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.