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.