Johnny the Armless Midget

I couldn’t help it. Today’s Stern Show inspired a parody. To the tune of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

*
Johnny the Armless Midget
needs his feet to pick his nose
and then, he humps his gym shorts
when his little penis grows.

Howard, Artie, and Robin
made him wait out in the hall
They wouldn’t let poor Johnny
in the studio at all.

Then on the Howard Stern Show,
Howard came to say
Johnny with your feet wide spread
yank that Mets hat off your head

Then how the wack pack loved him
as they covered him with pee
Johnny the Armless Midget
Sal the Stockbroker wants a traction!

(Sal the Stockbroker wants a traction!)

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We Are All McLovin

I got out pretty easy today. Only one co-worker wished me an appyhay irthdaybay, and that was at the end of the day. He said he hoped I had something fun planned. I said I did.

I said, I’m going to see “Superbad” again.

Oh yes, he said. I’ve heard of that movie. I may have to go see it. You said you’ve seen it already once? Yes. I am going to see it again. Previously, I saw it with my Lady Friend. Tonight, I will be going to see it with my Uncle Jay, who is moving back to Kansas next week. Oh, he said. So is that movie anything at all like “Napoleon Dynamite?” I heard some people compared it to that movie.

No, I said. In fact, let me explain this to you.

People just pretended that “Napoleon Dyanmite” was a funny movie. It actually wasn’t. Nor was it interesting or even soulful or anything. You see, what actually happened was that these five guys got together in Topeka Kansas the night it opened, and they smoked a lot of marijuana, and they went to see “Napoleon Dyanmite,” and they laughed their asses off, and then they went back home and told their little brothers about it. And the little brothers went and saw it, and they pretended it was funny so their older brothers wouldn’t think they were retards. But you see, these fellas didn’t have any weed. So it really wasn’t funny. But they had to pretend that it was. So they paid it forward, peer pressuring five of their friends into going to see the damned thing and into thinking it was funny. And they peer pressured five of their friends. And so on. And so on. And so on. Until finally you saw it, too, and you pointed at the screen and laughed and weren’t even sure why.*

Vote for Pedro. Ha-ha.

As opposed to “Superbad,” which is funny. Genuinely. This film will force you to cackle, to slam your foot to the gooey theater floor, to the point where you need to gulp for air. It is funny, foolish, raucous, gross, and flat-out hillarious, and then it goes and knocks the wind out of you by being real and good. No. “Superbad” is nothing at all like “Napoleon Dynamite.” “Superbad” is well worth your $10 and your two hours. Comparatively, “Napoleon Dynamite” probably should not have been made.

So. If you haven’t already, see “Superbad.” And, please, don’t get up the minute the credits start to roll. Sit through the credits. Really.

*Some portions of this exchange have been embellished by the writer.

Moby Dick

Friday I’ll be 39. I like to kick and stretch and kick. 39. And I’m really feeling like an old fuck.

These kids these days. I sat down the other day and tried to watch an hour of something called “Sucker Free Countdown” on the MTV. Now, clearly, I am not the intended demographic for this program. But holy cow, I really don’t get it, and not just because I’m a white guy. I listen to PE, I listen to Jungle Brothers, I listen to De La. I know what time it is G. And I can even appreciate minimalism in art. But sitting through these videos and listening to these songs, my gods, there’s just nothing there. Nothing. No soul. No talent. Just a beat and some guy who expects it to be entertaining for him to explain to me that he has a lot of money.

But it’s not as if I’m not contributing to the intellectual bankruptcy of the nation. I have just got done watching the season finale of the Big Brother. It is very, very stupid. But it is fun. And the man I started rooting for early on won it all. You go, Evil Dick!

Cheryl Spector

I didn’t know Cheryl Spector very well, though I knew her for years. I knew her primarily through my uncle and his crew and secondarily because she worked at one time for the same outfit which currently keeps me out of trouble. I would meet up with Cheryl Spector about once a year or so, and she would always inundate me with questions about said outfit. It seemed to work for both of us. It gave me something to talk about when I was feeling out of my element a feeling that is generally reserved for days ending in ‘y’ but which can be especially pronounced in a crowd full of outgoing gay and/or transgendered people and, I think it gave her something new to discuss, or maybe gave her a chance to vent old stuff.

Anyways, Cheryl Spector died last week. Leukemia. That’s just odd.