Why I can’t be on ‘Saturday Night Live’ (despite being Canadian)?

Pres. Obama today is in Mumbai to announce support for India’s bid to get a Security Council seat. Lead news picture shows American leader being greeted by current Prime Minister, Manmohan (surprise, surprise) Singh. Immediately I envision skit where Barack + Biden are ‘The Departed’ Eye-tai’s from “down Providence way” in shakedown of turban-wearing Southie luncheonette owner who finally retorts, “You say you’re my friends, but you don’t even know my name; it’s Singh, m*th@r-f&ck@r”. Sarah Palin as Billy Costigan then gets-up from counter, makes a little small talk paying tab, but subsequently pantyhose garrotes two Dems (while painfully breaking-off several nails in process) ...

Now that’s comedy. Much like my Geico-voiced [“Is a bird in the hand worth two in the bush?”] imagined public service announcement demanding cable’s ‘Sunrise Earth’ program be banned ASAP because suicide hotlines ring off hook during broadcast. While a California Condor (see handsome rascal right) prances in hi-def for 15 minutes building its precarious nest, some hapless/overly sensitive Latte-swiller no doubt watches from a lukewarm bath. Don’t need this kind of Crate & Barrel partisan voluntarily taking him/herself off tax rolls; too valuable vis-à-vis future fiscal outlays. Stack sides of the dock like cordwood with ex-Meth addicts if we must “thin the herd”, but keep quality disposable income dispensers away from programming prone to sharp implement wielding. At this point in bit, cut back to our annoucer walking off set in sheer disgust ... [What can I say? That Gandhi bit of my persona just refuses to be sublimated!]

Again, unlikely to ever receive (originally-dubbed) 'Not Ready For Prime Time' broadcast despite the rather attractive Maple Leaf tatted - take my word for it - on my posterior (underneath Tim Horton logo, of course). Sad … much like Debra Winger ‘New York Times’ magazine’s projectile-vomit inducing profile this past Sunday. Jeez! And I like the minx! ‘Forget Paris’ is one of my minor favs + I paid to see ‘Terms Of Endearment’ when going to fill-ums actually was enjoyable. Holy Peter, Paul & Mary, what the hell happened to this whacky gal? Gives Kathleen Turner certifiable run for fruitcake centerfold and now she pines for nothing less than a comeback? Oh yeah. About as much chance of that happening as Eliot Spitzer ever regaining any spot of prominence in a form of legitimate media ... Ahem. Back to wing nut at hand, so to speak, what I’d really like to see is Debra Wingy-dingy do a full-out ‘Urban Cowboy’ sequel.

Maybe such was referenced later in piece, but I had abandoned after 1st nine paragraphs as quickly as suitable latex protection jettisoned by (just referenced) NY ex-Atty. General during his various ‘Client 8’ non-connubial encounters. I envision that in 2nd installment – of ‘Urban Cowboy’, that is - Winger/Sissy could be ex-Enron employee, Travolta gets job on BP rig in the Gulf to get away from her (again) & final scene @ Gilley’s set amid a memorial service for Anna Nicole Smith, another Houston native. It has got to be green light city, buddy, on that script treatment … whoever gets me onto Cypress Point wins rights.

5 degrees of Kevin Bacon time for Winger: 1.) D.W. was “Wonder Girl” to Lynda Carter’s TV “Wonder Woman”; 2.) Carter is married to Robert A. (not Roger C./Whitewater) Altman; 3.) R.A.A. partner of Clark Clifford during BCCI scandal; 4.) Clifford was White House counsel to Harry S. Truman; 5.) Truman sold-out (rest of) Eastern Europe to “Papa Joe” Stalin @ Potsdam conference. Ergo Debra Winger is not only a Commie once removed, but next to only Paul Robeson in pantheon of those who willfully turned a blind-eye to Soviet atrocities!!

Quad erat demonstrandum, as we used to say “years ago when we had the church, which was just another way of saying we had each other … I don’t want to be a product of my environment, I want my environment to be a product of me!”. Sorry, I can’t get ‘The Departed’ Frank Costello voice out of my noggin. Sure that it has nothing to do with watching first 5 minutes on YouTube roughly 23x over past several months. Waffle House waitress last Tuesday asked if I’d like bacon or sausage patty with my scrambled cheesy eggs? I answered, “What I’m saying to you today is this: When you’re facing a loaded gun, what’s the difference?” Still somewhat shocked I was asked to leave.

Apologies, all, for my absentia during past 6 months. Some changes in my personal doings left less time than previously, skin grafts unfortunately didn’t take as well as anticipated but, most sadly, my FoodTV pilot – ‘Chuck Norris’ Iron Chef’ – didn’t get picked-up after all that hard work!

Concept was recipe-creation smoothly coupled with post-judges food presentation bout of full-body contact karate. Each competitor to get, too, kitchen tool of their choosing (excepting poultry cleaver) for close-quarter combat. Aggregated score or opponent's removal by ambulance determined winner, but network HQ panty-waists concerned sponsors might balk at “Kitchen Stadium” turning into quasi-gladiatorial pit of flying paring knives + roundhouse kicks for 5 minutes.

"Why is this world so slow to see such manifest brilliance?," I cry helplessly to heavens. :)

Top Ten remarks heard by a "Flipper"

Recently my blushing bride has become a closer friend to a lady who prefers ladies. Of course your humble scribe has taken this development in the proper context – as possible welcome respite to his Caucasian mate’s seemingly near-jungle level libidinal drive. Ahem.

Hoping to fuel the possibility of a swerving of a sort, ever am I mindful now of data to support any potential crossover. Along those lines a recent TV show inadvertently provided manna to the proverbial gods when a young lass was evaluated in general for possible dating potential.

In the course of a rather saucy interview, the androgynous looking gal admitted that she was known to be a “Flipper”. This term – for the less than ‘Ellen Show’ hip amongst you – applies to a female switch-hitter who prefers prowling for prospective bedroom playmates in the opposing team’s locker room, so to speak. Apparently great relish is taken by said females from the act of “flipping” a heretofore straight lady to the Sapphic side of the ledger.

[Side note: Interestingly much of lingo used in TV show on subject was akin to describing how intelligence agents were “turned” back in Cold War's good old days. Of course in latter scenario the commentators were the ex-Ivy League boys from Langley. Hmmn.]

Based on above, your intrepid scribe has delved more deeply into this subject and can publish the 1st Top Ten list of well-known verbal reactions from the prey of “Flippers”. Below covers only those on U.S. continental shelf. I imagine inclusion of my former homeland to the north would necessitate at least one entry which referenced this year’s Y chromosome-less Canadian gold medal winning hockey team & threading a puck thru the pads with greater aplomb than Wayne Gretzky in his prime, but I needlessly digress.

#10 “Guess I shouldn't have made fun of my high school gym teacher.”
#9 “Do I have to like K.D. Lang now?”
#8 “I never knew it could be like this … ever!”
#7 “Death to the enslaving phallus!”
#6 “I still get to shave my armpits, right?”
#5 “If only my ex-boyfriend could see me!”
#4 “Will this improve my fashion sense?”
#3 “My God, what a cheap, cruel & meaningless lie I’ve been living!”
#2 “This won’t make me start buying Judy Garland CD’s, right?"

..., and a drum roll please, ...

#1 "Does this actually make me a lesbian?"

As pre-call girl D.A. Eliot Spitzer used to say in New York, "The Prosecution rests."

"Yeah, but how funny are you in 'real' life?"

A query your scribe is posed on routine basis due to excessive mirth inspired by defly-crafted ripostes populating blog presently being read. To answer above as best as possible, offer below as 'Exibit A'.

It is an actual work e-mail from this past week to one of my subordinates (Samantha) who familiarly starts all her e-mails with salutation of "Hey". 'Sam' was requesting authorization for one of her colleagues so that something somewhat consequential now could be done in one of the myriad software systems my groups must navigate. It should be noted that this e-mail copied all the individuals involved in this mundane administrative task + others named in my reply.

Usually a simple "Approved" w/ the muckety-muck's name put on the form, is the e-mail received to such requests. [As in this electronic age, only $ obligations above the cost of an Arturo Fuente Opus X (see left "family" shot) require actual signatures.] At least that's what the IT representative mentioned to me the next day while still, obviously, confused about getting below. Ah, but where's the joy in life then?

Hey Sam!
I much prefer corned beef hash to ham.

On the form above I have affixed name that I am.

Tonite I’m takin’ the Blushin’ Bride for a Denny’s Grand Slam.

Usually put pepper jelly on my biscuit rather than any kind of jam.

Although unfortunately not a Southern man by birth, still tend to call ladies above 18 ‘Ma’am’.

If Alexander K. put a device on top of my computer to record my day, it no doubt would have to be called a ‘Genius Cam’.

My intelligence compared to Mr. Doug P.'s has got to be roughly same distance as the water at the bottom to the top of the Hoover Dam.

... and as Stephen Wright's character once said, "The hits just keep comin' on K-BILLY & the Super Sounds of the '70's!".