Photo by Adam Jones – Interior of Old King Cole Bar – St. Regis Hotel – Midtown – Manhattan – New York City – USA
Andrew J. Offutt was a science fiction and fantasy writer, respected in his field, very prolific, and who served as President of the Science Fiction Writers of America from 1976 – 1978. He also wrote more than four hundred erotic novels under the names Farrah Fawkes, Opal Andrews, Turk Winter, and fourteen pseudonyms.
This is Bo Burnham.
Bo Burnham is a comedian/social commentator. He looks like a slightly dorky, good-looking guy you met in your classes in college. He was probably going into some science field or programming. Either way, he never looked at you strangely if you mentioned you played D&D; he’d probably even tell you about his own character. He did just fine in his classes and was always ready with a fun quip. He made everyone feel good and was actually quite insightful about the relationships of others around you. He was just a good guy and everyone liked him, even if not everyone got his dorky and sometimes dark sense of humor.
In real life, Bo Burnham is around 30 years old now. He’s been doing the comedy, parody-song-thing for the last 10 years or so. He’s done remarkably well at it, all told, and has been all over the country. He has a niche following.
Harrison Ford is really starting to show his age, but he’s still going forward as Indiana Jones. The time machine in my basement (a Timesuck 3000) recently pulled a portion of the script from a future Indiana Jones movie: IJ 18: Indiana Jones and the Catheter of Doom. Let’s read:
[The scene opens with Indiana Jones in a hospital bed, Marion seated by his side, holding his hand. A large Nurse enters holding a small tube in her hand.]
The hit TV series from the late 50s Father Knows Best has been brought back to television, but updated to reflect modern times. Let’s take a look at a scene from the pilot episode:
[Jim Anderson sits at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. His oldest daughter, Betty “Princess” Anderson enters and sits across from him.]
I never knew the old Washington before the Progressive Democrats with their impeachment investigations, their hearings and easy graft. Tucson suited me better. I really got to know it in the classic period of Congressional spending. We’d spend anything if lobbyists wanted it enough-mmm-had the money to pay.
Of course a situation like that does tempt amateur’s but you know they can’t stay the course like a professional. Now the city-is divided into four zones, you know, each occupied by a power: Congress, the White House, Jurists, and Journalists. But the center of the city that’s policed by Bureaucrats, and members of each of the four powers.
(The Swinging Blue Jeans, 1963, Hippy Hippy Shakes. Parody lyrics as allowed by Fair Use.)
Some evil snakes
Gave us the wokie wokie shakes
Well, I got the shake
We got the wokie wokie shakes
Portlandia is back to normal after election day. Once again rioting, and vandalism is back in the Rose City. The Eye of the Tiber interviewed Kendrick Anderson, who if he’s not a resident of Portland, should be.
After weeks of anticipation and boredom, voter Kendrick Anderson told EOTT that he was excited for Election Day to be over with so that he could finally get back to some normalcy after weeks of uncomfortable peace in his neighborhood.
Planned Parenthood employee expresses outrage over President Trump removing his mask upon his return to the White House. She called it an outrage and a display of contempt for those that died due to Covid-19. She cited his lack of empathy for the deaths of thousands of Americans whose lives were destroyed by a virus.
After her recent defeat at the hands of the Michigan Supreme Court, Governor Retchin’ Gretchen Whitmer has decided to fight back. We go to our Stad News Network microphones live at Whitmer’s press conference:
Whitmer: Good afternoon, all 57 genders of you members of the press. Today I’m declaring a state of emergency due to the rampant spread of sexually transmitted diseases in the state of Michigan. Starting at five o’clock tomorrow afternoon, all citizens who identify as women will be required to wear a device to prevent sexual activity, often referred to as a chastity belt. All individuals with p*n*ses or who identify as having p*n*ses will be required to wear condoms at all times, even when not engaged in sex.
Somehow, even as a child of the sixties, I survived to adulthood without a single Beatles album to my name. My mother, whose musical tastes were quite eclectic, never cottoned to the Lads from Liverpool, and they didn’t “send” me much, either. We came to the United States in October of 1963 thinking that perhaps we’d escaped the phenomenon–but, No! They followed us here, making their first stateside appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show on February 9 of the following year. But I never traveled hundreds of miles, or stood in line for hours or days, to buy tickets to a Beatles performance. I never formed part of a hysterical mob of screaming young women greeting them at the airport, or at the arena or concert hall. I never howled, or fainted, or threw my panties at the stage while watching them perform. I never even bought one of their records, not 45, or 33 1/3, single, or long-playing, ever.
Mr. She, although growing up in earlier times, likes The Beatles, and I discovered when we took up together, that he did have a few of their albums. “Oh, well,” I said to myself. “Can’t win ’em all. He’s really fond of jazz, too. Argh.” So our home was occasionally graced by what I considered some caterwauling, in between my playing what amused me–early twentieth-century music hall songs and ballads, eighteenth-century Scottish music, old fashioned country-and-western, some African composers, Flanders and Swann. And Bach. You know, the stuff every girl plays on the gramophone when she has a chance. Still no Beatles for me.
Somewhere, after a few years of marriage, that changed. Mr. She gave me a birthday present of… a Beatles album! And I loved it.
In which your humble correspondent breaks out the disco ball, and then things take a strange turn. The Bee Gees were an Australian trio of brothers: Barry, Robin, and Maurice Gibb. They could actually carry a tune and sing in three part harmony without computer assistance. Their signature falsetto lead was quite distinctive. One of their biggest hits in the disco era, which was their superstar era, was “Staying Alive.”
There was another family musical group performing at the same time. Indeed, this husband and wife team had steadily worked as professional composer/arranger/pianist and singer for years before disco and the song in question. Here is a sample of their craft:
Michael Bloomberg dropped out of the race. It was inevitable, given all the money her spent for . . . Samoa! Here he is singing his campaign’s swan song (sung to the tune of “Maria” from West Side Story):
The most horrible sound I ever heard
All the horrible sounds of the world in a single word
After rigorous pushback across multiple blogs, tweets, and sundry other outlets over its editorial suggesting a Romney-Bloomberg independent ticket (pejoratively nicknamed across the blogosphere variously as “The Fun-Sucker Proxy,” “The Oh God, N0oooooo!!!,” “Bloom-ney,” and “What fresh hell is this?” ticket), The Bulwark has retracted the original article and its endorsement and instead issued a revised piece that editor-in-chief Jonathan Last has called “what America well and truly deserves.”
With the democratic-socialist Bernie Sanders now the Democratic frontrunner and the political arsonist Donald Trump as the Republican incumbent, there is a yawning chasm that has never before existed in American politics. By retreating to their poles, our two major parties have left tens of millions of independents and moderate Democrats and Republicans unrepresented. Satan’s entrance into the presidential race wouldn’t just give the vital center of the electorate a home — it would stand a chance to break the system entirely.
I’m hard-pressed to tell whether Mr. Last made this endorsement sarcastically out of anger at the pushback on the original endorsement, or if this is, in fact serious. The case made is certainly a novel one.
Either Poles are too dumb to understand what’s ridiculous about a pornographic butter-churning contest, or they’re not. I’d bet they’re not, and they know a parody of eroticism when they see it. Too bad The Imaginative Conservative doesn’t. Apparently, there’s at least one writer out there lacking the imagination to recognize a parody when he sees one, and his failure of imagination qualifies as a TIC “Timeless Essay” on “Saving Christian Civilization Through Eros”.
Slavic women’s reputation for beauty and agreeability isn’t unearned. Some means by which it was earned, though, are less pleasant to think about, like a long history of sex trade, facilitated by occupation, desperation, and statecraft. Throughout history, Slavs were so often taken captive and enslaved that the very word “slave” descends from “Slav”. Sex trafficking continues to ensnare desperate people in former communist countries. Poland in particular has a long history of not just legalized prostitution, but prostitution heavily regulated and sponsored by the state. Soldiers, of course, serve the state, and prostitutes were thought a “necessary evil” to serve the soldiers. Even when communists officially outlawed prostitution in Poland, they still covertly permitted and even sponsored it to honeytrap enemies of the state.
Looks like Carl Icahn is the lastest wealthy New Yorker headed for a more tax friendly climate:
https://www.reuters.com/article/us-people-icahn-idUSKCN1VY02I
