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I’M O’SORRY: ST. PATTY’S DAY EDITION March 17, 2008 Dateline: The Bottom of a Pint of Bitter Holiday Tears Another St. Patrick’s Day wheezes forth anew, alight on the breeze like the mournful wail of the bagpipes. On this most cherished of days, we feel compelled – mostly because we’ve had a lot to drink – to unburden ourselves of our regrets. Here goes: I’m sorry about dumping all the snakes on you. I know you didn’t deserve it, but we had to get them out of Ireland. Pat really wanted to lead the hamsters out instead, but I talked him into doing the snakes. Sorry ‘bout that. I’m sorry we’ve never nailed down whether the shamrock is a four-leaf clover or a three-leaf one. The committee meetings keep getting bogged down by who’s supposed to bring the doughnuts. I’m sorry about the whole calling Ireland “the Emerald Isle” thing. That’s a little pretentious, isn’t it? I’m sorry about the endless parade of “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” merchandise. I mean, really, being Irish is no guarantee of being attractive enough to kiss. If it was, Ireland would be flooded with immigration requests from nerdy Trekkies around the world. I’m sorry about Colin Farrell. I’m sorry Frank McCourt’s stuff is so depressing. I’m sorry about the potato thing. I know it was a long time ago, but it really sucked. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that this holiday compels people who couldn’t find Ireland on a map to declare themselves Irish by painting themselves green and drinking ’till they spew. I’m sorry Maggie Fitzpatrick gave me her number at the St. Patrick’s Day party last year right before she remembered she left the stove on and had to leave, but when I called it, the person who answered said, “Fifth Street Cleaners.” Then, when I did a reverse search of the number on the Internet and got an address and went there, the person who answered the door said he’d never heard of her. I must have written the number down wrong. Really. I’m sure that’s what it was. Call me, Maggie... Please. I’m sorry U-2 hasn’t done anything musically interesting in twenty years. I’m sorry Celtic Highland games don’t get a better fan turnout. I assume it’s because nobody knows what the hell a “caber” is or why you’d ever want to toss it. Football, I guess, is an easier concept. But let’s see Eli Manning toss a hammer. A football weighs, what? A pound? A hammer is twenty-two pounds, my friend. Take that. I’m sorry that when this St. Patrick’s Day is over I won’t remember the intense feelings of fellowship and camaraderie I enjoyed, but even more sorry that I won’t remember where I left my pants. I’m sorry that all people know about leprechauns is: pots of gold, cereal, and slasher movies. They have feelings, you know. I’m sorry those old guys in “Waking Ned Devine” pretended to be the dead guy so they could swipe his Irish lottery winnings. That just gives all fictional Irish stereotypical small villagers a bad name. I’m sorry the resurgence of old “Old Spice” commercials might lead to the return of those dorky, whistling “Irish Spring” soap commercials. I’m sorry that ever since peace took hold among the Catholics and Protestants of Northern Ireland, the country just doesn’t seem that interesting to most of us anymore. I’m sorry that if you assert your individuality and refuse to wear green on St. Patrick’s Day, you’ll be at risk of being pinched. We’re in a recession already and really cannot afford the lost work productivity that will result from wary workers cowering in their cubicles armed only with a staple remover to keep their co-workers at bay. I’m sorry that I don’t have an ending for this essay. The next round is on that guy in the green leprechaun hat. Email us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com or check out our blog at www.carnivalglee.blogspot.com Don’t forget to listen to our useless podcasts too, either at the blog on our home page here.
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AND NOW, A WORD FROM THE FDA Dateline: Old McDonald’s E-I-E-I-O Baby! January 15, 2008 Recently, the FDA ruled that food products derived from cloned animals is perfectly safe to eat. This is great! We, for one, are very excited about the possibility of glow-in-the-dark hot dogs. And we thought it was awesome when they started injecting cheese into them. Just wait until they start glowing green like those pigs in China. Yummy! This is good news for farmers, or, rather, the evil twins of farmers. While Old McDonald is busy toiling away to milk Bossie, slop the hogs, and pluck the chickens, the goateed NEW McDonald, Old McDonald’s evil twin from a parallel universe, can kick back while his evil minions shove the livestock through a Xerox-brand copy machine. DISCLAIMER: The Xerox Corporation, assuming it still exists, does not, in any fashion, advocate, endorse, or otherwise facilitate the application of office equipment to livestock. It just thinks hamburgers are tasty. If Xerox doesn’t actually exist anymore, then, by all means, anything with wings or four legs is fair game. Copy ‘em, staple ‘em, make ‘em figure out how to use your voice mail system. Go for it. Anyway, as excited as we were to hear that our unholy ham steaks are wholly edible, we’re even more excited to hear about the OTHER, lesser noted things the FDA said we could do with our cloned animals. These include: THE SUPERBOWL OF COWPIE TOSSING: As fun as drinking beer and tossing cowpies in ninety-five degree heat can be, imagine the thrill of pitting two great leagues of bovine turds, one based on nature, the other in the gifts of modern technology, against each other for intestinal supremacy. I envision the “Stinky and Pure” League going up against The League of “Chunkiness Courtesy of Science.” Let’s get ready to rumble –in our colons! MY FISH HAS MORE LEGS THAN YOUR FISH: These days, everyone has an eight-legged cat and a guinea pig with two heads. They’re so 2002. Much as Blu-Ray has overtaken HD DVD in less time than it takes to change the channel from presidential debates to “American Gladiators,” run-of-the-mill mutations of wildlife are soooo over. Thanks to science we can recreate our most beloved animals – only weirder. Think a goat with two horns is cool? How about eight? Love the way your dog wakes you up every morning by affectionately nuzzling your ear? Well, now you can have the loyalty of your old friend cloned into a whole new pet, plus with a little genetic tinkering, perhaps, the ability to make killer French toast. SIDENOTE: unlike, say the monster cookie and Death by Chocolate, killer French toast is not actually available, at least not outside of a Denny’s $3.99 special. CLONED ANIMALS WILL PRESERVE THE FAMILY FARM: Remember George Orwell’s “Animal Farm”? The animals rose up and overthrew the human oppressors. With no options to clone their best stock, the farmers were ruined. Now that we have cloning, however, the out-of-work farmer can clone their best, most faithful, stock. Those animals, in turn, with keep the uppity cows and pigs and such in check. The whole herd will be at peace. Until we eat them. Sure, modern science has brought us a lot of freaky things: DNA, stem cells, professional baseball players. But we should not fear cloning. We are the FDA. We say it’s okay. If you disagree, just remember, we know where you gave your last blood sample. You can be replaced. Have a nice day! And a hamburger. Email us at carnivalofglee@.mchsi.com
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A CARNIVAL-LIKE SPECIAL FEATURE: NOBODY CARES ABOUT THIS BUT ME Dateline: Last stop on the train to Geekville March 11, 2008 This is one of those columns where we as a public-service oriented website come to the realization that you all paid absolutely nothing to read this, so if I want to take a break from saving the world from itself to indulge my own whimsy, then that’s what I’m going to do. So here goes: I’m lying in bed the other night, floating softly in that hazy interlude between consciousness and sleep when I had a stunning realization: The sitcoms “Dream On” and “Scrubs” are the exact same show. I did warn you. Okay, for the two of you still reading this (Hi, Dad. Hi, Jerry.), here’s the scoop. “Dream On” was a sitcom that ran on HBO from 1990-1996 and was noted largely, at least at first, for its prominent female nudity and profanity; both of these were still fairly novel developments in television at that time. “Scrubs” is a sitcom currently in its seventh season. Being a network show, there’s no nudity or much less profanity, but beyond that, I maintain, they are essentially the same show. Below is a point-by-point comparison. No need to thank me. Central character: On “Dream On,” the central character is a sweet, hapless, working joe, Martin Tupper, who works as a book editor at a small publishing house, surrounded by crazies at work and at home. When he gets really stressed out, he flashes back to scenes from old TV shows and movies he remembers from his youth that are somehow relevant to what’s happening. On “Scrubs,” the central character is a sweet, hapless, working joe, JD, who works as a doctor at a small hospital, surrounded by crazies at work and at home. When he gets really stressed out, he flashes back to scenes from his college years or imagines himself or his friends in wild, cartoonish scenes that are somehow relevant to what’s happening. Seriously. I did warn you this was geeky. Best Buddy to the Central Character: On “Dream On,” Martin’s best friend, Eddie, was black and a smooth talking charmer. On “Scrubs,” JD’s best friend, Turk, is black and a smooth talking charmer. Other Character Who Busts Central Character’s Chops but is Really a Friend/Mentor/Confidant in Wolf’s Clothing: On “Dream On,” Martin had endless sparring matches with his verbally abusive secretary, through which Martin would resolve his problem. On “Scrubs,” JD suffers the witty, but cutting, put-downs of his colleague, Dr. Cox, which are usually well-timed to teach JD a lesson that will solve his problem. The Obnoxious Boss: On “Dream On,” Martin’s boss was the callous, money-grubber Gibby Fiske. On “Scrubs,” JD has to contend with cold-hearted, budget miser Dr. Bob Kelso. The Former Love/Now Friend: On “Dream On,” Martin is friends with ex-wife Judith, who is still occasionally exasperated by him. On “Scrubs,” JD is friends with former-girlfriend Elliott, who is still occasionally exasperated by him. So, in summary… SCRUBS: Just “Dream On,” wearing, well, scrubs. I rest my case. So why did I do this? Certainly not to fill space. No, sir. We have a lot of great ideas for this column. A LOT. I just think it’s an interesting study in psychology. Why can some people tell you the scores of every Super Bowl back to when Vince Lombardi was in knee pants, but those same people have no clue how many members of Congress there are (answer: too many) Why does the average person know all the words to the “Cheers” theme song, but not the National Anthem? And why in the stillness of the night does the chain of similarities between an old sitcom and a newer sitcom flow through my thoughts rather than, say, eighteenth century Russian literature? I don’t know. But I think it could be something as simple as this: television, sports, popular culture are soothing to the mind. Focusing on these things – in moderation – is therapeutic. Or maybe I’m just full of blarney – appt, given how close we are to St. Patrick’s Day. Now go watch TV. Email us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com Then check out our blog at www.carnivalglee.blogspot.com
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CONFIDENTIAL: FOR YOUR EYES ONLY RE: SYNOPSIS OF 13 EPISODE COMMITMENT FOR “THE TERAS AND THE SNOT,” SET TO PREMIERE ON THE MID-SEASON TELEVISION SCHEDULE. October 8, 2007 “The Tears and the Snot,” is a gripping new prime-time dramedy centered on the wealthy family of patriarch Humboldt Harcourt. The Harcourts run a company called Plethora which provides medical/lawyering/pest control services to the sexy housewives of gay superheroes and the undead behind the scenes of a late-night sketch comedy series; all while operating out of a run-of-the-mill business office staffed by serial killers with pension plans and axes. EPISODE 1 (Pilot) “Everybody Dies – Sometimes Even Without Help.” While touring the offices of Plethora, addled family patriarch Humboldt Harcourt becomes disoriented in cubicle-hell and suffers a fatal stapler accident. The future of Plethora is in turmoil. EP. 2: Harcourt daughter and erstwhile wunderkind, Jasmine Marie (who is, of course, a breakout character from that other network hit “Hey, Bring Back My Pants”) returns to the family fold. Her triumphant return is inadvertently marred when her backside is displayed for the whole office, dooming her to be called “Fanny Girl” for the rest of the series. EP. 3: Humboldt Harcourt’s ghost returns to the family compound and says “Mathers in Accounting killed me.” Mathers is immediately promoted. Then beheaded. EP. 4: One of the sexy superhero housewives sues Plethora because the surgery she asked for to reduce her impossibly large female superhero breasts didn’t take and now she can’t fit in the corner booth at Starbucks. She embarks on a torrid affair with Lance Harcourt, Humboldt’s horndog youngest son. EP. 5: Humboldt Harcourt’s estranged illegitimate son Peevo is forced to flee the Brazilian rainforest amid allegations of corrupting the ecoysystem by training fire ants to salsa dance. He reluctantly accepts Jasmine Marie’s offer to be vice-president for pest control at Plethora. EP. 6: Senator Barnswallow, an old friend of deceased family patriarch Humboldt Harcourt, convenes a Congressional inquiry to appoint a special prosecutor to look into who loaded the stapler that fired the fatal shrapnel. EP. 7: Buela Harcourt, Humboldt’s wife, awakens from a coma and demands a ham sandwich – “I said ‘no pickle’ dammit! – much to the family’s surprise as they all thought she was dead.(“I thought you buried her,” Jasmine Marie hisses at one point.) Family chef and immortal zombie Herbie misunderstands Buela’s sandwich order and serves turkey, causing Buela to lapse back into a tryptophan-induced coma. EP. 8: Lance Harcourt is called upon to defend a superhero being sued for ruining a rooftop garden when he allegedly urinated on it from fifteen-thousand feet. EP. 9: In a sweeps-week stunt, the crew from one of the police forensics shows appears on “The Tears and the Snot” to exhume family patriarch Humboldt Harcourt. In a mix up, they exhume his wife instead. Her response: “Thank, God. I STILL wasn’t dead!” EP. 10: Whatever washed-up comedy movie star that takes our call when this episode goes into production does a guest appearance in a dramatic role as a person diagnosed with whatever disease is fashionable then. This episode will be submitted for Golden Globe consideration. EP. 11: Peevo is having trouble focusing on his job as VP for pest control and reveals he is addicted to men’s “body spray.” Ironically, the DT’s make him believe bugs are crawling all over him and he can’t make them stop. Women abruptly stop throwing themselves at him. The episode will be submitted for Emmy consideration. EP. 12: Plethora is threatened with a hostile takeover by a progressive, charitable organization. Senator Barnswallow squelches the deal in exchange for a favor to be named later. EP. 13: On “Bring Your Junior Psychopath to Work Day,” things get out of hand and the serial killers inadvertently burn down the office, with the entire Harcourt clan trapped inside. They serenade each other with “Kumbaya” as the building succumbs to flames. Who will survive? Check your local listings for dates and times. Who needs family time when you’ve got good television? And be sure to check out the piece of “Fan Fiction” devoted to “The Tears and the Snot” on the “Really Short Fiction” page. Email us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com
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TURKEYS OF THE WORLD, UNITE! Dateline: The wrong end of the baster November 14, 2007 Recently, our brothers in struggle, the Hollywood writers, stood up to the man and said, “give us our internet royalties!” we should support them, and, more than that, take inspiration and wage our own struggle. We turkeys don’t need the royalties, of course, being well-compensated by that country that uses our name and our “Turkey in the Straw” money. But that doesn’t mean we can be taken advantage of by our greedy oppressors. We should stand up and say: “Give us our giblets!” Also, our wings, breasts, thighs and the unappetizing parts they put in the gravy. Yes, my fellow turkeys, as the season for giving thanks cloaked in avian avarice looms, it is time for us to take a stand. And you can’t do that if your drumsticks have been grilled. Why must a holiday be marked by devouring our kin? At Christmas you get gifts. On Valentines Day, you get flowers. Nobody gets eaten. On your birthday, you make a wish by blowing out a candle. Why on thanksgiving can you only make a wish by snapping our bones like twigs? This season, there will be no seasoning – no salt, pepper, nothing. The only dressing we’ll tolerate is our official “Just Say No to White Meat – and Also Dark” extra-long turtle-neck sweaters (The slogan wouldn’t fit on the t-shirts) And there will be absolutely no insertion of anything into any of our body cavities. Never again. Ever. You want to know what really sticks in our gizzard? – well, literally, there’s a tough, muscular membrane into which we insert small stones to grind up our food – but politically what gets us is the way turkeys are portrayed in modern culture. Just dumb clucks who go “gobble gobble.” Society totally overlooks the turkeys who worked on the manhattan project. And also “The A-Team.” Turkeys that come out of the oven golden brown and moist are craved, but call someone a “butterball” and it’s an insult. Quick, name a famous turkey? Daffy Duck? No, he’s, well, he’s a duck. How about Foghorn Leghorn? Or Tweetybird? Nope, not them either, my friend. The man doesn’t want you on his TV, he wants you in his tv dinner with some of that eerie neon-colored gravy/industrial adhesive. Fight for your right to be more than a barrier to the pecan pie. Flap your wings and soar to freedom. Well, maybe you should take the bus. So, this year, let your voices be heard. The only gobbling should be of your yams, not your brothers. Send your turkeys to Congress, not the dinner table. That is all. Email is at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com
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MORAL DECAY – WITH ACCESSORIES August 11, 2007 Dateline: The Precipice Some people will tell you that our society is in decline. In support, they’ll point to the perceived erosion of family values, or terrorism, or Hollywood; all certainly noteworthy. For my money, however, the real evidence that the country is going to Hell in a handbasket (a stupid way to travel, but what are you gonna do? Expedia can only do so much.) is this: the Wienermobile got a parking ticket. It’s true, while stopping in Chicago on a tour to get people to sing the “Oscar Mayer Wiener” song (as if anyone needs any encouragement to do that – you’re doing it right now, aren’t you?), the giant vehicle shaped like a sausage was cited for parking illegally. We understand the driver was also busted for being in possession of an amount of pickle relish that exceeded the legal limit, but that has not been confirmed. What kind of country are we living in where giant vehicles formed in the shape of beloved renderings of casings filled with more or less ingestible byproducts can be hassled by “The Man?” The emperor has no clothes, man, and he’s covered in mustard. Before we here at the Carnival get a bunch of angry emails from wienerheads (fans of wieners, that is), we’ll acknowledge that we don’t know for sure that wieners contain animal “byproducts.” The truth is, we don’t know what they contain, which is just fine with most of America, kind of like our government. On that last point, consider: our own Department of Homeland Security is developing a “light sabre” weapon that works by beaming light at a wavelength that causes people to stumble or get dizzy and, frequently, throw up. It has been affectionately dubbed the “pocket puke-ray” by some. The idea is to subdue a criminal or a mob without the need to shoot them or otherwise physically assault them. As a side benefit, the massive clean up of crime scenes the weapons will engender will mean that legions of teenagers will have part-time job opportunities other than fast food sales. The Carnival of Glee was able to obtain, at no small cost, a top secret list of other weapons the Department of Homeland Security has been working on. There is no timetable for the release of these items; presumably whenever the R&D money runs out – or we just finally get fed up with all Canada’s shit. Here are some of our favorites: 1. The Mood Ring – No, it’s not what you’re thinking, that staple of Cracker Jack boxes, the ring that changes color depending on your mood. No, the Homeland Security “Mood Ring” takes the emotional temperature of a room and neutralizes. Say a federal agent goes undercover inside a hostile terrorist cell wearing “The Mood Ring.” If the anti-America rhetoric heats up too much, the Mood Ring will spritz everyone with a dose of Prozac. A similar device is being developed in the private sector by the makers of Cialis for use on Retirement Communities. 2. The Whistle-Blower – a hand-held device that you blow into. Instead of emitting a little tweet, however, this thing lobs insults – all PC, of course, but they still hurt, darnit. Suppose a group of young street toughs is defacing the local park with spray-pointed graffiti. In the old days, the cops would just shoot them. But with this new device, shooting artists could be a thing of the past, except, you know, recreationally. Those hoodlums would be rendered whimpering babies by a blast from the Whistle-Blower like “You’re a poor product of a crumbling educational system.” Ouch. 3. The Cupid’s-Stupid-Arrow – with unwanted pregnancy and recreational sex continuing to plague society, except for my friend Murray (sorry, Murray), this weapon arrives just in time. A specially designed bow seeks out couples making googly-eyes and fires a small projectile into the subjects’ necks that injects into the bloodstreams the equivalent of a cold shower, or the image of your grandparents doing it. Sure a few Saturday nights might be ruined and a few eyes might be poked out, but at least, in time, the evil condom manufacturers will go out of business. So, here’s hoping Congress approves another hundred zillion trillion billion dollars for weapons research. Well, that and a fat-free potato chip that doesn’t make you poop excessively. Email us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com
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BITE ME, VALENTINE February 12, 2007 Dateline: The emergency room. Modern medical science is amazing. They can reattach anything these days. Dear Valentine: Well, I hope you’re happy. Now we’ve missed our dinner reservation. Do you think picnic benches outside the hot dog stand on Route 9 just grow on trees? Well, okay, they do, but still…what you said to me really hurts. So does the meat thermometer you jabbed into that space between my big toe and the second little piggy. Son of a bitch! Happy Valentine’s Day! Or should I say, Happy Valium Day. Yee-ha! This stuff is great! An hour ago, I had a long talk with Father Murphy from my grade school and he’s been dead for fifteen years. Then he turned into a pizza and I ate him, so I’m not hungry anymore. Valium is awesome. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. What’s the deal, Valentine? I can’t believe you got so mad. I barely even knew that woman’s name. It’s not like she and were dating or anything. I told you I loved the way you smiled, loved how good you make me feel when we’re together, and how much I appreciate how good you are with my dog when I’m out of town. In return, you showed me the closet where you keep all the missing neighborhood pets you stuffed and mounted yourself. What the hell? Don’t get me wrong. I love that you have hobbies. When you started that book club, I admired your intellect and curiosity. When you said you wanted to take a martial arts class, I applauded your desire to stay in shape. But when I caught you doing it with Mr. Woo, I was, I admit, a little shaken. Especially since your book club was there too. I know I haven’t always been the perfect boyfriend. It probably was hard for you all those weekends I went off with my buddies fishing, leaving you behind. I can only tell you that I thought about you every day I was away. However, I did not think about you every day I was in prison after, one of the weekends I was gone, you planted stolen guns and drugs in my house. I couldn’t think about my beautiful valentine because I was too busy fending off my cell mate Tree Stump. The cookies you sent were tasty though, even if the ipecac you put in them did make me throw up. By the way, just because Tree Stump got paroled before me, doesn’t mean you were required to sleep with him. Just a note. Sleeping with my cellmate did not bring us closer together. Valentine, I’ve always loved the way you go out of your way to help the little children in your neighborhood. But I have to admit I lied when I told you I didn’t understand why you’d been banned from the grade school. Honey, helping the kids set fire to the principal’s office is not being a good role-model. The nurse just changed the dressing on my wounds. (They’re sending you the bill for all this, by the way. Don’t worry. I expect you’ll pay for it with the credit card you stole from me.) In retrospect, I know now that it was unwise for me to ask you to hand me the ranch dressing. It won’t happen again. You know, because of the restraining order. And so, like so many doomed love affairs – Romeo and Juliet, Kid Rock and Pam Anderson, your brother Alf and sister Bertha - we shall be together no more. But weep not, my dear. Not that I really expect you to, you emotionless little freak. Now I must go, my love. The doctors say they have to get the bleeding under control. How exactly did you get that lawn mower blade into my shoulder without my seeing you? Your ingenuity is another thing I love about you. Now as I drift into unconsciousness, I will leave you with these heartfelt sentiments. I may not be there to shower you with diamonds, flowers and kisses, but I can still tell you what’s in my heart: Bite me. Email us a valentine at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com
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I’M SORRY – FAMOUS FOLKS EDITION May 28, 2007 Dateline: The Carnival Confessional In this age of public atonement for EVERYTHING, including diet cola’s tasting “crappy”, famous people can’t wait to get in front of a camera - “I admit, I shouldn’t have dropped that candy wrapper on the ground. And further, I regret that that kid’s nose got dog poo on it when I shoved him down to get it.” - It’s refreshing that there are celebs like Alec Baldwin who didn’t apologize for anything after calling his child a little pig, but rather blamed his ex-wife, and Don Imus who apparently still doesn’t get why everyone is so mad at him. It’s true some publications and TV shows trade in the tears of weepy celebrities who have sinned. Still, for every repentant Mel Gibson getting earnest with Diane Sawyer or Hugh Grant humbly yukking it up with Jay Leno, there’s a celebrity who is apparently not sorry at all. Most famous people are way too image-conscious to tell it like it is. So we here at the Carnival, nothing if not a public force for good, thought we’d help some folks out with apologies they might make if the staffers who put words in their mouths had any heart. The truth shall set you free. Fly forth and multiply (or not): MITT ROMNEY (Republican presidential candidate): “I’m sorry the prison at Guantanamo can’t be expanded. You know, like a double-wide trailer…wait, what’s a trailer?” JOHN EDWARDS (Democratic presidential candidate): “I’m sorry there was that flap over what I spent on a haircut. Sorry that it undercut (har!) my image as an advocate for the common man. I’d shave my head if I could. But then you’d see my gang tattoos. THE PERSON WHO STOLE THE FORMULA FOR COKE AND TRIED TO SELL IT TO PEPSI (alleged criminal/probable tooth cavity victim) “I misread it. I thought it was a Pepsi coupon. They’re all the same anyway. Except for, you know, all the cocaine. It IS called ‘Coke’ you know.” PARIS HILTON (flagrant oxygen waster): “I’m sorry the penal system is so rigid. ‘Penal’ is a funny word. That’s hot.” ALBERT GONZALES (US attorney general): “I cannot recall what I am sorry about. If I was sorry about something, I could not tell you. What were we talking about?” OUTGOING BRITISH PRIME MINISER TONY BLAIR (future McDonalds night manager): “I’m sorry I gave George Bush my phone number.” ROSIE O’DONNELL (former queen of nice. Really.): “Sorry, my ass. Come on, put ‘em up. I’ll fight you right here!” AARON SORKIN (TV writer/producer): “I’m sorry ‘Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip’ was such a high profile flop for NBC. Maybe they should have gotten that guy who created ‘The West Wing.’ Oh, that was me too. In that case, I’m sorry you all forgot how clever I am.” HOMER SIMPSON (animated beer guzzler): “I’m sorry it took fifteen years for a ‘Simpsons’ movie to finally get made. What? EIGHTEEN years? D’oh!” THE OIL INDUSTRY (a group that gives even Darth Vader nightmares): “We’re sorry gas prices went up again. No we’re not.” CONGRESS (The tiny little clown car of our political system): “We’re sorry that our military funding bill with the timetables for withdrawal didn’t make it – but in a ‘Phew, sure glad that’s over’ sort of way. Happy Memorial Day!” HILLARY CLINTON (Democratic presidential candidate): I’m sorry my staffers revealed I really don’t care for Iowa – no, I mean Idaho – no, I mean it’s not true! Oh, forget it. I’m going to South Carolina.” So I think we’ve done some good here. And even if not, we did fill up some space. That’s really what we’re about…I mean, the doing good part. Who are we kidding. Email us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com
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OVERHEARD IN THE HALL OF DEAD PEOPLE Dateline: The Intersection of Revulsion and Art and More Revulsion July 11, 2007 Remember in middle school shop class when you got to use the laminator? You were so excited to see your lapel pins (“I Heart Needlepoint”) or the schematics for your lamp project, that everyone knew wasn’t going to work and constituted a fire hazard, encased for all eternity in plastic. Well, now, in the hottest trend in death since the advent of simply not breathing, you can take that love of synthetic polymers to the great beyond. A German scientist developed a process called plastination to preserve and prepare actual human bodies for public display in a way that reveals internal anatomy. Sadly, the accompanying deep-fried food concessions are not proving as possible. Forget Disneyland. Kids, we’re going to that place where you can see Grandpa’s spleen! Look, kids, Grandpa’s waving back. No, honey, he can’t put his arm down…Yes, it is creepy. Who wants ice cream? So all day long in these museum exhibits, people file past and stare at the departed. It’s got to be boring for the performers. What do they do in their off hours? The following snippets of conversation were overheard one night: “Man, what a day. I need to sit down. Oh, right. I can’t.” “Man, what a day. I need to stretch my legs. Oh, right. I can’t.” “Does my penis look flaccid to you?” “I’m thinking about getting Botox injections.” (Sound of knocking on her cranium – THUNK THUNK THUNK) “How?” “I heard when Georgina’s Aunt Sally died, they just had her…embalmed.” “Shut up! No, they didn’t.” “Yes! And then…they buried here.” “My God! That’s grotesque.” “Did someone turn up the air conditioner? It looks a bit nipply in here. Oh, wait, that’s just the plastination.” “I thought having my lower intestines exposed would be slimming, but now I’m not so sure.” “I was hoping they’d position my body in a pose of deep reflection, like ‘The Thinker.’ Instead, it looks like I’m trying to kiss that old guy’s ass.” “I wish I still had my glasses. With the whole not being able to blink thing, my contacts really dry out. “ “Yeah. It’s crappy that going through the dying-filleting-saran brand cling wrap-makeover and endless naked display would at least entitle you to some Lasik. Or at least an iPhone.” “We can’t push the buttons.” “It still looks cool.” “My ex-wife said I’d never make anything of myself just lying around all the time. Guess I showed her.” “Now that I finally have time to read all the ‘Harry Potter’s, I can’t turn the pages.” “When I was a kid, Mom always said I shouldn’t make ugly faces ‘cause they might freeze that way. She never said anything about hairy butt. Thanks, Mom.”
Email us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com
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BANNED 1/16/07 Dateline: The Island of Misfit Toys Remember the good ol’ days when the only forbidden fruit we had to worry about was, well, fruit? Me neither. It seems like at one time or another just about everything has been or is in danger of being banned. From Eve’s apple, to Zippos on airplanes. Aerosol cans. Agent Orange. Newt Gingrich. The twenty-first century is no different. Recently, yet another school district was forced to contend with, and ultimately reject, a call to ban “Harry Potter.” However, in a tragic case of mistaken identity, Harry Potterman of rural St. Portsmith has been forced to move out of town. But no one liked him much anyway. In December, Italy banned an entire race of humans – specifically super-skinny supermodels. Apparently, efforts to arrest them have failed, however, since the fashionable waifs keep slipping through the handcuffs. A few others have been lost to sewer grates. Does banning really work? Decades ago, the federal government tried banning the consumption of alcohol. And America got drunker. Sure, Al Capone was able to afford to feed all the little Capones, but I’m not sure that’s much of an endorsement for the temperance movement. Nancy Reagan told us to “just say no” to drugs. Famous people, never shy with their political opinions, jumped on the anti-drug bandwagon and pleaded with America to get off drugs. “Drugs kill,” they said. Some, like John Belushi and Chris Farley, proved it. It used to be that people smoked EVERYWHERE. At home, in the office, in their cars, during major surgery. Even on television. Then someone decided, “You know, maybe smoking in hospitals isn’t such a great idea.” So it was banned. I note here, as an aside, that a similar ban on people in hospital garb eating fast food has not been enacted; a sight that gives me even greater pause than ophthalmologists wearing glasses or fat people in Speedos. After hospitals, came bans on smoking in other public places – or portions of them. For years, we had “smoking sections” and “non-smoking” sections in restaurants strategically placed about ten feet apart. Unfortunately, no one has yet invented the smokeless cigarette. Now some bars are banning smoking. This is a true sea change in American culture. What’s more American than a shot of whisky and a smoke? Sure, there are nitrate-filled hot dogs and fattening apple pie, but you can’t smoke them. Now entire cities are banning smoking. Where will it end? In some towns, you can only buy birthday candles on the black market. Eggs were out. Now they’re in. (Or maybe out again, depending on when you read this). Cholesterol was all bad, but then someone from the grubby pro-cholesterol lobbyist association - found there was “good” cholesterol and “bad” cholesterol. Some fat is good, saturated fat is not. Trans fat is even worse. It’s like a nuclear bomb to your arteries, which coincidentally, I think is the name of the new sandwich at Burger King. There’s no outright ban on this stuff, but that’s probably because the pro-ban people are too fat to waddle over to the computer and email their congresspersons. Speaking of Congress, “soft money” contributions to politicians have been banned. Calls for even stricter limits on using money to influence votes are constantly being called for – once elections are over. We here at the Carnival say money should be taken out of the equation entirely. From now on, all political campaigns should be publicly funded just like any other government program. Let’s see if your congressman can get re-elected driving a second-hand car with bald tires and no gas and supporting himself on a $400 per money campaign check while working two other minimum wage jobs. Of course, given that the congressional work “week” typically starts after lunch on Tuesday and ends before lunch on Thursday, this shouldn’t present too many scheduling problems. Now some do-gooders want to enact the ultimate ban. No, not a ban on reality television. A ban on stupid people. Case in point: some communities want to ban “ghost riding the whip,” a stunt where the driver of a vehicle gets out and dances around and on the car – while it’s moving. Some fuddy-duddies think just because this stunt often leads to property damage and death, it should be banned. We say: party-poopers. Young people believe they’re invincible. A little vehicular-related maiming might help disabuse them of that notion. In fact, “ghost riding” should be a part of every driver’s ed class along with parallel parking. Parallel parking itself is endangered by a whole new species of vehicles that parallel park themselves. Pretty soon, we won’t even have to be smart enough to drive. So there you have it. Banning things actually makes people dumber. One final example: many offices are doing away with traditional paper record-keeping, in favor of digital computer files. It was this sort of thinking that led to the Internet, which begat websites like this one. Need more proof? Email us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com
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MR. WONG’S BUTTON FACTORY OUTLET CENTER
Dateline: Where the party be at.
September 24, 2006
I see you. And I feel your pain.
Look at you. Sitting there with your chest hairs flapping in the breeze with no way to close up your shirt. What your husband must think. Fortunately, I’ve got a solution.
Come on down to Mr. Wong’s Button Factory Outlet Center. We won’t be undersold.
Got a hook? We’ve got a button. Don’t got a hook? Well, you’re clearly not serious about this. Don’t waste our time.
At any other button factory outlet center, you might pay upwards of four cents for a button. But at Mr. Wong’s, you pay only three cents (specially marked buttons only.)
In 1926, Alfonso Wong came to this country with a button and a dream – the dream was to join his father’s successful restaurant chain in New York. Unfortunately, because he had a bag full of buttons instead of a map, he wound up in rural West Virginia instead.
So, thanks to fate, Mr. Wong didn’t become a famous chef and Emeril Lagasse has a job. Instead, he dedicated his life to making buttons. His wife was thrilled. The first one, that is.
Every visitor to Mr. Wong’s Button Factory Outlet Center is greeted personally by Mr. Wong Jr.; grandson of the original Mr. Wong (the middle son, oddly, was named Mr. Smith). Mr. Wong Jr. is the dapper gent in the coat of many buttons. Takes the man an hour to get dressed in the morning. Feel free to shake hands. He loves it. Just don’t kiss him. Trust us on this.
So with a place like Mr. Wong’s Button Factory Outlet Center around, why are you clinging to that old zipper? (An associate whispers in the announcer’s ear)
Oh, caught again, huh? Ouch. Well, after you get the stitches out, why don’t you celebrate by coming on down to Mr. Wong’s and look over our selection of over 18,000 different styles of buttons. Like round ones? We got those. Triangular? Sure. Buttons shaped like US presidents? Yup. For the really tall, you can get a pack of all forty-three presidents. Think of the shirt you could make, you patriot you!
We’ve even got buttons that look like actual butts. (Little button pants sold separately)
Mr. Wong’s is committed to making your shopping trip safe, as well as exciting. Every button bin is fitted with a sneeze guard – a little lesson learned after Verna Wombat sued us a couple years ago when somebody sneezed into the button bin, launching a #5 Jazz-a-rama into her esophagus.
So mark your calendar to visit Mr. Wong’s Button Factory Outlet Center today. Located on 8th Avenue between Tina’s Drive-Thru Tattoo Removal and a dumpster.
You could go over to Wight’s Fastener Emporium and get something passable at keeping your horse corralled. But you won’t get the same quality craftsmanship you find at Wong’s. Remember: once you learn to love Wong’s, you won’t wanna be Wight’s.
Email us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com
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YULETIDE DAMAGE CONTROL 12/11/06 Dateline: Steeped in the festive funk of a fat, sweaty old man, nervous for the future of his empire and binging on candy canes. City officials in Vienna, Austria, recently banned Santa Claus from appearing in kindergarten classes there for fear the bearded man scares the little ones. (Did you know that “kindergarten” is spelled the same in German as it is in English? Funny, huh?) In related news, Arnold Schwarzenegger and the Vienna Boys Choir were also banned. Vienna sausages, however, are still tasty. Clearly, this is a blow to Santa Claus, Inc., which, like Wal-Mart, has spent centuries spreading cheap goods around the world. Both organizations also are known for questionable employment practices. Wal-Mart has been accused, for example, of refusing to give health and dental benefits to its employees. Similarly, remember Rudolph’s poor friend Hermie who couldn’t get any time to practice his true calling, dentistry? When was the last time you heard of an elf with a dental plan anyway? Hermie, who eventually did operate a small elf-dentistry practice before retiring to Florida in ’83 with his fourth wife, was recently contacted for comment. “I used to say I was going to be ind-, inde-, independent,” he told the Carnival. “These days, I just wish I had bladder control.” Well, Santa may not be incontinent, but he is certainly in Dutch with a large segment of the world. It’s not just Vienna. Go to any mall anywhere at Christmas time and see the kids freak as their parents, craving some connection to the innocence of Christmas passed to mask the stress and expense of their adulthood, push them to sit on the strange old man’s lap. So what can St. Nick do? We here at the Carnival have a number of suggestions, some of them actually good, and a few of them actually legal. Before we offer them, we’d just like it on the record that, Santa, if any of these ideas get you back in Vienna’s good graces, then we’re even. You still have to bring us presents despite that thing with the ferrets earlier this year. How many times do we have to apologize, anyway? So, here’s the list. Check it once. Check it twice. Just remember, it’s fine to be naughty, so long as your lawyer is nice. 1. No more gift-giveaways. In this post-modern, consumer-driven, hyphenated society, we’re suspicious of anyone trying to give us anything for free. It’s why no one redeems their “points” on their credit card statements and why parents tell their kids not to take candy from strangers (unless they are wearing red suits). Start charging us. Lots. We’ll be more comfortable. We’ve got plastic, so it’s all good. 2. Lose the beard. Beards have a sinister connotation. Looks like you’re hiding something. It’s why politicians never wear them. (Not that THEY have anything to hide, right?) Sends a bad message to the voters. It’s kind of like the statistics that say the shorter candidate always loses in presidential elections. Your Carnival Ringmaster both has a beard and is short. His political ambition is totally screwed. 3. Overhaul your style. Maybe take the sled to a good body-man for a refit – maybe some flames painted on the side of the sled or something. You could replace Rudolph-the-Red-Nosed Reindeer too. He’s sooo sixties. Maybe instead, you could get a red-haired actress. Like Julianne Moore. Or Scarlet Johansson in a wig. 4. Get Mrs. Claus out there more. When the president’s “popularity” is strained, he sends Laura Bush out on the talk show circuit. You should do the same with the Mrs. Only maybe instead of Leno, she could go on a botox infomercial and then on that “Dr. 90210” show for breast implants. You know, so she can relate to the real world. 5. Get fatter. I know, you thought I was going to suggest slimming down and getting buff and all that, didn’t you? No way. This is the twenty-first century. The human race is smarter and richer than ever before. We’ve spent centuries developing creature comforts that cater to our baser instincts from the recliner with a fridge built in to “Spongebob Squarepants” marathons. We revel in our fatness - though only for short distances since we get winded pretty quick. We make cars bigger. Movie theaters expand their seats. The size “small” for things like clothes and French fries are virtually nonexistent. You can get a mucho grande latte. Why not a mucho grande Claus? So make with the cheesecake, my man. 6. Instead of eating all the cookies we leave out for you, try leaving some for us. Also milk. And beer. And some of those little hot dogs in barbecue sauce. Yum. 7. “Super Elf Nanny.” Sure, everyone knows you’re the go-to-guy for gifts. You can dash all over the world in a single night. But maybe it’s time to show your softe | | |
