The Night Belongs to Michelob and the 1980s
Lately, I find my addled mind drifting to memories of those “The Night Belongs to Michelob” commercials. The mid 1980s. The powerful formative pull of hotties in MTV Duran Duran lighting.
With enormous, puffy, hairsprayed hair. And way too much lip gloss.
The unattainable 80s Hottie.
I’m talking distilled period piece John Landis “Into the Night” Michelle Pfeiffer rouge-cheeked porcelain hottness mixed up in a Don Johnson Tony Scott blender.
Sax solos.
Lip gloss.
Legs.
Blue filters.
Sports coats.
This was Madison Avenue crack juice pumped into my pre-teen fever dreams. Intoxicating promise future-shock.
Untold adventures awaited. The real adulthood that the parents at the PTA meetings never told you about. Sexual and otherwise. A shimmering, glittering nightlife that wasn’t in no childrens books. A naughty truth that had been banned from the collective memory of suburbia.
Alls I know was that it certainly didn’t exist in Brookline, Massachusetts. But maybe, possibly, it awaited in the real big city. Once I could get the hell out of the suburban rot and dead streets of existential nothingness. As soon as I turned eighteen, I was out.
The “Night” belongs to sexy unattainable women. Suddenly attainable. If only I drank the right beer.
I would buy that beer.
I would buy any beer I had to to touch hairspray hair and high rouge cheeks.
So long as that world wasn’t the cruel coldness of high school girls and high school parties and the angst-ridden John-Hughesian miseries of teenage wasteland.
It may just have been a shimmering music video dream meant to con and dupe the rubes with promise of the unattainable. Finally gonna face it. Addicted to love.
But promise of the unattainable also inspires poetry and dreaming that can move mountains and motivate the core.
And so it did for one little white suburban punk.
The DB1 Is Running Out of HCwDB PIcs, So Here's A Whole Lotta Assplosion
Al?…
Al Pacino?…
Shamrock Shake Break
Sometimes ya gotta take a moment, stop comprehending the inanity that circulates through the universe, and enjoy a tasty McDonalds Shamrock Shake.
Yeah. That’s right.
I said Shamrock Shake.
Shamrock Shake.
Say it ten times fast.
Feel the marketing campaign’s adertisorial words coarse through your veins like so many digitized nanobots.
For the Shamrock Shake is no mere mortal shake.
It is divine.
No I was not paid to post this. Nor is it an endorsement of McDonalds, which serves warmed over wildebeest shit rolled in twigs and leaves and calls it food.
But Shamrock Shakes?
Choice.
Goes beautifully with a tasty Elliptical Pear chaser.
Shminky and the Brain Show Bettina their Rusty Trombone
Party Girl Bettina, fresh off a six month Au Pear gig for the Hendersons of Anaheim and their two bratty children, Marty and Elaine, made one crucial mistake during her week-long vacation in San Francisco.
She thought the hand-written flyer taped to the laundromat door on Market Street advertising the upcoming gig for “Rusty Trombone,” a local band of little repute, might be a fun way to meet new people.
No.
No it will not be a fun way to meet new people, Bettina.
It will involve stupidity, out of tune power-synth-pop with drum machine, and a lot of Blue Moon beer.
Wallnuts After Dark – Oscar Night
A four hour show where they do nothin but give out awards for some movies, most of em nobody ever seen? Pazzo! Back in the old days it was a get together at one a the Hollywood-area hotels, they’d toss out a few statues, snap some pictures, and then get on to the gropin’. Gropin’, I says.
Back in ’53, Sinatra’d just won the golden shvantz for “From Here to Eternity,” and they trou one a the biggest, wildest orgies I ever seen! That was the year Eva Gardner was also nominated, but even them legs didn’t win it for her. She was in some movie I don’t remember. Alls she did was show her knockers in a low cut dress, or some shit. She wasn’t much of an actress. Just knew who to shlamouli to get into the right pictures.
So anyways, Eva and Frank got into a knockdown drag out fight because Eva thought Frank was notching Donna Reed, his co-star who also won one of them golden shwantzes. Eva was extra whacked that night cuz she lost and knew Frank was making the Beast With Two Backs with that goody-two-shoes Reed. Reed was another one of them dames, you know the type. All prim and proper in public, but absolutely filthy in bed. Filthy in bed, I says.
So ole’ Bill Holden had the party that night, since he won the golden shwantz for best actor. Holden was an all-time lush who used the Müller Lyer Illusion Test to determine if he’d bang a broad. Hey, how in the hell am I supposed to know why?
Anyways, Holden used to just take it out after a few martinis. Didn’t matter who was there. The night of this shindig, he has it out and is holdin it in one had and wa slapping the head of his Golden Shwantz with the head of his Golden Shwantz. Know what I’m sayin’?
Vinny Farfalla Approves of Slutty Suzette's Bumper
Good news! Unlike the DB1’s old broken down 1995 Toyota Celica, owned from 2001-2007, Slutty Suzette’s bumper passed its California smog emissions test.
Chalk up one benefit to gluten-free dieting.
Eighteen Quality Leg Suckles + Four Jabronis
Divide by the coefficient of inefficient coeds, factor in the power of Pi, and the remainder is multiple division.
Yup.
Math humor.
Coffee time.
Vinny Farfalla and Slutty Suzette Experiment with Chains
The way Vin and Suzette see it, chains are a metaphor for the thematic constrictions of societal imposition.
As our consciousness forms, we intuit the structural norms as understood by the cultures and institutions we abide in. Slowly, our true selves become more and more alienated by this breakdown in the symbolic and structural orders of consciousness.
The only solution to resolve this alienation?
Lots of chain-link butt paddle.
Ubiquitous Red Cup sternly, and with great consternation, shakes its red plastic outer rim with anger at this cohabit.
Stubble Does not Define the Asshole, But The Asshole is Defined by Stubble
So sayeth Confucius.
A Whole Bunch of Stupid People Doing Nothing Interesting, So I just Peed on a Ferret
Sometimes, when life throws you a skull shirt, it’s time to pee on a ferret.
Although Lana’s golden legs are suckle hint of hopeful de-pee.
