Wallnuts After Dark – What's all This Yackety-Yak About Gun Control?
One time I was at a party Bert Convy was trowin’ at his place in Pacific Palisades an I was hangin’ wit Baron Mikel Scicluna, Jim Backus, Ann B. Davis, Rip Taylor, Lee Merriweather, Jim Neigbors an the chick who did the voice of Jane Jetson who was a real doll face, amongst others.
Ann B was packin’ heat, which a lotta dames did back then, believe it or not. So in the middle a this gig she pulls out her piece, a big friggin’ .357 Magnum, an starts braggin’ about how good a shot she was an that there weren’t no guy who could shoot as good as she could.
Now in another group a Hollywood types, this Adrienne Barbeau dame hears Ann B carryin’ on an whips out her .45 caliber pocket cannon an starts chimin’ in that the chicks are better shots than any a the guys. This Barbeau was a young chippy at the time an she had a set a knockers on her that she loved to show off that woulda made the Pope hisself take a second look. Na mean?
So we got this hot babe packin’ a heater, which off-sets Ann B who was kinda a homely broad, and they set off to the backyard to have a shootin’ contest, all the while callin’ out the guys sayin’ they’s chickens for not steppin’ up to take the challenge.
Barbeau proceeds to shoot a round into the air, at which time Backus pissed his pants and then went to the bar for another Old Fashioned.
So anyways, in walks this guy who was on that TV show about the family band and played the guy who was the manager of the band that had the mom in it – played by Shirley Jones who was a real doll – and had those other kids in it. Reuben Kinkaid was his name in the show. The only reason I remember that is he’d go by that in real life cuz it helped him get laid.
He says he can shoot better than the broads, and he has all kinds a trick shots that they can’t do. So he shoots a couple a shots between his legs an over his shoulder and knocks some cans off of a fence and nobody quite gives a Fucc until he pulls out his schwantz, threads it through the trigger and proceeds to shoot a bottle of Chivas off a the head of Alan Hale, Jr. usin’ his hard-on to pull the friggin’ trigger. Who ever heard of a Trigger Hard-On! Madon!
The place goes nuts an Barbeau puts her .45 between her knockers and somehow squeezes those puppies together so’s she can fire off a shot that knocks off one a Ruben Kinkade’s blazer buttons, which made ole Ruben evacuate his bowels into his BVDs. Fin-less Brown Trout, I says.
By this point Ann B was all worked up and starts yellin’ to everyone that’s she’s got ’em all beat. So Ann B hikes up her dress, drops her trau and when she turns to face the crowd we see she’s got her .357 hangin’ out a her Quim, Gabiles and everything.
Then out a nowhere’s the blonde broad who played the non-monster family member on that show about the family that was all monsters like Frankenstein and Dracula or whatever the Fucc they was, starts trowin’ shot glasses inta the air an ole Ann B firin’ out a her Snapper knocks all 6 of ’em out a the air in the blink of an eye. Mama Mia! Talk about gun control!
Friday Thoughts and Links
Kinda hard to keep up with the mock when Fratbags become terrorists.
But, as terrorist versions of Chainsaw and that Blonde Guy from Summer School wrap up their terrorism spree, my thoughts turn to… Watertown???
Seriously, Watertown?
Even Somerville mocks Watertown. Truckers don’t even stop for bathroom breaks in Watertown. Although I did spend many a high school Saturday journeying to the Arsenal Mall because I was convinced that malls were where the chicks hung out and there were no malls in Brookline.
It turns out that, back in the 80s, high school chicks did not actually hang out in malls. At least not in Boston.
Consider that a life lesson learned.
Here’s yer freakin’ links:
Why not take this time to learn more about Chechnya?: A Small Corner of Hell: Dispatches from Chechnya
Eel Shoved Up Man’s Anus Eats Its Way Through His Intestines. Or, as I like to call it, dating.
Let the attention whoring Thrift Shop parodies continue: Pot Shop.
Sorority Bleeths in the Slimeball Doucharama. Or perhaps “greatest email ever.”
Ah screw this. I got nuthin’ while this crap is going down. Time for Pear:
Not enough?
It’s almost enough to distract you from a chaotic week. Almost.
More Craziness in Boston
No, this picture is not of the Boston Terrorists/Clowns. But, hey, it’s what I post around here.
As Twitter, Reddit and other forms of social media continue to pwn the joke that is CNN and the rest of the cable news jokiverse, we here at HCwDB want to do our part.
Since J_tsar is the real twitter account of Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, I thought we’d (dis)honor some of his actual tweets.
The day after the bombing:
@J_tsar 16 Apr: I’m a stress free kind of guy
Two days before the bombing:
@J_tsar 13 Apr: Got me a haircut, I don’t usually do those
And my personal fave:
@J_tsar 11 Apr: Now we aint come here to start no drama, we just looking for our future baby mamas
Or the fact this dude was into Rent.
Well, I can’t do much else here at HCwDB except mock a Fratbag in these clowns dishonor.
Friday Haiku
Calvin, wondering
If Claire’s “carpet” matched her “drapes”,
Conspires to go down.
Victorian Age
Douchebag goes exploring in
Her oyster gully
— Capt. James T. Douche
He hasn’t breathed in
Since the gyroscope was put
In her Monkey Hole.
— The Reverend Chad Kroeger
Victorian Douche
Preparing to go down on
Victorian Bleeth
— DoucheyWallnuts
In the days before
feminine douche invented
The smells could be strong.
— Franklyn DealorNo Doucheifelt
1809 was
A momentous year, as muff
Diving invented
— Capt. James T. Douche
He put the helmet/em>
In the basket with a hose
The Purple Flesh Hose
— DoucheyWallnuts
“I’d like to be in
HER Octopus’s Garden!”
pondered Phineas.
— Douche Wayne
This dude just loves to
Swim with bow-legged women,
Dives between their knees.
— hermit
Friday haiku shows
mock is applicable to
douchebags throughout time
— Charles Douchewin
Bathrooms without Lysol
If you look closely, that’s the ghost of John Mayer peeking through the doorway. He’s wondering if the microbal count of the bathroom sink is 2 billion parts per inchron, or three.
I have no idea what an inchron is. I assume it’s a measurement of very small units. You know who would know? John Mayer.
Because he has a small peen.
Small peen jokes for the loss.
I need a coffee.
Bleeth Bleeth Tell Me Now….
Is there something I should purchase to cure this itch on my inner thigh?
On a lighter note…
Here’s Kisseus Vomitorious living beyond his means and lifting up his favorite Hottie Bar Wench.
It’s just like a love story. Only instead of heartfelt expressions of one’s innermost thoughts and dreams, there’s lots of KFC and body lotion.
Ferris Bueller's Day Off in Boston
On the Friday night in June that Ferris Bueller’s Day Off was released in movie theaters, I was in the last few days of seventh grade. The last throes, if you will.
School was out for summer.
Summer Break Awaited. Lots of MTV, Cool Ranch Doritos, and endless replays of my well-worn VHS copies of Re-Animator, From Beyond and Commando with my boys. Then off to a left wing Jewish summer camp up in Vermont that held the last vestiges of 1960s good will. Then back to Brookline in late August. Then things would get serious.
In the fall of 1986: Eighth Grade. Ruling the roost of Junior High.
Then, a year after that: The Big Show.
The imposing edifices of the ginormously huge Brookline High School.
The buzz on Bueller had been building in the seventh grade hallways for weeks. One Hero to rule them all. John Hughes was already legend, and this was the big one. The full rebellion. The vision we had all been waiting for.
Anyone who was anyone would be there.
Bueller was the future.
Before Ferris came along, we had only our smuggled VHS tapes of Fast Times at Ridgemont to promise us of a teenage future of soft fuzzy sweaters too magical to touch.
After Bueller? It was a whole different ballgame. The course of the events of our young lives would not be determined by asshole authority and institutional imposition. Bueller led the way with vision and hope. But Cameron would speak to our hearts.
The 7:30 showing at the Cleveland Circle Cinemas was packed to the gills with crazed twelve and thirteen year olds. It had to have been 60% filled with my entire seventh grade class.
Before the movie began we ran up and down the aisles saying hi to each other. We were a class that now found itself together outside of school. A voluntary mission of enlightement. This wasn’t just a movie. This was an event. Bueller would mark not only the end of the school year but also the beginning of a conceptual awakening for each of us as we began to grow and expand beyond the narrow confines of suburban normativity.
Like Bueller, we would reject gym class and droning teachers and find art, poetry, parades, and pancreas on our own time, thank you very much.
The movie began. For every line Ferris spoke into the camera, we cheered. Cold clammy hands. A John Lennon reference. I knew immediately that shoving a lump of coal up Cameron’s ass was going into my eighth grade yearbook. If I could get “ass” by the censors.
Every time Rooney appeared, we booed and hissed. Here was a villain we understood. Here was every authority figure in suburbia trying to break us.
Wasn’t gonna happen.
Aristotelian teenage catharsis at 24 fps.
Afterwards we poured out into the dark Cleveland Circle streets elated and buzzing. I talked to girls I never had the guts to talk to before. Judy. Crystal. Talia. The game had changed. And we all knew it.
The next day, a Saturday, my best friend Jason called me up.
“Dude. What are you doing today?”
“Nothing.”
“Lets do it. Lets pull a Ferris.”
We decided to create our own Bueller adventure by running though everything great to do in Boston. When I told my mom my plan, she gave me five dollars. “Enjoy,” she said. It was awesome. Enough for a roundtrip on the T, pizza slices at Pizzaria Regina in Faneuil Hall, and at least two dollars left over for miscellaneous expenses.
Of course we didn’t have a Ferrari. Heck, we were three years away from even driving.
But, most importantly, we didn’t have Sloane Peterson.
I decided my seventh grade crush, Masha, a Russian exchange hottie, would be our Sloane Peterson. And that if we got into enough Bueller-like adventures throughout Boston, that eventually we would run into her. That’s the way logic worked back then. It would happen. You know. Because.
Jason and I met up in Coolidge Corner. We pooled our money. Over eleven dollars total. Totally enough to pull a real-life Ferris Adventure.
“Life moves pretty fast!” I shouted at Jason.
“If you don’t stop and look around once in awhile, it’ll pass you by!” he responded.
“Wait,” I said. “Is the line, ‘it’ll pass you by’? Or ‘you could miss it’?”
Neither of us could remember. We’d only seen it once.
But the sky was crystal clear. The air was crisp. It was June in Boston.
So Jason and I hopped on the T. In-Bound. The world was eternal and fresh and new. Anything could happen.
We headed to Kenmore Square. Walked around Fenway. Then we traipsed down Newbury Street looking for trouble. We poured over the latest Green Arrows at Newbury Comics. Then a long walk to Downtown Crossing. Then over to Faneuil Hall for lunch. Then the Red Line to Cambridge.
We putzed around Harvard Square.
Nothing much happened.
No Ed Rooney. No parade. No dramatic epiphanies. No Sloane. No Masha.
Late afternoon turned into evening. We were almost out of money. Even the 50% off coupon at Bartley’s Burgers had only gotten us one burger to split for dinner. So we wandered around Harvard’s campus hoping we wouldn’t get thrown out.
“What should we do now?”
“I gotta get home, dude.”
“Okay. Lets go.”
It was a good day. But it was no Bueller day.
Jason and I T’d it back to Brookline. Said goodbye. We’d see each other in class on Monday. There was still a week or so of school to get through. I walked home. Someday, I thought to myself. Someday, when I get older, I’ll have adventures like Ferris did.
Then High School came. Then High School ended. Then I moved to New York for college, where many complex, exciting, and dangerous adventures did indeed happen to your humble narrator.
But that spring/summer day in Boston in 1986 also happened. I look back now, and it was as exciting a day as anything in the life of Bueller. For it held promise. Endless promise. And the sky was very, very blue.
Boston Thoughts
I’mma take today and post a few thoughts on Boston. It’s going through a tough time right now, not the least of which is because Boston is a fairly reserved, conservative city, despite its politics. It is a place and a people with a loooooong memory. Hundreds of years. Events like this are not taken lightly.
It is a great city. But also a cold city. A troubled city. And a proud city. A torrid mixture of provincial pride, residual racism and puritan-era repression, yes. But mixed with a community of intelligence, historical reverence, and a philosophical understanding of the complexities of time.
Other American cities, cities with much shorter histories, can’t understand that yet.
That’s what makes Boston unique among American cities.
It is European but not European. American, but not noveau-American, like so many strip-mall suburban nightmares west of the Mississippi.
It is a city of paradoxes.
When I announced my plans to move to New York to attend NYU to my fellow co-workers on my summer food cart job, I was met with a mixture of indignation and rage. I was accused of betraying my people.
That kind of pride.
I’ll post a few more specific memories later today, but lets take a day to honor this strange, complex, and gloriously unique American city. You’re welcome to add to my thoughts in the comments thread.
Boston, and the whole state of Massachusetts, deserves it.
Herpster Frankie Designs Apps That Are Totally Gonna Make Him Millions
Most of Herspter Frankie’s apps won’t fly in a competitive marketplace.
But “Booblocater” has an outside chance of being acquired by Facebook.
