presumably have the potential to get the money and scientists they need to do it right –
will develop chemical weapons. However, we seem to have no problem with somebody who works all day at The Gap going home at
night and splicing a genetic sample from the pizza guy with hamster DNA. Though the resulting rodent that can get me my cheesy
bread in under thirty minutes and only seek a walnut for a tip is appealing, letting the average person dabble with this stuff
with no checks on how they do it or what they can come up with seems contrary to our national security. Citizen innovators have
done a lot of great things, of course. The Wright brothers were bicycle builders who dabbled in aviation with huge results
(the airsick bag). Bill Gates started out building computers in a garage that became Microsoft. Mr. Reeses accidently dropped
his chocolate bar in a jar of peanut butter. But none of those happy flukes had the potential to unleash a plague on humankind,
though that last one is irresistibly tasty. Still, one can’t help but imagine the limitless possibilities of a totally unfettered home scientist.
Glowing ‘gurt is just the tip of the peach-flavored iceberg. There are a lot of other things we’d like to see
come from this. If we’re going to do it anyway, why not have some fun with it? You know, before the whole population
is decimated. Sort of the Frosty theory of science: “So come on let’s run, and we’ll have some fun, now
before I melt away” from some new strain of flesh-eating bacteria the guy in the next cubicle whipped up on a coffee
break. Tired of fighting with your kids over who gets the drumsticks? Well, instead of watching another “Simpsons”
rerun you could have been down in the basement whipping up a four-legged chicken. Avoiding an ugly scene at the dinner table
(except for the freakish looking bird, that is) lets you get back to not communicating with each other at all like a normal
family. Imagine this: For years now, you’ve pretended not to hear a lot of what your significant other tells
you. But lately, you’ve noticed that you’re really not pretending. The doctor says your ears are fine but, ewww,
you’ve got pesky ear wax. What do you do? Well, if you’re a home scientist, you just mix up a little ear drop
solution made with Mentos and Coke and blast that yucky stuff out on a geyser of auditory relief. Plus, it’ll really
entertain the cat. And maybe the inlaws. So, sure, there’s a lot of potential in this home scientist thing. But you know how uneasy you get when
your neighbor tells you he mixed up another batch of wine in his bathtub and he offers you a gallon or two? Think how you’ll
feel when he invites you over for walking tacos and the thing actually strolls across your plate. All courtesy of a guy
who’s not any smarter than you or me. Some of that bathtub wine sounds pretty good. Maybe the alcohol will prevent infection when the home scientists
finally cause an outbreak. Email us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com
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I’m Sorry, Valentine 2009 Dateline: The Intersection of You, My Heart and a Love
Infarction February 14, 2009 I’m sorry I left you for AIG. They were rich. I
was weak. But now they’re busted. But at least OUR love is as solvent as ever…hey, what’s that? You pawned
your watch? And where’s your shirt? I’m
sorry my package provided inadequate stimulus. I’m
sorry that I tried to save money on the Valentine’s party by bypassing the red, white and pink decorations in favor
of the black and gray. On the other hand, we’re all set for the next time somebody dies. I’m sorry you’ll never be Barack Obama. Governor Palin, I love you, but the election is over. Please go away. Also, Joe the Plumber. And
you too, Rush Limbaugh. I’m sorry that
the candy hearts I picked up for your kid’s valentine party all had four-letter words on them. That’s the last
time I shop at Naked Wal-Mart. I’m sorry
my Valentine’s heart has clogged arteries. I’m
sorry the only singing valentine card I could get was “Baby Got Back.” It makes the choice of the jumbo candy
box on wheels I also got you sort of unfortunate. I’m
sorry the appendix doesn’t get a holiday. The heart has Valentine’s Day; the stomach has Halloween and Thanksgiving;
the liver has St. Patrick’s Day. The appendix, though, just sits alone and quiet for years and then one day makes you
throw up; which brings me back to St. Patrick’s Day. I’m sorry you had to have your stomach pumped. In hindsight, maybe hiding a loose, uncut diamond
in your cake wasn’t such a good idea. I almost hate to mention what I put in the entrée. I’m sorry that I thought it would be cute to show
up at your house by surprise dressed only in Cupid’s diaper. In my defense, who knew your whole family would be there.
Or that your grandma would be wearing the same outfit. Email us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com
And pick up a copy of my novel “In the St. Nick of Time.” Santa Claus: He’s not just for Christmas anymore.
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OTHER THINGS I’D LIKE TO SMASH WITH THE NEW SUPER COLLIDER Dateline:
The Edge of Blackhole in My Very Own Backyard September 13, 2008 In
high school, my friend Kevin and I spent a Thanksgiving break dropping eggs from my mother’s refrigerator on the kitchen
floor. This wasn’t wanton destruction. Omelettes were sacrificed in the name
of science. Our physics teacher had assigned each of his students the task of designing a vehicle that would keep an egg from
cracking when dropped. We could only use a set amount of masking tape and drinking straws to do so. Our efforts paid off.
My vehicle performed the best in my class; Kevin’s vehicle performed the best in his class; and a mutual friend of ours
created the best vehicle of all the classes. His egg withstood being dropped from the top of the school building. So,
clearly, I am an expert on physics. I dabbled with astronomy in college and spent many serene nights on the roof of the astronomy
building looking up at the heavens and not having a clue what I was looking at. Thus
it was that I read with great interest the news that an eight billion dollar (slightly more than my egg vehicle budget) super
collider has been built under Switzerland. The goal is to spin protons around really fast and smash them together to see what
happens. Somehow, they managed to pull this off without my vast physics experience. Granted, the egg splatters on the linoleum
never had the potential to reveal the secrets to the origins of the universe; just the secrets of good mopping technique. If
the international scientific community had called, however, I would have suggested that protons are fine, but they’ve
got a multi-billion dollar piece of equipment to pay for. You’ve never going to pull in the big endorsement deals with
a bunch of particles you can’t even see with the naked eye (naked particles, maybe). To get the big money, they’re
gonna have to mix things up a little; maybe smash a few bigger items. Something to excite the crowd. Here, then, based on
my unique experimental science background, are a few suggestions for other cool (that is, educational) they could smash: Watermelons. It’s a natural.
Anytime there’s an event where they are dropping things from a great height, they always feature a watermelon. Just
ask Gallagher. Or Letterman. It’s a proven winner. The sound of a pulpy, exploding melon is the ka-ching of a cash register. The
most prized possession of the person who invented text messaging. No particular reason, other than I really hate text messaging. A
couple matchbox cars. When I was a kid, I had one of those plastic hot wheels race tracks where you could never quite get
the cars to go fast enough to make the full three-hundred-sixty degrees on the loop without falling off. I’ll bet if
they stick one in the super collider at near the speed of light, it could make that loop. So
there it is, eggheads of the world. Since the promised blackhole that could consume the globe didn’t materialize when
they turned the collider on, this is the only way you’re going to generate some groupies. No need to thank me. I’ll
be expecting my Nobel to arrive in the mail. FedEx it if you want. Or maybe just fire it over here through your superfast
delivery system. That last idea was a freebie. Email us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com And don’t forget to check out William Pepper’s new book, IN THE
ST. NICK OF TIME. On sale now.
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GOODNIGHT 2008
With Apologies to Margaret
Wise Brown December 27, 2008 In the year now gone by There was an election And hockey moms And a picture of Sarah palin in a flag bikini and shotgun (fake or not, we cannot say) And there were three big automakers begging for cash And banks too And Black Friday failed to wow But
Brittany did And Obama ushered in a
new world But newman, Carlin, Crichton, Wallace left
the old one behind And as randy pausch gave
his last lecture, we all whispered “hush” Goodnight studs terkel Goodnight
McCain, Hillary for Pres. Goodnight Lehman Bros.
and AIG Goodnight Christmas snowstorms And the writers strike Goodnight Yankee Stadium Goodnight Blagojevich Oh,
wait, you’re not going? Why not? And
goodnight Majel Barrett Roddenberry Star
Trek Geeks mourn And goodnight foreclosure
crisis (Please, God) Goodnight Tim Russert,
Isaac Hayes and Bettie Page (Imagine that dinner party
in heaven) And goodnight Mark “Deep
Throat” Felt Goodnight Ertha Kitt And goodnight Larry “Bozo” Harmon Goodnight nobody Goodnight financial crush And
goodnight to general demeanor of “hush” Goodnight stars Goodnight Air Goodnight mavericks everywhere
Email us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com and Check Out the New Novel IN THE ST. NICK OF TIME. On Sale Now.
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CONVERSATION OVERHEARD IN THE WAITING AREA AT THE CAR REPAIR PLACE August 10, 2008 The couple was middle-aged,
lumpy, plainly dressed. They were enjoying their sodas and seemingly having a fine day with no plans more elaborate to wait
for their car to be repaired. An anti-depressant commercial came on the waiting room TV. The couple watched with interest. HIM: So, if you think about killing yourself,
you’re suicidal? HER: Yeah. If you think about it all the time. HIM: Constantly? HER: Yeah. The succinct point is punctuated by the
fizz of simultaneous soda-opening. HIM: ‘Cause the reason I ask is, Jim says he thinks about killing himself. HER: Yeah? HIM: Yeah. And instead of being sympathetic
like I usually am. I was telling him how to do it. HER: Well… HIM: Yeah, I said, don’t cut your wrists this way, cut ‘em this way. (He demonstrates,
but I can’t see without being obvious) HER: Why? HIM: ‘Cause if you do it this way, they can repair it. The other way hurts, but you bleed
out faster. [They both laugh.] HIM: He was sort of getting mad. Here I am, telling him what to do. ‘Don’t hang
yourself,’ I said. “It’ll hurt a lot…if you survive.’ HER: That’s true. HIM: ‘Course you won’t remember
it for long. They laugh again. They watch TV a few more moments. I was called away to retrieve my vehicle. The oil change was
complete so I didn’t get to hear any more. As I was leaving, I think I saw the happy couple walk out to stand in the
sun. Email
us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com And don’t forget (in case you missed all the other plugs on this site) to pick up IN THE ST. NICK OF TIME,
the debut novel by William Pepper
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AND
NOW, A WORD FROM THE FDA Dateline:
Old McDonald’s E-I-E-I-O Baby! January 15, 2008 Recently, the FDA ruled that food products derived from cloned animals is perfectly safe to
eat. This is great! We, for one, are very excited about the possibility of glow-in-the-dark hot dogs. And we thought it was
awesome when they started injecting cheese into them. Just wait until they start glowing green like those pigs in China. Yummy! This is good news for farmers,
or, rather, the evil twins of farmers. While Old McDonald is busy toiling away to milk Bossie, slop the hogs, and pluck the
chickens, the goateed NEW McDonald, Old McDonald’s evil twin from a parallel universe, can kick back while his evil
minions shove the livestock through a Xerox-brand copy machine. DISCLAIMER: The Xerox Corporation, assuming it still exists, does not, in any fashion, advocate,
endorse, or otherwise facilitate the application of office equipment to livestock. It just thinks hamburgers are tasty. If
Xerox doesn’t actually exist anymore, then, by all means, anything with wings or four legs is fair game. Copy ‘em,
staple ‘em, make ‘em figure out how to use your voice mail system. Go for it. Anyway, as excited as we were to hear that
our unholy ham steaks are wholly edible, we’re even more excited to hear about the OTHER, lesser noted things the FDA
said we could do with our cloned animals. These include: THE SUPERBOWL OF COWPIE TOSSING: As fun as drinking beer and tossing cowpies in ninety-five
degree heat can be, imagine the thrill of pitting two great leagues of bovine turds, one based on nature, the other in the
gifts of modern technology, against each other for intestinal supremacy. I envision the “Stinky and Pure” League
going up against The League of “Chunkiness Courtesy of Science.” Let’s get ready to rumble –in our
colons! MY
FISH HAS MORE LEGS THAN YOUR FISH: These days, everyone has an eight-legged cat and a guinea pig with two heads. They’re
so 2002. Much as Blu-Ray has overtaken HD DVD in less time than it takes to change the channel from presidential debates to
“American Gladiators,” run-of-the-mill mutations of wildlife are soooo over. Thanks to science we can recreate
our most beloved animals – only weirder. Think a goat with two horns is cool? How about eight? Love the way your dog
wakes you up every morning by affectionately nuzzling your ear? Well, now you can have the loyalty of your old friend cloned
into a whole new pet, plus with a little genetic tinkering, perhaps, the ability to make killer French toast. SIDENOTE: unlike, say the monster
cookie and Death by Chocolate, killer French toast is not actually available, at least not outside of a Denny’s $3.99
special. CLONED
ANIMALS WILL PRESERVE THE FAMILY FARM: Remember George Orwell’s “Animal Farm”? The animals rose up and overthrew
the human oppressors. With no options to clone their best stock, the farmers were ruined. Now that we have cloning, however,
the out-of-work farmer can clone their best, most faithful, stock. Those animals, in turn, with keep the uppity cows and pigs
and such in check. The whole herd will be at peace. Until we eat them. Sure, modern science has brought us a lot of freaky things: DNA, stem cells, professional baseball
players. But we should not fear cloning. We are the FDA. We say it’s okay. If you disagree, just remember, we know where
you gave your last blood sample. You can be replaced. Have a nice day! And a hamburger. Email us at carnivalofglee@.mchsi.com
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A CARNIVAL-LIKE SPECIAL FEATURE: NOBODY CARES ABOUT THIS BUT
ME Dateline: Last stop on the train to Geekville March 11, 2008 This is one
of those columns where we as a public-service oriented website come to the realization that you all paid absolutely nothing
to read this, so if I want to take a break from saving the world from itself to indulge my own whimsy, then that’s what
I’m going to do. So here goes: I’m lying in bed the other night, floating
softly in that hazy interlude between consciousness and sleep when I had a stunning realization: The sitcoms
“Dream On” and “Scrubs” are the exact same show. I did warn you. Okay, for the two of you still reading this (Hi, Dad. Hi, Jerry.), here’s
the scoop. “Dream On” was a sitcom that ran on HBO from 1990-1996 and was noted largely, at least at first, for
its prominent female nudity and profanity; both of these were still fairly novel developments in television at that time.
“Scrubs” is a sitcom currently in its seventh season. Being a network show, there’s no nudity or much less
profanity, but beyond that, I maintain, they are essentially the same show. Below is a point-by-point comparison. No need
to thank me. Central character: On “Dream On,” the central character is a sweet, hapless,
working joe, Martin Tupper, who works as a book editor at a small publishing house, surrounded by crazies at work and at home.
When he gets really stressed out, he flashes back to scenes from old TV shows and movies he remembers from his youth that
are somehow relevant to what’s happening. On “Scrubs,” the
central character is a sweet, hapless, working joe, JD, who works as a doctor at a small hospital, surrounded by crazies at
work and at home. When he gets really stressed out, he flashes back to scenes
from his college years or imagines himself or his friends in wild, cartoonish scenes that are somehow relevant to what’s
happening. Seriously. I did warn you this was geeky. Best Buddy
to the Central Character: On “Dream On,” Martin’s best friend, Eddie, was black and a smooth talking charmer.
On “Scrubs,” JD’s best friend, Turk, is black and a smooth talking charmer. Other Character
Who Busts Central Character’s Chops but is Really a Friend/Mentor/Confidant in Wolf’s Clothing: On “Dream
On,” Martin had endless sparring matches with his verbally abusive secretary, through which Martin would resolve his
problem. On “Scrubs,” JD suffers the witty, but cutting, put-downs
of his colleague, Dr. Cox, which are usually well-timed to teach JD a lesson that will solve his problem. The Obnoxious
Boss: On “Dream On,” Martin’s boss was the callous, money-grubber Gibby Fiske. On “Scrubs,”
JD has to contend with cold-hearted, budget miser Dr. Bob Kelso. The Former Love/Now Friend:
On “Dream On,” Martin is friends with ex-wife Judith, who is still occasionally exasperated by him. On “Scrubs,”
JD is friends with former-girlfriend Elliott, who is still occasionally exasperated by him. So, in summary… SCRUBS: Just
“Dream On,” wearing, well, scrubs. I rest my case. So why did
I do this? Certainly not to fill space. No, sir. We have a lot of great ideas for this column. A LOT. I just think
it’s an interesting study in psychology. Why can some people tell you the scores of every Super Bowl back to when Vince
Lombardi was in knee pants, but those same people have no clue how many members of Congress there are (answer: too many) Why does the
average person know all the words to the “Cheers” theme song, but not the National Anthem? And why in
the stillness of the night does the chain of similarities between an old sitcom and a newer sitcom flow through my thoughts
rather than, say, eighteenth century Russian literature? I don’t know. But I think
it could be something as simple as this: television, sports, popular culture are soothing to the mind. Focusing on these things – in moderation – is therapeutic. Or maybe I’m
just full of blarney – appt, given how close we are to St. Patrick’s Day. Now go watch
TV. Email us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com
Then check out our blog at www.carnivalglee.blogspot.com
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I’M O’SORRY: ST. PATTY’S DAY EDITION March 17, 2008 Dateline:
The Bottom of a Pint of Bitter Holiday Tears Another St. Patrick’s Day wheezes forth anew, alight on the breeze like the mournful wail of the bagpipes.
On this most cherished of days, we feel compelled – mostly because we’ve had a lot to drink – to unburden
ourselves of our regrets. Here goes: I’m
sorry about dumping all the snakes on you. I know you didn’t deserve it, but we had to get them out of Ireland. Pat
really wanted to lead the hamsters out instead, but I talked him into doing the snakes. Sorry ‘bout that. I’m sorry we’ve never nailed down whether
the shamrock is a four-leaf clover or a three-leaf one. The committee meetings keep getting bogged down by who’s supposed
to bring the doughnuts. I’m
sorry about the whole calling Ireland “the Emerald Isle” thing. That’s a little pretentious, isn’t
it? I’m sorry
about the endless parade of “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” merchandise. I mean, really, being Irish is no guarantee
of being attractive enough to kiss. If it was, Ireland would be flooded with immigration requests from nerdy Trekkies around
the world. I’m sorry
about Colin Farrell. I’m
sorry Frank McCourt’s stuff is so depressing. I’m sorry about the potato thing. I know it was a long time ago, but it really sucked. And I’m
sorry. I’m sorry
that this holiday compels people who couldn’t find Ireland on a map to declare themselves Irish by painting themselves
green and drinking ’till they spew. I’m sorry Maggie Fitzpatrick gave me her number at the St. Patrick’s Day party last year right
before she remembered she left the stove on and had to leave, but when I called it, the person who answered said, “Fifth
Street Cleaners.” Then, when I did a reverse search of the number on the Internet and got an address and went there,
the person who answered the door said he’d never heard of her. I must have written the number down wrong. Really. I’m
sure that’s what it was. Call me, Maggie... Please. I’m sorry U-2 hasn’t done anything musically interesting in twenty years. I’m sorry Celtic Highland games don’t get
a better fan turnout. I assume it’s because nobody knows what the hell a “caber” is or why you’d ever
want to toss it. Football, I guess, is an easier concept. But let’s see Eli Manning toss a hammer. A football weighs,
what? A pound? A hammer is twenty-two pounds, my friend. Take that. I’m sorry that when this St. Patrick’s Day is over I won’t remember the intense feelings
of fellowship and camaraderie I enjoyed, but even more sorry that I won’t remember where I left my pants. I’m sorry that all people know about leprechauns
is: pots of gold, cereal, and slasher movies. They have feelings, you know. I’m sorry those old guys in “Waking Ned Devine” pretended to be the dead guy so they could
swipe his Irish lottery winnings. That just gives all fictional Irish stereotypical small villagers a bad name. I’m sorry the resurgence of old “Old Spice”
commercials might lead to the return of those dorky, whistling “Irish Spring” soap commercials. I’m sorry that ever since peace took hold among
the Catholics and Protestants of Northern Ireland, the country just doesn’t seem that interesting to most of us anymore. I’m sorry that if you assert your individuality
and refuse to wear green on St. Patrick’s Day, you’ll be at risk of being pinched. We’re in a recession
already and really cannot afford the lost work productivity that will result from wary workers cowering in their cubicles
armed only with a staple remover to keep their co-workers at bay. I’m sorry that I don’t have an ending for this essay. The next round is on that guy in the green leprechaun hat. Email us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com or check out our blog at www.carnivalglee.blogspot.com Don’t forget to listen to our useless podcasts
too, either at the blog on our home page here.
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TURKEYS OF THE WORLD, UNITE! Dateline:
The wrong end of the baster November
14, 2007 Recently, our brothers
in struggle, the Hollywood writers, stood up to the man and said, “give us our internet royalties!” we should
support them, and, more than that, take inspiration and wage our own struggle.
We turkeys don’t need the royalties, of course, being well-compensated by that country that uses our name and our “Turkey
in the Straw” money. But that doesn’t mean we can be taken advantage of by our greedy oppressors. We should stand
up and say: “Give us our
giblets!” Also, our wings, breasts,
thighs and the unappetizing parts they put in the gravy. Yes, my fellow turkeys, as the season for giving thanks cloaked in avian avarice looms, it is time for us
to take a stand. And you can’t do that if your drumsticks have been grilled. Why must a holiday be marked by devouring our kin? At Christmas you get gifts. On Valentines Day, you get
flowers. Nobody gets eaten. On your birthday, you make a wish by blowing out a candle. Why on thanksgiving can you only make a wish by snapping our bones like twigs? This season, there will be no seasoning – no salt, pepper, nothing. The only dressing we’ll tolerate
is our official “Just Say No to White Meat – and Also Dark” extra-long turtle-neck sweaters (The slogan wouldn’t fit on the t-shirts) And there will be absolutely no insertion of anything into any of our body cavities. Never again. Ever. You want to know what really sticks in our gizzard? – well, literally,
there’s a tough, muscular membrane into which we insert small stones to grind up our food – but politically what
gets us is the way turkeys are portrayed in modern culture. Just dumb clucks who go “gobble gobble.” Society totally
overlooks the turkeys who worked on the manhattan project. And also “The A-Team.” Turkeys that come out of the oven golden brown and moist are craved, but call someone a “butterball”
and it’s an insult. Quick,
name a famous turkey? Daffy Duck? No, he’s, well, he’s a duck. How about Foghorn Leghorn? Or Tweetybird? Nope,
not them either, my friend. The man doesn’t want you on his TV, he wants you in his tv dinner with some of that eerie
neon-colored gravy/industrial adhesive. Fight
for your right to be more than a barrier to the pecan pie. Flap your wings and soar to freedom. Well, maybe you should take
the bus. So, this year, let
your voices be heard. The only gobbling should be of your yams, not your brothers. Send your turkeys to Congress, not the dinner table. That is all. Email
is at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com
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MORAL DECAY –
WITH ACCESSORIES August 11, 2007 Dateline:
The Precipice Some people will tell you that our society is in decline. In support, they’ll
point to the perceived erosion of family values, or terrorism, or Hollywood; all certainly noteworthy. For my money, however, the real evidence that the country
is going to Hell in a handbasket (a stupid way to travel, but what are you gonna do? Expedia can only do so much.) is this:
the Wienermobile got a parking ticket. It’s
true, while stopping in Chicago on a tour to get people to sing the “Oscar Mayer Wiener” song (as if anyone needs
any encouragement to do that – you’re doing it right now, aren’t you?), the giant vehicle shaped like a
sausage was cited for parking illegally. We understand the driver was also busted for being in possession of an amount of
pickle relish that exceeded the legal limit, but that has not been confirmed. What kind of country are we living in where giant vehicles formed in the shape of beloved renderings of casings
filled with more or less ingestible byproducts can be hassled by “The Man?” The emperor has no clothes, man, and
he’s covered in mustard. Before
we here at the Carnival get a bunch of angry emails from wienerheads (fans of wieners, that is), we’ll acknowledge that
we don’t know for sure that wieners contain animal “byproducts.” The truth is, we don’t know what
they contain, which is just fine with most of America, kind of like our government. On that last point, consider: our own Department of Homeland Security is developing a “light sabre”
weapon that works by beaming light at a wavelength that causes people to stumble or get dizzy and, frequently, throw up. It
has been affectionately dubbed the “pocket puke-ray” by some. The idea is to subdue a criminal or a mob without
the need to shoot them or otherwise physically assault them. As a side benefit, the massive clean up of crime scenes the weapons
will engender will mean that legions of teenagers will have part-time job opportunities other than fast food sales. The Carnival of Glee was able to obtain, at no small
cost, a top secret list of other weapons the Department of Homeland Security has been working on. There is no timetable for
the release of these items; presumably whenever the R&D money runs out – or we just finally get fed up with all
Canada’s shit. Here are some of our favorites: 1. The Mood Ring – No, it’s not what you’re
thinking, that staple of Cracker Jack boxes, the ring that changes color depending on your mood. No, the Homeland Security
“Mood Ring” takes the emotional temperature of a room and neutralizes. Say a federal agent goes undercover inside
a hostile terrorist cell wearing “The Mood Ring.” If the anti-America rhetoric heats up too much, the Mood Ring
will spritz everyone with a dose of Prozac. A similar device is being developed in the private sector by the makers of Cialis
for use on Retirement Communities. 2. The
Whistle-Blower – a hand-held device that you blow into. Instead of emitting a little tweet, however, this thing lobs
insults – all PC, of course, but they still hurt, darnit. Suppose a group of young street toughs is defacing the local
park with spray-pointed graffiti. In the old days, the cops would just shoot them. But with this new device, shooting artists
could be a thing of the past, except, you know, recreationally. Those hoodlums would be rendered whimpering babies by a blast
from the Whistle-Blower like “You’re a poor product of a crumbling educational system.” Ouch. 3. The Cupid’s-Stupid-Arrow
– with unwanted pregnancy and recreational sex continuing to plague society, except for my friend Murray (sorry, Murray),
this weapon arrives just in time. A specially designed bow seeks out couples making googly-eyes and fires a small projectile
into the subjects’ necks that injects into the bloodstreams the equivalent of a cold shower, or the image of your grandparents
doing it. Sure a few Saturday nights might be ruined and a few eyes might be poked out, but at least, in time, the evil condom
manufacturers will go out of business. So, here’s hoping Congress approves another hundred zillion trillion billion dollars for weapons research.
Well, that and a fat-free potato chip that doesn’t make you poop excessively. Email us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com
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CONFIDENTIAL: FOR YOUR EYES ONLY RE:
SYNOPSIS OF 13 EPISODE COMMITMENT FOR “THE TEARS AND THE SNOT,” SET TO PREMIERE ON THE MID-SEASON TELEVISION SCHEDULE. October
8, 2007 “The Tears and the Snot,” is a gripping new
prime-time dramedy centered on the wealthy family of patriarch Humboldt Harcourt. The Harcourts run a company called Plethora
which provides medical/lawyering/pest control services to the sexy housewives of gay superheroes and the undead behind the
scenes of a late-night sketch comedy series; all while operating out of a run-of-the-mill business office staffed by serial
killers with pension plans and axes. EPISODE 1 (Pilot) “Everybody
Dies – Sometimes Even Without Help.” While touring the offices of Plethora, addled family patriarch Humboldt Harcourt
becomes disoriented in cubicle-hell and suffers a fatal stapler accident. The future of Plethora is in turmoil. EP.
2: Harcourt daughter and erstwhile wunderkind, Jasmine Marie (who is, of course, a breakout character from that other network
hit “Hey, Bring Back My Pants”) returns to the family fold. Her triumphant
return is inadvertently marred when her backside is displayed for the whole office, dooming her to be called “Fanny
Girl” for the rest of the series. EP. 3: Humboldt Harcourt’s
ghost returns to the family compound and says “Mathers in Accounting killed me.” Mathers is immediately promoted.
Then beheaded. EP. 4: One of the sexy superhero housewives sues Plethora
because the surgery she asked for to reduce her impossibly large female superhero breasts didn’t take and now she can’t
fit in the corner booth at Starbucks. She embarks on a torrid affair with Lance Harcourt, Humboldt’s horndog youngest
son. EP. 5: Humboldt Harcourt’s estranged illegitimate son Peevo is
forced to flee the Brazilian rainforest amid allegations of corrupting the ecoysystem by training fire ants to salsa dance.
He reluctantly accepts Jasmine Marie’s offer to be vice-president for pest control at Plethora. EP.
6: Senator Barnswallow, an old friend of deceased family patriarch Humboldt Harcourt, convenes a Congressional inquiry to
appoint a special prosecutor to look into who loaded the stapler that fired the fatal shrapnel. EP.
7: Buela Harcourt, Humboldt’s wife, awakens from a coma and demands a ham sandwich – “I said ‘no pickle’
dammit! – much to the family’s surprise as they all thought she was dead.(“I thought you buried her,”
Jasmine Marie hisses at one point.) Family chef and immortal zombie Herbie misunderstands Buela’s sandwich order and
serves turkey, causing Buela to lapse back into a tryptophan-induced coma. EP.
8: Lance Harcourt is called upon to defend a superhero being sued for ruining a rooftop garden when he allegedly urinated
on it from fifteen-thousand feet. EP. 9: In a sweeps-week stunt,
the crew from one of the police forensics shows appears on “The Tears and the Snot” to exhume family patriarch
Humboldt Harcourt. In a mix up, they exhume his wife instead. Her response: “Thank, God. I STILL wasn’t dead!” EP.
10: Whatever washed-up comedy movie star that takes our call when this episode goes into production does a guest appearance
in a dramatic role as a person diagnosed with whatever disease is fashionable then. This episode will be submitted for Golden
Globe consideration. EP. 11: Peevo is having trouble focusing on his job as
VP for pest control and reveals he is addicted to men’s “body spray.”
Ironically, the DT’s make him believe bugs are crawling all over him and he can’t make them stop. Women abruptly stop throwing themselves at him. The episode will be submitted for Emmy consideration. EP.
12: Plethora is threatened with a hostile takeover by a progressive, charitable organization. Senator Barnswallow squelches
the deal in exchange for a favor to be named later. EP. 13: On “Bring
Your Junior Psychopath to Work Day,” things get out of hand and the serial killers inadvertently burn down the office,
with the entire Harcourt clan trapped inside. They serenade each other with “Kumbaya” as the building succumbs
to flames. Who will survive? Check your local listings for dates
and times. Who needs family time when you’ve got good television? And be sure to check out the piece of “Fan Fiction”
devoted to “The Tears and the Snot” on the “Really Short Fiction” page. Email
us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com
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