American Fez

Modern Mantras #3: How To Be Poor

"Yeah, er, give me three Cash Fartz, one Teapot Dome, two Lucky Fatso's, a Jacob Javitz Wild and a Federal Bank Reserve, numbers twenty-three, fifty, seventy-one, six and minus-seventeen. How much is that?"
"Fifteen bucks."
"Okay. I'll take another Teapot Dome and a Money Scrotum as well."
"Twenty bucks."
"Okay. Here you go."
"Good luck."
(Furious scratching sounds, occasionally interrupted by slurps from a giant Coke)
"Hey. I've won a dollar! .... Nice. Looking good. Okay. Give me another Federal Bank Reserve, numbers three, minus-fourteen, eighty-seven, and twenty-nine-point-two, and, what the hell, I'll try two Golden Handshakes."
"Ten bucks."
(Furious scratching sounds, occasionally interrupted by slurps from a giant Coke)
"Dammit."
"Not a winner?"
"Nothing. Oh well. Not my lucky day, I guess. Tell you what, just give me a packet of Winston Lights and a chocolate Powerwedge and I'll be on my way."
"No problem. That'll be nine bucks fifty."
"Great. See you tomorrow."
"Yeah, see you tomorrow."

Jumping the Coelcanth

I read the whole of 'The Origin of Species' this past weekend and feel profoundly confident in denouncing Darwin's tedious little theories to be the most preposterous bilge I've ever had the misfortune to skim through while half-asleep on a Sunday afternoon. For a start, the bearded fool completely failed to distinguish between wizards and muggles. I scoured the index and was disgusted to find absolutely no mention of alien abductions, Bigfoot or the Abominable Sarah Palin, information that is readily available in any self-respecting Manga library or internet chat room. And surely dragons should have a chapter entirely to themselves? But apparently not in this sorry excuse for a "scholarly" tome. To cap it all off, it seems that this twit Darwin wasted all his research time pottering around on the wretched Galapagos Islands, never once bothering to visit Middle Earth, Narnia, the Twelfth Moon of Zumbria or any other location that might challenge his extremely conservative and narrow-minded opinions. How long will American students be forced to rely on such pseudo-scientific ramblings while copying their homework from some Asian classmate between awesome episodes of TV's Horny Princess?

Reflections From A Hammock

I recently managed to identify three important and hitherto oft ignored instances of "peace and quiet," and consequently I have decided to list them below for your convenience, thus:

Instance A: The Silence of the Grave With Nobody In It.
Contrary to popular cemeterial opinion, an empty grave is much quieter than a grave with somebody entombed within it, mostly because there will be no scratching noises on the coffin lid when the "corpse" awakens and discovers - with mounting, indescribable terror - that he or she has been buried alive. Neither will the all-devouring, conquering worm find rich harvest in the shroud of the dead, for he feasts not with with dainty table manners, etc.

Instance B: The Last of the Mohicans is Stealthily Stalking His Prey But - Oh No! - He Accidentally Steps on a Twig
Obviously this scenario is pretty damn quiet until our adventurously coiffed friend puts his foot in it, literally.

Instance C: There Is No-One In the Immediate Vicinity Berating the Atmosphere With Their Tedious and Banal Opinions Concerning Michael Jackson's Life and Death
This is perhaps the rarest and most precious form of peace and quiet. Truly blessed is he who experiences such a radiantly tranquil oasis of heavenly silence.

The Anus Dwellers (Sci-Fi), B&W, 1956, 374 mins

Although sadly unreleased on either DVD or VHS, cult director Bud Hack's six-hour cinematic masterpiece, The Anus Dwellers, is also totally unavailable on film or any other motion picture format. Hack's sci-fi magnum-opus exists only as a dim shadow-play in the unreliable memories of those who RSVP'd in the affirmative on their invites to the movie's premiere screening, but who had absolutely no intention of actually attending the interminable event.
I was lucky enough to interview Bud about The Anus Dwellers for 'Why Bother?' magazine in the late autumn of 2008. Our absorbing discussion took place at the lunatic asylum where Bud has lived since 1957, and although Bud's long-suffering larynx could only produce weird, high-pitched toad-like croaking sounds, he was able to convey to me some fascinating trivia about the making of the film.
For instance, many of The Anus Dwellers' elaborate sets were created by gluing two pink balloons together, as a real, live anus was unobtainable during Bud's exhausting shooting schedule; the character of Hamlet was played by an actor called Richard the Third; and Larry Haggman was a pleasure to work with, etc.
I would urge you to see this forgotten cinematic gem if you get the chance, but obviously you won't. Oh well. So until next time, this is Dick Smugg signing off and I'll see you in the line for the theater's emergency exits!

Monday Afternoon in Creeksville

Man walks in and says Hello Desmond. He says he's the Last of the Mohicans and he wants a haircut. Short on the sides and long on the top, he says. Very short on the sides, he says. And no talc. He was quite emphatic about that.
Take a seat in the chair, I told him, I can't cut your hair if you're sitting cross-legged on the floor. And please leave your tomahawk by the coat rack.
Anyway. Snip, snip, snip, buzz, buzz, buzz we go. He wasn't much of a conversationalist, as you can imagine. All you could hear was the clickety-clack of scissors and high-pitched whine of my clippers. So I thought I'd tell him about my songwriting ideas, Willy Wonka meets Frank Sinatra: Three Chocolate Coins in a Soda Fountain, The Milky Way You Ate Tonight, Nancy (With the Laffy Taffy).
Miserable swine didn't even smile.

And You'll Be Sitting Here

Boredom is a painless headache.
Exile to office world and imprisonment in some bleak, windowless cubicle is rather like being buried up to your neck in desert sands with only a cactus-shaped lamp and a computer-skull for company. I expect someone will smear jam all over my face at lunchtime, then fill my in-tray with hungry insects.
I noticed a potted palm beside the water cooler when I arrived: an ersatz, man-made oasis amid endless corridors of buzzing, fluorescent nothingness.
Fortunately I am only here until the end of the week; just another human caravan passing through; a guest of the Ozymandias upstairs.

Where Do I Come From?

We are all God's children, except me. I'm adopted. 
At least I hope I am, because I feel that I have very little in common with the rest of creation. If everyone is part of the so-called Family of Man, then I must surely be unrelated; possibly a descendant of someone Adam used to go drinking with in the days just after he and that woman were kicked out of the Garden of Eden. I reckon my people were ejected from a different garden, tempted by a foot-foot high blancmange rather than an apple. We wouldn't fall for that old trick. Naturally, being the "interloper", God's children gave me all the hand-me-downs and cast-offs, all the featureless, misfit organs and body parts that they didn't want: the indistinct skin-tone, those indifferently-shaped nose and eyes, and that contrarian brain that apparently has a slight crack in it: which is why I never developed into an ethnic stereotype.
As you can imagine, being an outsider, I've spent a lot of time looking for my actual birth-deity, but luckily I've been unable to find him so far.