Quentin R. Bufogle's Blog, page 8
December 3, 2015
TRAGEDY IN SAN BERNARDINO
The San Bernardino "suspects" had over 1,600 rounds of ammo. To put this in perspective, that's roughly 100 times the amount the Clantons and the Earps had at the O.K. Corral; 50 times the amount expended by Ted Cruz in phoney, gun-shooting photo ops staged for NRA voters -- and a little less than half the amount Ted Nugent and his wife gave each other for Christmas last year.
October 14, 2015
HAPPY HOUR AT THE MEMORY CAFE
It'd been a rough day in Congress. The BRAIN had really been working overtime. "The BRAIN" was an artificial intel program that ran the world's largest corporation known as "ID." In fact, ID wasn't just the world's largest corporation -- it was the only one left. Centuries of mergers and acquisitions had reduced the free market to one giant, mega-company which owned everything ... including Congress.
Day after day, The BRAIN would flood the congressional chamber with thousands of new bills; such as the one requiring Shriner's to switch from tasseled hats to propeller beanies (ID was the leading manufacturer of propeller beanies).
In addition to the beanies, ID manufactured millions upon millions of plastic cups and Styrofoam containers for the fast food industry -- which made no real sense, since all the fast food places had disappeared over a hundred years ago along with all plant and animal life. People now ate synthetic food produced from a computer program on 3-D printers.
With no use for the millions of cups and containers, ID just dumped them into the empty crater once occupied by the now evaporated Pacific Ocean -- then had Congress vote for the taxpayers to fund it all. Whenever a new bill hit the floor, a flashing red "YEA" button would be pushed by a trained orangutan wearing a propeller beanie; the ape then rewarded with a synthetic banana. Each member of Congress was assigned their own personal surrogate orangutan responsible for casting all votes, thereby permitting the members to have no actual thoughts (as required by law).
Thinking was strictly verboten, so much so, that each representative's brain activity was monitored to ensure it didn't rise above the level of a coma patient.
When Congress adjourned, some members would head over to The Memory Cafe to unwind after a long day of flat-lining ...
Read the entire story:
trendprivemagazine.com/blog/happy-hou...
Day after day, The BRAIN would flood the congressional chamber with thousands of new bills; such as the one requiring Shriner's to switch from tasseled hats to propeller beanies (ID was the leading manufacturer of propeller beanies).
In addition to the beanies, ID manufactured millions upon millions of plastic cups and Styrofoam containers for the fast food industry -- which made no real sense, since all the fast food places had disappeared over a hundred years ago along with all plant and animal life. People now ate synthetic food produced from a computer program on 3-D printers.
With no use for the millions of cups and containers, ID just dumped them into the empty crater once occupied by the now evaporated Pacific Ocean -- then had Congress vote for the taxpayers to fund it all. Whenever a new bill hit the floor, a flashing red "YEA" button would be pushed by a trained orangutan wearing a propeller beanie; the ape then rewarded with a synthetic banana. Each member of Congress was assigned their own personal surrogate orangutan responsible for casting all votes, thereby permitting the members to have no actual thoughts (as required by law).
Thinking was strictly verboten, so much so, that each representative's brain activity was monitored to ensure it didn't rise above the level of a coma patient.
When Congress adjourned, some members would head over to The Memory Cafe to unwind after a long day of flat-lining ...
Read the entire story:
trendprivemagazine.com/blog/happy-hou...
February 13, 2015
ALIEN GO HOME!
It was the year 3015 and Earth was besieged by aliens. Despite the best efforts of the I.I.C. (Intergalactic Immigration Control) they still bored through the anti-matter shield surrounding the planet like giant termites gnawing through an old header beam. From every corner of the cosmos they came -- though mostly from a tiny planet orbiting a dying sun some 100,000,000,000,000 light years away.
They called themselves "Architeuvians." Hideous, squid-like beings with a dozen tentacle-like appendages undulating from an otherwise humanoid body. Huddled together in urban ghettos, they worked for meager wages at the lowest paying jobs: fry cooks; Walmart greeters. The folks on planet Earth were outraged. Not only were the aliens stealing jobs from needy Earthlings, but it was almost impossible to get a decent enchilada. As if things weren't bad enough, a brilliant though unknown star had mysteriously appeared in the night sky which had the entire scientific community scratching its collective noggin. What galaxy did this phantom gas ball hail from? Was it a supernova? Did it pose a potential threat to the planet Earth? Even the most powerful neutron telescopes yielded no answers. It was bright though. So bright, that by comparison, it made the Sun seem like a 40 watt bulb over which someone had draped an old T-shirt.
"I'm sick a lookin' at that thing ... It's so bright I can see it through my eyelids!" Maximus Interruptus said. Maximus was the "Deporter General." Top dog at the Intergalactic Deportation Center. It was his job to intercept alien life forms attempting to sneak through the anti-matter shield and slingshot them back to the planet (or star system) from whence they came. It was a lousy, thankless job ... and boy did he love it! Maximus squinted at the rogue star that blazed in the center of the night sky outside his observation portal.
"Bad omen if ya ask me ... and where in heaven's name is that grilled cheese sandwich I ordered from the commissary?"
"On its way Great One." Lucius, his assistant, said, "I hired a new cook today and things are a little backed up down there."
"Well, have 'em put a rush on it -- I'm starving!"
It had been a hectic day at the Deportation Center. Maximus had deported so many aliens that he hadn't had time to break for lunch. The captured aliens were trotted out before him where they were permitted to make their futile pleas for asylum -- then Maximus would pound his gavel loudly on his podium and holler, "Back you go!" ... And back they went -- at warp speed: their spacecraft blasted like a projectile from a giant ion propulsion cannon.
"What a day!" Maximus said, arm weary from all the incessant gavelling. "Any more requests for asylum, or can we adjourn for the evening?"
"The centurions just nabbed a couple trying to sneak through the shield ... and it looks like your sandwich has arrived."
An Architeuvian wearing a paper hat and apron suddenly appeared pushing a room service cart. It used one of its tentacle-like appendages to remove the cover from Maximus's grilled cheese sandwich, and three others to fasten a plastic bib around his neck and pour a cup of coffee.
"For the love of Euripides! ... Is that an Architeuvian you hired?"
Lucius gave Maximus a sheepish look. "He told me he was from France. Besides, with all those extra appendages he can do the work of an entire kitchen staff ... and wait'll you try his enchiladas!"
"BACK HE GOES!" Maximus roared, banging his gavel so frantically the Architeuvian fled in panic. "We're being overrun by these creatures! All aliens must go! Bring in the next couple for deportation!"
With that, a pair of aliens were hauled before Maximus: a male and female of such breathtaking beauty, that reaching for his grilled cheese sandwich, the Deporter General nearly swallowed his gavel instead. In all his years at the Intergalactic Deportation Center, Maximus had never encountered such magnificent beings. Their gleaming golden bodies looked as if they'd been carved by Michelangelo while thumbing through an underwear catalog. Both had flowing manes of bright silver hair and glittering emerald-like eyes; a pair of majestic white angel's wings sprouting from between their shoulder blades.
"What have we here?" Maximus leered at the female.
"Humble messengers bearing joyous tidings." The female smiled. Like her partner, she seemed to radiate an aura of goodwill and tranquility.
Maximus narrowed his already beady eyes, "Joyous tidings?"
"We have traversed the galaxy to proclaim the coming of a new king soon to be born unto you -- one heralded by the appearance of the great star."
"This is the year 3015 and we here on Earth no longer bow to kings." Maximus chuckled, "This isn't a monarchy ... it's a quasi-Fascist corporate oligarchy. I like your style though. Think I could arrange for a couple work visas. There's an opening for a cook and I could use a new personal assistant ..." Maximus winked at the female and banged his gavel, "Asylum granted!" The two aliens were then hustled off for processing.
"Anything else on the docket?"
"Indeed O Great One." Lucius said, "Seems we just intercepted another alien couple attempting to sneak through the shield."
"Very well then. Let's get this over with."
Two Architeuvians were led before Maximus. He looked them over with an air of disgust. Great Euripides! They were monstrous! What supreme being in his Heaven would create such an abomination?
"The hour draws late." Maximus said sternly, "Please state your case."
The larger of the pair bowed respectfully, tentacles undulating like an octopus.
"My name is X1R4Z3. In your English, 'Joseph.' And this is my mate, Y7Z2. in your English, 'Mary.' We spring from a planet whose sun is dying, and have traveled the very breadth of the cosmos to seek sanctuary here on Earth."
Maximus reached for his gavel, "Back you go!"
"But your Eminence! ..." The Architeuvian pleaded, "My mate is with child and due to give birth at any hour ... we beg you grant us asylum!"
"Oh, I get it!" Maximus sneered, "An anchor baby -- huh? Not on my watch! This is an Intergalactic Deportation Center -- not a maternity ward ... BACK YOU GO!"
"But your Eminence ..."
Maximus waved his gavel, "Spare me your feeble pleas for asylum. To borrow a phrase, 'there ain't no room at the inn.' Lucius, see that they're loaded into the ion propulsion cannon at once!"
Although the Architeuvian's eyes had all the emotive quality of a dead cod fish, even Maximus would've recognized the black hole of despair which registered there had he but bothered to look.
"Great One," Lucius interrupted, "With the holiday upon us, perhaps it would be a gesture of goodwill to allow the female to give birth before deporting them? There's an old shuttle craft hangar currently not in use. We can find space for them there."
"Ever the PR man, huh Lucius?" Maximus said, with a wry grin, "Brilliant! The media will simply eat it up! Very well then. I hereby declare a temporary stay of deportation until the female gives birth ... then back they go!"
Once again, Maximus's gavel sounded and the aliens were led away.
"That about wraps things up." Lucius said.
Maximus let out a sigh, "THANK GOD! I'm glad tomorrow's Christmas and we have the day off."
"Great One, why is Christmas celebrated as a holiday? Lucius asked, "Is there some historical significance?"
"Who knows?" Maximus said, "Just some anitquated ritual handed down through the ages. A day off is a day off."
"So true! Well, Merry Christmas O Great One!"
"Merry Christmas!"
They called themselves "Architeuvians." Hideous, squid-like beings with a dozen tentacle-like appendages undulating from an otherwise humanoid body. Huddled together in urban ghettos, they worked for meager wages at the lowest paying jobs: fry cooks; Walmart greeters. The folks on planet Earth were outraged. Not only were the aliens stealing jobs from needy Earthlings, but it was almost impossible to get a decent enchilada. As if things weren't bad enough, a brilliant though unknown star had mysteriously appeared in the night sky which had the entire scientific community scratching its collective noggin. What galaxy did this phantom gas ball hail from? Was it a supernova? Did it pose a potential threat to the planet Earth? Even the most powerful neutron telescopes yielded no answers. It was bright though. So bright, that by comparison, it made the Sun seem like a 40 watt bulb over which someone had draped an old T-shirt.
"I'm sick a lookin' at that thing ... It's so bright I can see it through my eyelids!" Maximus Interruptus said. Maximus was the "Deporter General." Top dog at the Intergalactic Deportation Center. It was his job to intercept alien life forms attempting to sneak through the anti-matter shield and slingshot them back to the planet (or star system) from whence they came. It was a lousy, thankless job ... and boy did he love it! Maximus squinted at the rogue star that blazed in the center of the night sky outside his observation portal.
"Bad omen if ya ask me ... and where in heaven's name is that grilled cheese sandwich I ordered from the commissary?"
"On its way Great One." Lucius, his assistant, said, "I hired a new cook today and things are a little backed up down there."
"Well, have 'em put a rush on it -- I'm starving!"
It had been a hectic day at the Deportation Center. Maximus had deported so many aliens that he hadn't had time to break for lunch. The captured aliens were trotted out before him where they were permitted to make their futile pleas for asylum -- then Maximus would pound his gavel loudly on his podium and holler, "Back you go!" ... And back they went -- at warp speed: their spacecraft blasted like a projectile from a giant ion propulsion cannon.
"What a day!" Maximus said, arm weary from all the incessant gavelling. "Any more requests for asylum, or can we adjourn for the evening?"
"The centurions just nabbed a couple trying to sneak through the shield ... and it looks like your sandwich has arrived."
An Architeuvian wearing a paper hat and apron suddenly appeared pushing a room service cart. It used one of its tentacle-like appendages to remove the cover from Maximus's grilled cheese sandwich, and three others to fasten a plastic bib around his neck and pour a cup of coffee.
"For the love of Euripides! ... Is that an Architeuvian you hired?"
Lucius gave Maximus a sheepish look. "He told me he was from France. Besides, with all those extra appendages he can do the work of an entire kitchen staff ... and wait'll you try his enchiladas!"
"BACK HE GOES!" Maximus roared, banging his gavel so frantically the Architeuvian fled in panic. "We're being overrun by these creatures! All aliens must go! Bring in the next couple for deportation!"
With that, a pair of aliens were hauled before Maximus: a male and female of such breathtaking beauty, that reaching for his grilled cheese sandwich, the Deporter General nearly swallowed his gavel instead. In all his years at the Intergalactic Deportation Center, Maximus had never encountered such magnificent beings. Their gleaming golden bodies looked as if they'd been carved by Michelangelo while thumbing through an underwear catalog. Both had flowing manes of bright silver hair and glittering emerald-like eyes; a pair of majestic white angel's wings sprouting from between their shoulder blades.
"What have we here?" Maximus leered at the female.
"Humble messengers bearing joyous tidings." The female smiled. Like her partner, she seemed to radiate an aura of goodwill and tranquility.
Maximus narrowed his already beady eyes, "Joyous tidings?"
"We have traversed the galaxy to proclaim the coming of a new king soon to be born unto you -- one heralded by the appearance of the great star."
"This is the year 3015 and we here on Earth no longer bow to kings." Maximus chuckled, "This isn't a monarchy ... it's a quasi-Fascist corporate oligarchy. I like your style though. Think I could arrange for a couple work visas. There's an opening for a cook and I could use a new personal assistant ..." Maximus winked at the female and banged his gavel, "Asylum granted!" The two aliens were then hustled off for processing.
"Anything else on the docket?"
"Indeed O Great One." Lucius said, "Seems we just intercepted another alien couple attempting to sneak through the shield."
"Very well then. Let's get this over with."
Two Architeuvians were led before Maximus. He looked them over with an air of disgust. Great Euripides! They were monstrous! What supreme being in his Heaven would create such an abomination?
"The hour draws late." Maximus said sternly, "Please state your case."
The larger of the pair bowed respectfully, tentacles undulating like an octopus.
"My name is X1R4Z3. In your English, 'Joseph.' And this is my mate, Y7Z2. in your English, 'Mary.' We spring from a planet whose sun is dying, and have traveled the very breadth of the cosmos to seek sanctuary here on Earth."
Maximus reached for his gavel, "Back you go!"
"But your Eminence! ..." The Architeuvian pleaded, "My mate is with child and due to give birth at any hour ... we beg you grant us asylum!"
"Oh, I get it!" Maximus sneered, "An anchor baby -- huh? Not on my watch! This is an Intergalactic Deportation Center -- not a maternity ward ... BACK YOU GO!"
"But your Eminence ..."
Maximus waved his gavel, "Spare me your feeble pleas for asylum. To borrow a phrase, 'there ain't no room at the inn.' Lucius, see that they're loaded into the ion propulsion cannon at once!"
Although the Architeuvian's eyes had all the emotive quality of a dead cod fish, even Maximus would've recognized the black hole of despair which registered there had he but bothered to look.
"Great One," Lucius interrupted, "With the holiday upon us, perhaps it would be a gesture of goodwill to allow the female to give birth before deporting them? There's an old shuttle craft hangar currently not in use. We can find space for them there."
"Ever the PR man, huh Lucius?" Maximus said, with a wry grin, "Brilliant! The media will simply eat it up! Very well then. I hereby declare a temporary stay of deportation until the female gives birth ... then back they go!"
Once again, Maximus's gavel sounded and the aliens were led away.
"That about wraps things up." Lucius said.
Maximus let out a sigh, "THANK GOD! I'm glad tomorrow's Christmas and we have the day off."
"Great One, why is Christmas celebrated as a holiday? Lucius asked, "Is there some historical significance?"
"Who knows?" Maximus said, "Just some anitquated ritual handed down through the ages. A day off is a day off."
"So true! Well, Merry Christmas O Great One!"
"Merry Christmas!"
February 13, 2014
VINCE NEIL'S LOOZA-PALOOZA
"LOOZA-PALOOZA" -- a weekly radio extravaganza (which can only be heard via extraterrestrial listening devices used by NASA) hosted by Motley Crue front man, Vince Neil, features washed-up rock stars, D-list celebs, and the occasional surprise guest ...
[Theme song "Girls, Girls, Girls" plays; announcer launches into intro ...]
ANNOUNCER: HELLLLOOOO LAS VEGAS!!! ... LIVE from the VIP room at Girls, Girls, Girls, here he is ... the man who made Spandex fashionable even for the not-so-well-endowed -- VINCE NEIL!!! ...
[As Vince bounds onto the stage, he slips and falls; a large banana pops out of his Spandex tights.]
VINCE: [Red faced.] Sorry folks ... happens every time I wear my 'Fruit of the Loom.' [Rim shot; applause machine.] Seriously folks, we got a great show so let's get right to it ... My first guest is an ass-kickin' front man voted #3 in Rolling Stone's poll, "Dudes I'd Like to French Kiss Even if I Were Straight." Give it up for Mr. Jon Bon Jovi!
[Applause machine; Vince and Jon high-five.]
VINCE: Jon, it's great ta see ya, man. Been a while; watcha been up to?
JON: Well y'know Vince ... bought a couple sports franchises and been focusin' on my philanthropy. Proud to announce the opening of The Jon Bon Jovi Free Clinic & Spa in downtown Nairobi. African women can now get bikini waxes in a safe, sterile environment.
[Applause machine.]
VINCE: You're doin' God's work, my friend. See ya brought the ol' six-string ... how 'bout a song?
JON: Sure, Vince. This is one I wrote 'bout the loneliness and isolation of bein' on the road ...
VINCE: Preach on it! Y'know, it's tough bein' away from your ol' lady an' the rug rats. Once, I was so lonesome, I hadda double-team a Victoria's Secret model with Tommy Lee.
JON: Okay ...
VINCE: Which reminds me ... we got a new sponsor -- Mega-Wood. [Holds up product for 8 patrons in strip club.] Men, ever troubled by sexual dysfunction? Can't cut the mustard? Whether you get "camera shy" makin' that home sex video, or just need a lil' "extra starch," you'll perform like a rock star with Mega-Wood! Comes in two great flavors: original, and pepperoni ...
[Vince spots a familiar face in the crowd.]
VINCE: Howard, issat you? Ladies 'n' gentlemen, The king of All Media, Howard Stern! [Two bouncers haul Stern to the microphone.] Welcome to Looza-Palooza, Howard!
[Applause machine.]
HOWARD: [Confused.] This isn't the Spearmint Rhino?
[Applause machine.]
VINCE: No man, it's my new variety show! You're on live radio!
HOWARD: Look Vince, I'm only in Vegas because of AGT.
VINCE: Sorry man -- didn't know you were sick.
HOWARD: No ... America's Got Talent. I'm a judge.
VINCE: Oh yeah! You and Steven Tyler -- love that show!
HOWARD: That's American Idol.
VINCE: If you say so! Hey, Howard, suppose I get one of my strippers to cover herself in Miracle Whip, then we throw bolgna at her ass?
[Applause machine.]
HOWARD: I don't do that stuff anymore Vince. I'm on network TV.
[Stern hauls ass out of the strip club; applause machine.]
JON: What about my acoustic set?
VINCE: We're all outta time. Join me next week when Oscar Goodman gets a VIP lap dance from Sharron Angle!
(Originally published in a slightly different format in the 6/28/12 issue of Las Vegas CityLife.)
[Theme song "Girls, Girls, Girls" plays; announcer launches into intro ...]
ANNOUNCER: HELLLLOOOO LAS VEGAS!!! ... LIVE from the VIP room at Girls, Girls, Girls, here he is ... the man who made Spandex fashionable even for the not-so-well-endowed -- VINCE NEIL!!! ...
[As Vince bounds onto the stage, he slips and falls; a large banana pops out of his Spandex tights.]
VINCE: [Red faced.] Sorry folks ... happens every time I wear my 'Fruit of the Loom.' [Rim shot; applause machine.] Seriously folks, we got a great show so let's get right to it ... My first guest is an ass-kickin' front man voted #3 in Rolling Stone's poll, "Dudes I'd Like to French Kiss Even if I Were Straight." Give it up for Mr. Jon Bon Jovi!
[Applause machine; Vince and Jon high-five.]
VINCE: Jon, it's great ta see ya, man. Been a while; watcha been up to?
JON: Well y'know Vince ... bought a couple sports franchises and been focusin' on my philanthropy. Proud to announce the opening of The Jon Bon Jovi Free Clinic & Spa in downtown Nairobi. African women can now get bikini waxes in a safe, sterile environment.
[Applause machine.]
VINCE: You're doin' God's work, my friend. See ya brought the ol' six-string ... how 'bout a song?
JON: Sure, Vince. This is one I wrote 'bout the loneliness and isolation of bein' on the road ...
VINCE: Preach on it! Y'know, it's tough bein' away from your ol' lady an' the rug rats. Once, I was so lonesome, I hadda double-team a Victoria's Secret model with Tommy Lee.
JON: Okay ...
VINCE: Which reminds me ... we got a new sponsor -- Mega-Wood. [Holds up product for 8 patrons in strip club.] Men, ever troubled by sexual dysfunction? Can't cut the mustard? Whether you get "camera shy" makin' that home sex video, or just need a lil' "extra starch," you'll perform like a rock star with Mega-Wood! Comes in two great flavors: original, and pepperoni ...
[Vince spots a familiar face in the crowd.]
VINCE: Howard, issat you? Ladies 'n' gentlemen, The king of All Media, Howard Stern! [Two bouncers haul Stern to the microphone.] Welcome to Looza-Palooza, Howard!
[Applause machine.]
HOWARD: [Confused.] This isn't the Spearmint Rhino?
[Applause machine.]
VINCE: No man, it's my new variety show! You're on live radio!
HOWARD: Look Vince, I'm only in Vegas because of AGT.
VINCE: Sorry man -- didn't know you were sick.
HOWARD: No ... America's Got Talent. I'm a judge.
VINCE: Oh yeah! You and Steven Tyler -- love that show!
HOWARD: That's American Idol.
VINCE: If you say so! Hey, Howard, suppose I get one of my strippers to cover herself in Miracle Whip, then we throw bolgna at her ass?
[Applause machine.]
HOWARD: I don't do that stuff anymore Vince. I'm on network TV.
[Stern hauls ass out of the strip club; applause machine.]
JON: What about my acoustic set?
VINCE: We're all outta time. Join me next week when Oscar Goodman gets a VIP lap dance from Sharron Angle!
(Originally published in a slightly different format in the 6/28/12 issue of Las Vegas CityLife.)
December 10, 2013
THE PHANTOM OF CAESARS PALACE
Scarred by an exploding jalapeno popper while working a deep fryer, a deranged cook now terrorizes the venerable Las Vegas property. As our story opens, a caped figure wearing a chef's hat -- face hidden by an Emeril Lagasse mask -- hauls an abducted cocktail waitress to his sub-basement lair ...
"Do not fear my child, no one will harm you! I have brought you here to the peace and tranquility of my underground lake, which lies deep below the wickedness above!"
"AAAAARRRRGHHH!"
"Speak, my child. While others fear the wrath of the Phantom, you are safe."
"AAAAARRRRGHHH!"
"Delicate flower, have you been stricken mute?"
"AAAAARRRRGHHH!"
"Perhaps if I remove your gag? There. Now, speak!"
"Oh, my goodness! I've been kidnapped by Emeril Lagasse!"
"This is but a mask I wear to hide the evil men have done me. It is I -- THE PHANTOM!"
"That nut who's been harassing everyone on the property?"
"NUT?! I was destined to become the greatest chef in all of Las Vegas -- but they were jealous! Executive Chef Pierre LaPierre and his boss, Harry Manlove. They stole my recipe for beef Wellington and stuck me on that lousy deep fryer!"
"But why have you brought me here? What is it you want?"
"I am going to teach you to cook. I will make you the greatest chef in Vegas! Only then will I be vindicated!"
"But I hate cooking. Can't we just order room service?"
"SILENCE! Now for your first lesson."
The Phantom draws back a curtain, revealing Chef LaPierre and Caesars CEO Manlove lying on a stainless-steel prep table -- each peering from a cocoon of pastry dough.
"Chef LaPierre and Harry Manlove! What will you do with them?"
"Not I, but you, my sweet. You're going to place them in my giant pizza oven and bake them like beef Wellington!"
"You fiend! You want me to bake them alive?"
"Just until they're golden-brown and flaky."
LaPierre speaks up. "You are a monster, monsieur!"
"Why, LaPierre? Because I'm going to bake you alive?"
"No! Because you didn't properly season us first!"
"ENOUGH! The hour of my revenge is at hand!"
Just then, a voice cuts through the din.
"STOP! STOP AT ONCE! I'M SHUTTING YOU DOWN!"
The waitress gasps. "Gordon Ramsay?!"
"That's right my darling. I've come to rescue you from this madman!"
"Chef Ramsay!" The Phantom says. "Finally we meet! How I've yearned for this moment. I have a question for you ..."
"Go on."
"Three years ago I auditioned for 'Hell's Kitchen' and never got a call back -- what's up with that?"
"No wonder! You call yourself a chef? About to pop these two old sots into the oven -- without even a brush of clarified butter?!"
"But chef --"
"SHUT UP! Do you know there's moldy blue cheese in your fridge?"
"But bleu cheese is supposed to be moldy ..."
"SHUT UP! This kitchen -- it's filthy!"
"Why, did you find rat droppings?"
"No. I had to bring my own." He paused. "And take off that ridiculous Emeril mask!"
Ramsay wrestles the mask from the Phantom, revealing a curiously unscarred mug.
"I thought you were horribly burned in a kitchen accident?"
"Well, I did have a blister ..."
"The jig is up, bub," Ramsay says. "I'm turning you in for crimes against the culinary world."
The Phantom turns to the waitress. "Will you wait for me?"
"Why not? It's hard to meet a nice guy in Vegas."
Ramsay claps the Phantom on the shoulder. "I'll be waiting, too. You're so deranged, so pathological, so evil -- you simply must be my new executive chef!"
"Not so fast, Ramsay!" Manlove barks. "He still works for me -- I see a musical ..."
(From the 2013 Valentine's Day issue of Las Vegas CityLife)
"Do not fear my child, no one will harm you! I have brought you here to the peace and tranquility of my underground lake, which lies deep below the wickedness above!"
"AAAAARRRRGHHH!"
"Speak, my child. While others fear the wrath of the Phantom, you are safe."
"AAAAARRRRGHHH!"
"Delicate flower, have you been stricken mute?"
"AAAAARRRRGHHH!"
"Perhaps if I remove your gag? There. Now, speak!"
"Oh, my goodness! I've been kidnapped by Emeril Lagasse!"
"This is but a mask I wear to hide the evil men have done me. It is I -- THE PHANTOM!"
"That nut who's been harassing everyone on the property?"
"NUT?! I was destined to become the greatest chef in all of Las Vegas -- but they were jealous! Executive Chef Pierre LaPierre and his boss, Harry Manlove. They stole my recipe for beef Wellington and stuck me on that lousy deep fryer!"
"But why have you brought me here? What is it you want?"
"I am going to teach you to cook. I will make you the greatest chef in Vegas! Only then will I be vindicated!"
"But I hate cooking. Can't we just order room service?"
"SILENCE! Now for your first lesson."
The Phantom draws back a curtain, revealing Chef LaPierre and Caesars CEO Manlove lying on a stainless-steel prep table -- each peering from a cocoon of pastry dough.
"Chef LaPierre and Harry Manlove! What will you do with them?"
"Not I, but you, my sweet. You're going to place them in my giant pizza oven and bake them like beef Wellington!"
"You fiend! You want me to bake them alive?"
"Just until they're golden-brown and flaky."
LaPierre speaks up. "You are a monster, monsieur!"
"Why, LaPierre? Because I'm going to bake you alive?"
"No! Because you didn't properly season us first!"
"ENOUGH! The hour of my revenge is at hand!"
Just then, a voice cuts through the din.
"STOP! STOP AT ONCE! I'M SHUTTING YOU DOWN!"
The waitress gasps. "Gordon Ramsay?!"
"That's right my darling. I've come to rescue you from this madman!"
"Chef Ramsay!" The Phantom says. "Finally we meet! How I've yearned for this moment. I have a question for you ..."
"Go on."
"Three years ago I auditioned for 'Hell's Kitchen' and never got a call back -- what's up with that?"
"No wonder! You call yourself a chef? About to pop these two old sots into the oven -- without even a brush of clarified butter?!"
"But chef --"
"SHUT UP! Do you know there's moldy blue cheese in your fridge?"
"But bleu cheese is supposed to be moldy ..."
"SHUT UP! This kitchen -- it's filthy!"
"Why, did you find rat droppings?"
"No. I had to bring my own." He paused. "And take off that ridiculous Emeril mask!"
Ramsay wrestles the mask from the Phantom, revealing a curiously unscarred mug.
"I thought you were horribly burned in a kitchen accident?"
"Well, I did have a blister ..."
"The jig is up, bub," Ramsay says. "I'm turning you in for crimes against the culinary world."
The Phantom turns to the waitress. "Will you wait for me?"
"Why not? It's hard to meet a nice guy in Vegas."
Ramsay claps the Phantom on the shoulder. "I'll be waiting, too. You're so deranged, so pathological, so evil -- you simply must be my new executive chef!"
"Not so fast, Ramsay!" Manlove barks. "He still works for me -- I see a musical ..."
(From the 2013 Valentine's Day issue of Las Vegas CityLife)
August 1, 2013
AIN'T NO MO' RACISM MASSA O'REILLY!
So's dey ain't no mo' racism cuz Jay-Z sells alotta CDs ... So says Massa Bill O'Reilly. Bill wants to know where the rapper gets his gall ... suggesting racism is still a problem when he's makin' all that green from whitey??? Hey Bill, I seem to recall Sammy Davis Jr. made quite a bit of coin, yet as a black man, wasn't permitted to stay at the very same Vegas hotels in which he was paid huge sums to perform. Sammy might've been a big star, but he was still black. Once, when Sammy took a dip in the "whites only" pool at the New Frontier, the hotel manager had the pool drained! Nope ... You right Massa Bill. Long as white folk likes da way you sings an' dance, ain't no racism! Let's face it ... if Trayvon Martin knew how to tap dance, he'd be alive today ... #dumbfnwhiteman
June 14, 2013
AN OSCAR FOR ELVIS
"Elvis! ... It's here! ... Your Academy Award just come in the mail!"
"Oh Colonel ... It's beautiful! I can't believe I won!"
"I tol' ya, Elvis. That ceremony they have on the TV is just nonsense! ... Real winners get their statues via the postal system."
"Colonel, I'm so glad you talked me into doin' that movie where I wrassle a crocodile ... then make love to it."
Colonel Parker took a pull on his cigar and nodded, "I just knowd if you had conjugal relations with that gator, all them freaks 'n' sissy boys in Hollywood would sit up and take notice! I hear Marlon Brando's thinkin' 'bout makin' love to a school of dolphins in his next picture."
"Underwater!? That Brando ... he really knows how ta push the envelope! I tell ya, Colonel -- I ain't been this excited since Julie Newmar dropped her towel on that movie set ... then bent over to pick it up ..."
The Colonel chuckled, "Ain't seen that much ass since they closed the free proctology clinic in Memphis."
"Y'know, I never wanted to be a sanger. All I ever wanted was to be a great movie actor, like my idol -- Popeye the Sailor. Say Colonel, how come these Oscars don't look like they do on TV ... this one looks a lil' rancid."
"Elvis, I done tol' ya ... things appear differently on television. You seen John Wayne on TV ... looks like a giant. In actual life, man's a midget ... gotta reach up to grab a cow's teat."
"Guess you're right ... who knew they were really made a chicken wire 'n' parts from an ol' G.I. Joe?"
"Elvis, don't be so dang ignorant ... that's called an 'object d'art.'"
"Well, I'm gonna go put this in my trophy case ... right next to my gold records -- and Shelley Fabares' underpants."
"That's a good boy, Elvis. Why doncha go do that? ... And don't forget, tomorrow we're havin' ya shot out of a cannon as publicity for your new movie, "Spring Break Hijinx on the Moon."
"Thanks again, Colonel! Don't know where I'd be if not for you!?"
"Like a kid with an ice cream cone." The Colonel mused once Elvis had left the room, "Thank the good Lord that boy was born gullible as he is good-lookin'."
"Oh Colonel ... It's beautiful! I can't believe I won!"
"I tol' ya, Elvis. That ceremony they have on the TV is just nonsense! ... Real winners get their statues via the postal system."
"Colonel, I'm so glad you talked me into doin' that movie where I wrassle a crocodile ... then make love to it."
Colonel Parker took a pull on his cigar and nodded, "I just knowd if you had conjugal relations with that gator, all them freaks 'n' sissy boys in Hollywood would sit up and take notice! I hear Marlon Brando's thinkin' 'bout makin' love to a school of dolphins in his next picture."
"Underwater!? That Brando ... he really knows how ta push the envelope! I tell ya, Colonel -- I ain't been this excited since Julie Newmar dropped her towel on that movie set ... then bent over to pick it up ..."
The Colonel chuckled, "Ain't seen that much ass since they closed the free proctology clinic in Memphis."
"Y'know, I never wanted to be a sanger. All I ever wanted was to be a great movie actor, like my idol -- Popeye the Sailor. Say Colonel, how come these Oscars don't look like they do on TV ... this one looks a lil' rancid."
"Elvis, I done tol' ya ... things appear differently on television. You seen John Wayne on TV ... looks like a giant. In actual life, man's a midget ... gotta reach up to grab a cow's teat."
"Guess you're right ... who knew they were really made a chicken wire 'n' parts from an ol' G.I. Joe?"
"Elvis, don't be so dang ignorant ... that's called an 'object d'art.'"
"Well, I'm gonna go put this in my trophy case ... right next to my gold records -- and Shelley Fabares' underpants."
"That's a good boy, Elvis. Why doncha go do that? ... And don't forget, tomorrow we're havin' ya shot out of a cannon as publicity for your new movie, "Spring Break Hijinx on the Moon."
"Thanks again, Colonel! Don't know where I'd be if not for you!?"
"Like a kid with an ice cream cone." The Colonel mused once Elvis had left the room, "Thank the good Lord that boy was born gullible as he is good-lookin'."
May 18, 2013
CELEBRATING THE F-WORD
I've been dropping a lot of F-bombs. Lately my blog posts have been peppered with them. In fact, that particular grouping of three consonants arranged around a single vowel -- whose short sound curiously resembles the utterance of those in the throes of orgasm -- has become such a staple of my writing, I'm beginning to wonder if I suffer from a case of literary Tourette's Syndrome.
Oh, I know it's a word -- much like "love" and "genius" -- that's used far too frequently; abused, misapplied (noun, verb and adjective). Remember Lenny Bruce? Lenny once said that he wished everyone would start using the "N-word." That he wished then President Kennedy would go on TV and repeat it over, and over, and over. Because if he did that, if everyone did that, the word would be rendered meaningless; lose all its shock value; its ability to wound. Lenny was right. Use a word often enough and its power dissipates. Ask any writer. Why then do we persist in using the word "fuck?"
Think of all the times that single word has been uttered? ... Just think of all the times you've used it! I sometimes imagine all those collective "fucks" have gone into the Aether like radio waves or television signals; somehow coalesced, forming one great cosmic expletive at the center of our galaxy -- like a massive black hole.
But, truth be told, "fuck" is something so much more than just a dirty word. It's a word of protest; of freedom and liberty. A word that people like Lenny Bruce and Henry Miller paid dearly for using, so that no one might censure our right to free speech -- or ban us from reading a book (ANY book!) Sounds incredible now, but saying (or writing) the word "fuck" could once land you in jail.
In 1964, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that Henry Miller's novel, "Tropic of Cancer," was not obscene -- lifting a 30 year ban on the book (first published in France in 1934) that sent booksellers, publishers, or anyone sending or receiving the book via U.S. mail, to prison. And not just Miller's book: Vladimir Nabokov's, "Lolita;" D.H. Lawrence's, "Lady Chatterley's Lover" and the writings of the Marquis de Sade, to name just a few.
So, let's celebrate the "F-word." As Lenny Bruce once said, "Take away the right to say 'fuck' and you take away the right to say 'fuck' the government."
Tropic of CancerLolitaLady Chatterley's Lover
Oh, I know it's a word -- much like "love" and "genius" -- that's used far too frequently; abused, misapplied (noun, verb and adjective). Remember Lenny Bruce? Lenny once said that he wished everyone would start using the "N-word." That he wished then President Kennedy would go on TV and repeat it over, and over, and over. Because if he did that, if everyone did that, the word would be rendered meaningless; lose all its shock value; its ability to wound. Lenny was right. Use a word often enough and its power dissipates. Ask any writer. Why then do we persist in using the word "fuck?"
Think of all the times that single word has been uttered? ... Just think of all the times you've used it! I sometimes imagine all those collective "fucks" have gone into the Aether like radio waves or television signals; somehow coalesced, forming one great cosmic expletive at the center of our galaxy -- like a massive black hole.
But, truth be told, "fuck" is something so much more than just a dirty word. It's a word of protest; of freedom and liberty. A word that people like Lenny Bruce and Henry Miller paid dearly for using, so that no one might censure our right to free speech -- or ban us from reading a book (ANY book!) Sounds incredible now, but saying (or writing) the word "fuck" could once land you in jail.
In 1964, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that Henry Miller's novel, "Tropic of Cancer," was not obscene -- lifting a 30 year ban on the book (first published in France in 1934) that sent booksellers, publishers, or anyone sending or receiving the book via U.S. mail, to prison. And not just Miller's book: Vladimir Nabokov's, "Lolita;" D.H. Lawrence's, "Lady Chatterley's Lover" and the writings of the Marquis de Sade, to name just a few.
So, let's celebrate the "F-word." As Lenny Bruce once said, "Take away the right to say 'fuck' and you take away the right to say 'fuck' the government."
Tropic of CancerLolitaLady Chatterley's Lover
May 8, 2013
SOME RANDOM THOUGHTS ON SUICIDE
For fuck's sake people ... if you've already decided to kill yourself, have some fun with it!!! I'd apply for 16 new credit cards (all issued by Bank of America); max 'em out, then blow the proceeds on hookers, VIP lap dances, bath salts & Japanese Bukkake porn. Then I'd leave a suicide note for Senior Republican Senator Mitch McConnel (who I'd refer to as "Sugar Tits") explaining how I could no longer bear the shame of our illicit love affair ...
I'd then off myself by having a transvestite hooker duct tape me (wearing a bustier & pair of "Cheekies") to the seat of a running car in Newt Gingrich's garage, while listening to the audio version of Bill O'Reilly's latest "Killing-Whoever-The-Fuck" book ...
I'd then off myself by having a transvestite hooker duct tape me (wearing a bustier & pair of "Cheekies") to the seat of a running car in Newt Gingrich's garage, while listening to the audio version of Bill O'Reilly's latest "Killing-Whoever-The-Fuck" book ...
May 7, 2013
HOW MUCH IS THAT VAGINA IN THE (BROWSER) WINDOW?
I HAVE NOTHING AGAINST DILDOS. Some of my best friends are dildos. (High-five Steve!) And I'm all for masturbation -- it's the only sport I lettered in while in college (University of Masters & Johnson, Class of '69). But to you, the webmaster over at Amazon.com, I say ENOUGH!!!
What's with all the dildos, butt plugs, inflatable love dolls and vibrating plastic vaginas listed as "also viewed" along with my novel, "Horse Latitudes?" To hear you tell it, every potential reader of my book is either an Amyl Nitrate popping, Viagra huffing nymphomaniac, or a member of Congress!
You mean to say no one in the entire book-browsing, cybersphere was interested in "The Red Badge of Courage," or some Jane Austen? ALL of 'em were shopping for a set of leather testicle restraints (by the way, you should try those)?
Would you have us believe that Ron Jeremy is now my #1 fan . . . or that Rush Limbaugh has been relentlessy browsing my Amazon listing in an OxyContin-fueled sexual rage??? It's not that I mind having my book compared to wanton tools of sexual gratification -- it's just that the vibrating anal beads have better reviews! Gimme a break man!!!
This is a plot; an attempt to undermine the credibility of an avowed liberal, left-wing scribe's war on all the right-wing panderers currently providing oral favors for banks and large corporations! (Trust me, those anal beads have Karl Rove's fingerprints all over 'em.)
I intend to fight back! To borrow an idiom from Mitt Romney: "What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander." Right on! (I'm not entirely sure what the fuck that means, but I think I get the gist of it.) Just take a peek at the Amazon listing for Callista Gingrich's children's book, "Sweet Land of Liberty (Ellis the Elephant)," and see what I've "also viewed." Let's just say the elephant ain't the biggest thing in the room.Horse Latitudes
What's with all the dildos, butt plugs, inflatable love dolls and vibrating plastic vaginas listed as "also viewed" along with my novel, "Horse Latitudes?" To hear you tell it, every potential reader of my book is either an Amyl Nitrate popping, Viagra huffing nymphomaniac, or a member of Congress!
You mean to say no one in the entire book-browsing, cybersphere was interested in "The Red Badge of Courage," or some Jane Austen? ALL of 'em were shopping for a set of leather testicle restraints (by the way, you should try those)?
Would you have us believe that Ron Jeremy is now my #1 fan . . . or that Rush Limbaugh has been relentlessy browsing my Amazon listing in an OxyContin-fueled sexual rage??? It's not that I mind having my book compared to wanton tools of sexual gratification -- it's just that the vibrating anal beads have better reviews! Gimme a break man!!!
This is a plot; an attempt to undermine the credibility of an avowed liberal, left-wing scribe's war on all the right-wing panderers currently providing oral favors for banks and large corporations! (Trust me, those anal beads have Karl Rove's fingerprints all over 'em.)
I intend to fight back! To borrow an idiom from Mitt Romney: "What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander." Right on! (I'm not entirely sure what the fuck that means, but I think I get the gist of it.) Just take a peek at the Amazon listing for Callista Gingrich's children's book, "Sweet Land of Liberty (Ellis the Elephant)," and see what I've "also viewed." Let's just say the elephant ain't the biggest thing in the room.Horse Latitudes
