Stinky's New Favorite Song!

Stinky's beloved ball-and-chain, Lynne deEvans, keeps saying that Stinky is becoming too obsessed with his latest crush, Kay Starr. Willikers, only because Stinky watches Kay Starr youtube videos til 4am, and he blurts out Kay's name at a fairly inopportune time*, he will probably never hear the end of it. Leave us agree, sweetheart, that mistakes were made on both sides (Benedict Cummerbund), and allow us to amble along to greener days and brighter pastures.

Now that Stinky has humbly and eloquently apologized, and has proved that he is the better man, leave us come to the reason that we are all gathered here together: Kay Starr.

Here is Stinky's favorite new song, The Breeze, recorded in, say, 1953, because Stinky does not feel like doing any proper research, but written and published some twenty years earlier by Sacco, Smith and Lewis (whoever they are), who have just made Honorable Mention in Stinky's completely arbitrary Songwriter's Hall of Fame. Belated recognition is better than no recognition at all, Stinky always says.

I know you all lead busy lives, what with the approaching holidays, and after that, the Armageddon, but if you can set aside 2:33 for this delightful ditty, you will thank Stinky.

Kay!

*an isle in Home Depot, when Kay was heard on the overhead music. What did you think Stinky meant?

Tennessee Ernie Ford!

Once again Stinky feels he must scold his imaginary friends. Over a year ago, Bear Family Records released Portrait of an American Singer, a comprehensive 5-CD collection of Tennessee Ernie Ford's 1949-1960 studio recordings, and no one bothered to inform Stinky. Must Stinky do everything for himself? Is not it enough he has to make his own potted meat sandwiches for school? Now he has gotta keep track of what is coming out when?

At the time of this release, most reviewers, some more gleefully than others, remarked how largely forgotten Tennessee Ernie Ford is these days. True, but who is not? Walk down any street and ask any passing stranger to name his favorite Tennessee Ernie Ford song or to name his favorite Dick Powell movie, and one is likely rewarded with only a blank stare. Stinky gets depressed just thinking about it.

But Stinky is an eternal optimist; the glass of strawberry milk is always half-full. He is grateful for the attention Ernie has received on shows like Terri Gross' Fresh Air, even if it is a review by someone named Ken Tucker, "critic at large for Yahoo TV". Whatever that is. Stinky imagines Mr. Tucker surreptitiously released from his cage, with Cameron Mitchell and Lee J. Cobb in hot 3-D pursuit. Mr. Tucker says,

         As a sizable percentage of the 154 tracks on this collection reveals, his pursuit of hits,  done  primarily at Capitol Records in Hollywood not in Nashville, led him to squander his marvelously deep, resonant voice on a lot of silly, mediocre material.

Several points: are we certain that it was his pursuit  of hits, and not, say, his producer's, who probably had more influence on his recording material? Was his recording in Hollywood a factor in recording "a lot of silly, mediocre material"? Stinky would contend that there was plenty of silly, mediocre material being recorded in Nashville too, and if Stinky had a choice, Stinky would rather be produced in Hollywood by Lee Gillette and hobnob with Nat King Cole and Dean Martin than be produced in Nashville by Chet Atkins and hang out with Carl Butler and Red Sovine. But perhaps Stinky quibbles.

And one more quibble: Mr. Tucker sums up by referring to Ernie Ford as "moderately remarkable". Does this even make sense? It's like saying, "perceptive critic at large for Yahoo TV".

On the other paw, Joe Marchese, editor at the Second disc, writes an outstanding review. He even appears to have listened to the collection and to have appreciated Ernie's contribution to popular music. And he finishes with an unequivocal opinion: "The many sides of Tennessee Ernie Ford reveal an artist whose best work transcended genre and period." Took the words right out of Stinky's hoecake-hole.

There are other reviews out there, including ones that mention influences and admirers: John Lennon and Bob Dylan are two moderately remarkable ones. Peruse these reviews at your leisure. Stinky needs to rest up. Those potted meat sandwiches ain't gonna make themselves.

Sing it, Ern!

So Long, Kay Starr

So why does not anyone tell Stinky these things? Stinky's favorite female vocalist, and near-the-top-of-the-list Top Ten Crushes of All Time, Kay Starr, died November 3rd, and Stinky just recently found out. It almost makes Stinky wish he had friends so he could chide them for not letting him know.

Stinky is still too choked up to express how he really feels about Miss Kay Starr, so he'll let The Washington Post do the talkin'. Very nice overview of her career, with an emphasis on her versatility and her admirers, including Billie Holiday, Dinah Washington, Patsy Cline, and Elvis Somebody. And within that list of illustrious geniuses, include in another, Stinky Fitzwizzle, if you please.

Stinky is not so enthusiastic about Kay's version of  I Really Don't Want to Know, despite what the admirable Mr. Gary Giddins says, but he does love her version of Jealous Heart, if you are looking for a country standard with which to give an earful. As who is not?

As for The N Y Times obit, skip it. Anyone who calls Oh, Babe and Hoop-De-Doo "two songs tinged with country and folk", is not to be taken seriously.

So long, Kay.

Happy Birthday Ellie!

Today is a day of reverence.

Willikers, it's a good thing Stinky's ball-and-chain does not read his blog, 'cause she can get mighty jealous, the little minx.

Here's a Happy Birthday wish to the delightful Miss Eleanor Powell, high on the list of Stinky's Top Ten Crushes of All Time. And to celebrate, Stinky is going to lock himself up in his room with a Family Size bag of dill pickle-flavored potato chips and a half-gallon of Rocky Road, fire up the ol' DVR, and watch some of those MGM Musical Extravaganzas that Turner Classical Movies broadcast today.

Miss Powell is always a joy and a pleasure, and the music is top-notch, but with leading men like Robert Taylor, Red Skelton, and George Somebody, and with Buddy Ebsen contorting his gangly frame and calling it dancing, it may be occasional tough slogging. Stinky only hopes he doesn't get a cramp with his thumb perpetually poised over the fast forward button.

And if Stinky begins to feel a little queasy, it's likely due to Robert Taylor, who's every bit as oleaginous as the potato chips. Maybe oleaginouser.

Ellie! Ellie! Over here!

Stinky Was Robbed!

Stinky normally has little call to bellyache, what with his looks, and his smarts, and his charisma that makes the ladies swoon, and his charmed life in general, but this time, Stinky is compelled to say that Stinky was robbed. For those of you preoccupied by less important things and not in the know, Stinky was running for Class President of I. P. Daley Middle School. And the results, shall we say, were not of the expected variety.

There were several candidates running against Stinky, including Jill Stye, a mashugana who wanted clean, filtered H2O in the water fountains, and the double-phallic named Rod Johnson, who insisted on the decriminalization of chewing gum in the classrooms. Crazy talk, Stinky knows, so naturally they had no chance of garnering any votes.

Then there was this other kid, Ronald Rump, who looked like, if he bathed at all, he bathed in Coppertone QT. He exhibited occasional troubling behavior, like threatening everyone with lawsuits,  giving little kids noogies, and grabbing girls any size by the pussy. "They just let you do it," was his defense. This earned him the nickname of Orange Roughy. But this did not preclude him from running for higher office, because it is a free country. For now.

Stinky does not wish to sound catty, so he will admit that some of Ronald's platform had some appeal to the student's baser instincts: free dessert bar in the cafeteria, and make the teachers pay for it; expulsion of all students from the Eastside who have a generous allowance of melanin; teachers to display their teaching certificates (long form) in the classroom; and the return of the decimated Yearbook publishing jobs back to the local economy. How he would accomplish this did not occur to anyone to ask.

The name-calling was especially discomforting, particularly when it came to involve Stinky. Ronald referred to Jill as "Pig Stye", and Rod as "Little Johnson", which, likely due to a locker room incident, made him weep a little. Hilarious, to be sure, but Stinky draws the line when Stinky is attacked. He began calling me "Crooked Stinky", Stinky assumes because of his poor posture. Over the line! says Stinky.

So Election Day rolls around, after a brief 15-month campaign, and Stinky is feelin' pretty good, what with all the projection polls in Stinky's favor. In fact, Stinky overwhelmingly wins the popular vote, by some accounts in the double digits. Then Stinky is informed of something called the Electoral Middle School, an illogical and arcane way of distributing the popular vote to determine the winner. It makes Stinky's head spin, and other parts of him don't feel too good, neither.

Is it any wonder that Stinky maintains that he was robbed? Does Stinky dare say the process is rigged?

Yes, Stinky do dare.

I wore my best clothes, and I still lost!

Stinky's Election Choice!

Amongst the tens of Stinky's readers, commonly known as Stinkers, virtually some of them are likely curious as to Stinky's choice in the upcoming, one may even say imminent, Presidential election. Their curiosity is understandably understandable,  considering the unslakable thirst Stinkers have for all things Stink-related.

Unfortunately, Stinky's participation in this election may be in question, what with his age, his various felony convictions, and whatnot. Those whatnots may prove to be especially problematic. But Stinky definitely has a preference, and Stinky would definitely never vote for Trump, because Stinky does not like people who refer to themselves in the third person. Very creepy, if you ask Stinky.

Stinky's new crush.

Glenn Ford Tribute!

Amongst the countless number of Stinky readers, likely climbing into the double digits, there is one fellow who goes by the moniker of "Unknown", a frequent commenter (twice), who seems to be fairly obsessed with Glenn Ford. Glenn Ford? you may ask incredulously. Stinky knows, hard to believe. And yet what is even more harder to believe is he is not the only one. Check out this Glenn Ford tribute, with glamor-puss pics of Ford with hairstyles ranging from long, greasy and cowlicky to short, greasy and cowlicky, accompanied by the delightful stylings of Kay Starr.  Probably better than he deserves, but for some reason, it tickled Stinky.

On the other mitt, one could do worse than having a tribute sung by the delightful Kay Starr, the most awesomest singer of all times. In fact, when Stinky goes, in about seventy years, he would like to have a   tribute just like this one afforded to Glenn. See what I did there?

Stinky's new crush.

Zolapalooza!

When Uncle Dave gives me money for my birthday, he says it's an investment in his future, meaning that Stinky will be less likely to murder him in his sleep with a rusty machete. Oh, Uncle Dave, you're so amusing. Actually, Uncle Dave is a pretty nice guy who is relatively low on the list of people that Stinky is likely to horribly mutilate.

Ha. "Horribly mutilate". Is there another way to do it? But Stinky digresses.

For an adult, Uncle Dave is fairly tolerable, except when, Stinky assumes, he is trying to be funny. Like when he says stuff like, "Roseanne, bar the door" and "Do you know why exorcisms are legal? Because possession is nine-tenths of the law." Hilarious*. But Stinky is certain that Uncle Dave reads Stinky's blog, which is more than Stinky can say about his other friends and fambly members. In fact, Uncle Dave gave Stinky his first opportunity in the blogosphere, undoubtedly the finest piece of writing ever to grace Uncle Dave's blog, Born Under Pants, or whatever it is called.

So after reading Stinky's last blog entry, Uncle Dave said, "Nice to see you are finally reading The Classics, little man, and not wasting your time with the graphic novels and the hippity-hop music, or whatever people of your ilk and generation cotton to these days. By the bye, the passages you quoted seem to me a precursor to the final paragraph in Zola's Nana."

Well, that's Uncle Dave for you, using made-up words like "precursor" to make himself sound smart. He also said that Nana was a novel about a Parisian courtesan who meets a frighteningly nasty and disfiguring demise from smallpox, following a life of dissipation and moral turpitude. Yes, Uncle Dave tends to talk that way. But this made Stinky eager to read the book, especially after he looked up the word "courtesan".

For those of you who wish to commit yourselves to the preceding 400 pages, go right ahead. For those of you with busy schedules, like Stinky, the rest of the novel can wait. Here is the final paragraph describing the beautiful Nana's grisly end, which does not disappoint:

                     Nana was left alone with  upturned face in the light cast by the  candle. She was the fruit
                   of the charnel house, a heap of matter and blood,  a shovelful  of  corrupted flesh thrown
                   down on the pillow. The pustules had invaded the whole of the face, so that each touched
                   its neighbor. Fading and sunken, they had assumed  the grayish  hue of mud;  and  on  that
                   formless pulp, where the features had ceased to be traceable, they already resembled some
                   decaying damp  from  the grave.  One eye, the left eye,  had completely foundered  among 
                   bubbling purulence,  and the other,  which remained half open,  looked like a deep,  black
                   ruinous hole. The nose was still suppurating. Quite a reddish crust was peeling from  one 
                   of the cheeks,  which it  distorted  into a horrible grin.  And over this loathsome  and  gro-
                   tesque mask of death the hair, the beautiful hair, still blazed like sunlight and flowed down
                   in rippling gold.   Venus was rotting.  It seemed as though the  poison she had  assimilated 
                   in the gutters and on the carrion  tolerated by the roadside,  the leaven with which  she had 
                   poisoned a whole people,  had but  now  remounted to her face and turned it to corruption.

Most awesome paragraph of all times? Probably.

Thanks, Uncle Dave.


*Sarcasm

Nana. But Uncle Dave says it's A Classic, Mom.

         

J'accuse...! Emile Zola of Being Pretty Awesome!

Stinky's tired, so he's gonna let someone else do all the heavy lifting this time.

Here's another pretty good writer called Emile Zola. Stinky was impressed with these passages from Therese Raquin, published in 1867. Lazy horndog Laurent croaks his lover's husband by tossing him in the Seine. Then Laurent visits the Paris Morgue for several weeks, hoping to identify the discovered corpse:

        One morning, he was seized with real terror. For some moments, he had been looking 
          at a corpse, taken from the water, that was small in build  and  atrociously  disfigured.
          The flesh of  the  drowned  person  was so  soft and  broken-up that  the running water 
          washing it, carried it away bit by bit. The jet falling on the face bored a hole to the left
          of the nose. And abruptly, the nose became flat,  the  lips  were  detached, showing the
          white teeth. The head of the drowning man burst out laughing. 

Several days later, Laurent sees Camille, the man he murdered:

        Camille was hideous. He had been a fortnight in the water. His face still appeared firm
          and rigid; the features were preserved, but the skin had taken a  yellowish,  muddy tint.
          The thin, bony, and slightly tumefied head wore a  grimace. It was a  trifle  inclined on
          one side, with the hair  sticking to the  temples, and the  lids raised, displaying the dull
          globes of  the eyes. The  twisted lips  were drawn to  a corner of the mouth in an atro-
          cious grin; and a piece of blackish tongue appeared between the white teeth. This head,
          which looked tan and drawn out  lengthwise,  while  preserving  a  human  appearance,
          had remained all the more frightful with pain and terror.

But wait, there's more:

         The body seemed a mass of ruptured flesh; it had suffered horribly. You could feel that
          the arms no longer held to their sockets; and the clavicles were piercing the skin of the
          shoulders. The ribs formed black bands on the greenish chest; the left side, ripped open,
          was gaping amidst dark red shreds. All the torso was in a state of putrefaction. The ex-
          tended legs, although firmer, were daubed with dirty patches. The feet dangled down.

Imagine opening up whatever people used for Kindles back then, and reading this!

And please don't tell Stinky's mom he is reading this. She is overly-protective after Stinky was diagnosed with something called "walking night-terrors", and she considers Stinky enough of a danger when he is awake.

Reasonable facsimile of Emile Zola.

F**ck Glenn Ford! We'll replace HIM!*

Stinky's heart soared when he recently discovered the glorious Eleanor Powell, and his heart sank even more rapidly when he discovered she was married 15 years to the soul-sucking barnacle known as Glenn Ford. So naturally Stinky was eager to read Peter Ford's biography of his famous philandering father, Mr. Glenn Ford, ready for a great big plate of steamy, creamy, salacious dirt.

Stinky was fairly disappointed. Peter Ford threw Stinky a curve and wrote, if not a dutiful, a respectful and measured biography of his aloof and frequently estranged pappy.  Not what Stinky had in mind. As Stinky's old man says, "If you can't deliver the goods, don't get off the pot." And very little goods were delivered.

Plugging his book in a television interview, Peter Ford said, rather proudly, according to his dad's diary, he counted 143 affairs.  Pretty good by Stinky standards, but not exactly earth-shattering by world-renown celebrity millionaire heartthrob standards, especially over a sixty year span. Stinky's calculator is not working now, but if one could do the math, that comes out to fewer than two a month.

Apparently, Glenn Ford started off as a not-very-good ladies man. First, he declined the advances of Jack London's seventy-something-year old widow (which would have made for an impressive entry in the ol' diary, if you ask Stinky) and he resisted the charms of Bette Davis, even after she presented her copious bosoms. He pleaded fidelity to his loving wife. Stinky's guessing that's the only time that happened.

Only twice does Glenn Ford win Stinky's sympathy: Hope Lange and her sister ridicule Ford as being hopelessly old-fashioned because he once wore a dressing gown with padded shoulders, and those final 15 years of pills, alcohol, illnesses, jealousies, suspicions, and thieving "caregivers" are very sad. Not a way Stinky wants to go. Except maybe for the pills.

Perhaps because Glenn Ford was so enigmatic to his son the biography seems rather superficial. Stinky gathered some mildly interesting trivia, but not much more. Actor Louis Calhern was a lifetime friend, dating back to Glenn's teenage theater days. Ford once tried LSD, but was not especially impressed in a therapeutic way. He hosted parties with intellectuals Isherwood, Huxley, and such. He was a Roosevelt Democrat who morphed into a Nixon Republican. And director Richard Brooks was responsible for Ford's extremely unflattering hairstyle, perhaps the worst of any major Hollywood star.

Ford was a major Hollywood star, probably underappreciated, with half a dozen, maybe more, excellent performances on his resume. And that ain't nothing at which to sneeze.

Which would not be easy for Stinky to admit, were it not for Stinky's magnanimous and generous nature, considering Ford's careless and repeated infidelities to the angelic Eleanor Powell.

And then, thinking he could not love her more, Stinky discovers Eleanor Powell was a huge Fats Waller fan.

I know this post is about Glenn Ford, but who cares?

*What Frank Capra reportedly said when he learned that Ford wanted to replace leading lady Shirley Jones with then-girlfriend Hope Lange.

Eleanor Powell's Best Dancing Partner. And It's Not Fred Astaire

First, the bad news: Ladies, Stinky is off the market. Yes, it's true, and to say so out loud and break so many hearts seems like a clear violation of the Eight Amendment of the Constitution, but it has to be said. So there it is.

Fortunately, the little lady never reads anything Stinky writes, so Stinky can keep posting the same content, unfettered by the fear of raising the ball-and-chain's wrath, jealousies, insecurities, or picadillios. Not that she has any, the little minx. I'm just sayin'.

Par example, if she were to find out that Stinky has a new crush, she would probably go off the deep end and let her l'il pea-pickin' jealous heart get the best of her. But fortunately, for all concerned, namely Stinky Fitzwizzle hisself, there is no worries of her finding out, what with her being occupied with the binge-watching of Real Housewives of Gary, Indiana. Whew.

Boy, Stinky certainly does love Eleanor Powell, as who does not? Although Stinky is a rough-and-tumble, rootin'-tootin', off-the-hip-shootin' he-man, he sure does enjoy him some toe-tapping terpischoring. He gets a little tingly when he sees her dance, but since discretion is the better part of Valerie, he will say nothing else.

Here is a number with the delightful Ms. Powell tapping her little tootsies off with a very special partner. I'm guessing it took at least a couple hours to prefect this routine.

Enjoy.

Stinky's new crush. Don't tell the ball-and-chain.

Oh, that Uncle Tim!

I asked Uncle Tim why he likes NASCAR so much, and he said it's because he's always been a racist.

Uncle Tim in the middle.

History!

No, not the boring kind in the classroom that you can never remember, but the genuinely important kind that directly involves yours truly, Stinky Fitzwizzle. Stinky, who keeps close tabs on the vast number of visitors to his blog, is proud to announce that he has reached an important milestone. Modesty prevents me from revealing the exact number of website visitors; suffice it to say that the number has many, many digits. Greater than three. So congratulations to all of you out there who have enjoyed me over the years.

It seems like such a short time ago this blog was started and history began its inexorable ascent into greatness, if I may turn a beautiful phrase. Perhaps thanks should be given to Uncle Dave, who inspired me to write a blog. Likely this is the first time "inspired" and "Uncle Dave" have appeared together in the same sentence, but leave us give credit where credit is due. If I had not stumbled across Uncle Dave's blog, Born Under Saturn, whatever that means, I never would have said, "Sheesh! If Uncle Dave can write a blog, anyone can!" And so I did.

Thanks also to Uncle Dave for giving Stinky the opportunity to write his first movie review for Born Under the Sink, or whatever Uncle Dave's blog is called, and allowing Stinky's first steps toward inevitable immortality.

Perhaps I should make a correction. The phrase, "ascent into greatness" may not be apt because it seems to imply a progression or an improvement, and we all know that improvement upon perfection is not possible.

Lastly, many thanks to all those little people in the dark. Or in the light. Wherever.

Barbara Payton!

Stinky recommends you mosey on down to Kim Morgan's place called Sunset Gun and read her sympathetic piece on Barbara Payton. Mom refuses to let me read any of the books about her, resorting to made-up words like concupiscent and lardaceous. Which of course makes me want to want to read them all the more.

Very sad life for Miss Barbara Payton. Perhaps the most spectacular fall in Hollywood history. And nary a whiff of happiness or redemption at the end.

But at least there's the empathy of Kim Morgan.

Uncle Tim. Again.

So what's up with Uncle Tim? Stinky asks rhetorically. He says things like, "I went to the church bazaar to see a two-headed priest" and "The bakery was out of  Napoleons, so they gave me a Bismark."  Does this even make sense? Is he trying to be funny, or, due to his advanced age (nearly fifty-five), perhaps he is going senile? Stinky asks again, maybe not so rhetorically.

The other day I asked him if cursive should be taught in school, and he said absolutely not. He said if parents wanted to teach their kids naughty language, that's one thing, but it's not the responsibility of the teachers. See what I mean? Stinky is just a little worried.

Well, he is old. He says things like "nineteen-ought-six", and he remembers a world before Pringle's Potato Chips. He laughs uncontrollably when he tries describing something called "Wacky Packages", and he thinks bicycle helmets are a Communist conspiracy. The helmets are lined with fluorocarbons, which cause sterility and rickets, or some such mishegoss.

And yet there are moments of lucidity. He contributes movie reviews to a site called Unrated Film (spoiler alert: not all the movies reviewed within are unrated), and unlike his everyday conversations, his reviews are thoughtful and informative.  Stinky has nothing but respect for someone, even Uncle Tim, who can turn out several thousand words on  a Robert Wagner movie. You're a better man than I, Gunga Din. Or as Uncle Tim once said, "You can call me Gunga Din, just don't call me late for Gunga Dinner."

See? Stinky is worried.

Uncle Tim

I don't know if  Uncle Tim is a chucklehead or if he just plays one on the television, but I asked him what he thought of adult literacy, and he said he thought it was terrible, and no matter a person's age, they should always use a trash can.

Parade on Cleveland

Anyone who knows Stinky or anyone who takes a mere passing gander at my photo can tell I'm quite the physical specimen and sports-ball enthusiast, what with having the strength of a rhinoceros after a refreshing nap and the grace of a gazelle leaping on the savanna. Or in Savannah. Stinky gets those two confused. So naturally I was quite pleased to discover my hometown has what is called a basketball franchise. Basketball, as it turns out, is quite the exhilarating endeavor, especially the last twenty seconds or so. Gads of dribbling, mostly with a ball, break-fast action, and the forceful jamming of a ball in an open-ended basket, which I believe is called "spelunking".

And imagine Stinky's emotion, which very nearly approached something akin to pleasure, when I discovered that my local hometown basketball franchise (also known as a "team") won the annual post season challenge in a culminating seventh game (or "contest") victory, thereby being proclaimed Champions of the Basketball Universe. Huzzahs all around!

The transformation of my hometown was something to behold, not quite overwhelming, but fairly whelming. The indescribable bliss of everyone feeling like a winner, kinda like that time I got a word correct ("traipse") in a Spelling Bee, is bound to last minutes, if not hours. So congrats to everybody involved, especially Stinky myself, for accidentally turning on the television and watching several minutes of a game (or "contest"), which probably caused them to win.

But do we really need a self-congratulatory parade clogging up the vital arteries of Stinky's hometown? Think of the inconvenience. What if I suddenly had a craving for Peterson's roasted nutmeats? Stinky would have to go without, that's what. And Stinky does not like to go without.

And I think we all know how Stinky feels about parades. Nothing more boringer was ever invented outside of a Robert Altman film. Imagine standing amidst a crowd of 1.3 million (admittedly, in a city of 67 people, that's quite impressive), on a very hot day, crammed like smelts, this close to a bunch of people who forgot to put on their Mitchum. No thank you.

But far be it from Stinky to rain on anyone's parade. I leave that to The Man Upstairs, who frankly, let Stinky down today.

So congratulations are due the Cleveland Chandeliers, my new favorite basketball club, reigning Champions of the Basketball Universe. Yay.

Does not look like a good time to me.

Riddle Me This! Again!

What did they call the epileptic Roman emperor?

Julius Seizure.

I Said It!

Someone once asked me if I thought parades were exciting. I said I thought they were rather pedestrian.

Trump!

Whenever I don't know what to title a post, I just pick a silly word at random and add an exclamation point. Works every time.

After the recent horrific shooting, Donald Trump said in a press conference, and by press conference, I mean a modest group of non-expelled reporters gathered to listen to Trump badly read his incoherent ramblings off an apparently malfunctioning teleprompter,  “The killer, whose name I will not use or ever say, was born in Afghan, of Afghan parents, who immigrated to the United States..."

No, he will never say his name, but he will post a picture of him:

Hmmm. Look at that comb-over. Wonder if they're related.

The Return of Stinky

Lemme tell you something: Eating outside on a blanket on the ground is no picnic. Oh, wait. It is.