Name Dropping   Fred Basset   Imagine that you are a developmentally disabled individual bound to a wheelchair and that you are trying to cross a freeway. Then imagine that a giant gasoline truck is headed your way and is going to run you over. Now imagine that the gasoline truck swerves to miss you and smashes into the side of another truck filled with nitroglycerine, uranium 235, matches, hand grenades, and members of Al Qaida. As the two trucks collide, you see a screaming fireball of radiation, gas, and terrorists about to run you over. As if this weren't enough, a wayward meteor made of rotten meat and glass shards strikes you in the head at the same time the Nuclear-Powered-Al-Quaida-Firebomb runs you over.   Here is the worst part... You survive.   You pick up your life and do your best to continue on. You have no arms or legs, your face has been burned off, your severe retardation has become incomprehensibly worse and all you have left in the world is one good tooth. You decide to become a cartoonist. You submit snot smeared, severely brain damaged, single-tooth-drawn comics to all newspapers and syndications throughout the country only to get constructive criticism like...   EDITOR: Is this crap smeared across the bottom of the page? What is this? I can't read it. I dunno, we might be able to do something with it but you're going to have to bring it down a notch or two, this is way too highbrow. Can you make it more like Fred Basset?   In an effort to make your material more accessible to the public, you find your way to the top of a 30 story building and simply will yourself over the edge and smash headfirst into a pile of sharp stones. You head is gone but you still survive. You complete your drawings by dipping what is left of your neck in cat entrails and hamster vomit and flail across a piece of paper on the floor. The editors respond to your new approach with guarded enthusiasm...   EDITOR: We like your progress here but you still don't seem to be getting our point... This is too much for our average reader! We need something that can actually reach the Sunday Comic Crowd mindset, we need something like FRED BASSET! Is it possible to make this any STUPIDER? We NEED something really, really, REALLY STUPID!!! You know, like jerking your crank off with a razor blade into a VAT OF MUSTARD!!! Well, ok, we don't want it THAT stupid... Wait, wait, WAIT!!! Yes, we want it THAT STUPID! STUPIDER IF YOU CAN GET IT!!! Jesus fucking CHRIST! How is it possible to bring ANY-thing down to that level without scraping out the artists brains so far down past the skull that all you pull up is the soles of the artist's SHOES???!?!? Jesus fucking DOG SPUZZ!!! Look at THIS FUCKING COMIC STRIP!!!!   The editor spins around a couple of times, takes a few deep breaths, calms down, and makes his way to a newspaper opened to Fred Basset...   EDITOR: Aha, in the first panel, Fred Basset goes up to his owner and thinks, 'Wow, I wish I had a job!'   The Editor pauses and grins at the paper. He sighs...   EDITOR: In the second panel, Fred follows his owner to the car and watches the owner get into the car. That's really something.   The editor looks up and glances around the room, he grins again and looks back at the paper.   EDITOR: In the third panel, Fred is playing with another dog and thinks, 'Then again, I like to play with my friends.' Aaaahhh, yes, his friends.   He puts his hands in his pockets, glances up and then back down.   EDITOR: In the final panel, Fred greets his owner at the door with the newspaper and thinks 'I know, I'll get him some SLIPPERS!'   The editor finds himself shaking and slowly backs up. He then turns away from the table and calmly walks around the room for a moment while grinning and mumbling to himself. He makes a fews rounds of the room and then suddenly dives at the table. He grabs the comics page, crumples it up, and thrusts it angrily toward the ceiling and screams at the gods.   EDITOR: WHAT - - - - THE - - - - *FUUUUUCK*!!?!? JESUS HOLY FUCKING SHIT FOR AARDVARK SPERM!!! JUST WHAT IN THE FUCKING FUCK DOES THIS FUCKING FUCK - A - FUCK - A - FUCK - FUCK - FUCKATTA - FUCKA - FUCK - FUCK - FUCK - FUCKING SHIT MEAN?!?!!! AAAAHHHHH!!!!! DOES ANY FUCKING BODY HAVE ANY FUCKING GODDAM FUCKING IDEA WHAT ANY OF THIS FUCKING SHIT-ON-A-STICK HAS TO DO WITH ANYTHING ANYWHERE UNDER THE FUCKING GODDAM FUCKING SUN?!?!?! WHERE'S MY FUCKING GUN!?!?!WHERE'S MY FUCKING GUUUUNNNN!?!?! I'M REALLY GONNA DO IT THIS TIME!!!! I'M GONNA BLAAAAST MY FUCKING HEAD OFF!!! AHAAAHHHAHAHAHA!!! I HOPE I GET TO PULL THE TRIGGER SIX FUCKING TIMES BEFORE I HIT THE FLOOR!!!! HAAA!!! HAAAA!!! HAAHAHAHAAAHAA!!!!! AAAAAHHHHH!!!!! AAAAHHH!! AAAHHH!! AAAHHHAAHAHAAAHHAHAHAHABLAM!"   Yeah, I love Fred Basset.   Jerry Lee Lewis   I have this weird little phrase I use when I want to say that someone has done a really crappy job.   It goes like this: "Jerry Lee Lewis could have done a better job."   I once read an article in Keyboard Magazine that was talking about some of the things that the editors of the magazine had to deal with when publishing their stuff. There was apparently a phrase edited out of a Jerry Lee Lewis interview when he was asked about one keyboard player or another. When asked about, (I think it was) Harry Connick Jr., Jerry Lee Lewis said...   "I could play better with my dick."   Needless to say, I about fell off of my chair when I read it. In my head, I could just see Jerry Lee Lewis doing his rendition of Harry Connick Jr. by slapping his dick all over the keys. It just killed me. This led to other weird ideas...   Imagine writing and recording a top ten love song about being sensitive and all wishy-washy about one woman or another. The song would have phrases like You are my strength, You are the reason I can go on, I love you sooooo much that my guts could split open at any time, and so on. One can just see the women swooning over the touching lyrics. Now imagine that you are the only person in the studio and that you actually record the keyboard solo with your DICK. Picture yourself trying to do the song live without bursting into laughter every time you get to the keyboard solo. It would be the ultimate musical joke.   Variations...   Record the instrumental tracks for a Michael Bolton song and play part of it with your DICK. Whenever your girlfriend, wife or whomever starts talking about how romantic Michael Bolton is, just smile and nod. You know the truth, you backed Michael Bolton's vocals with your DICK!!!   You can help Harry Connick Jr. with his recordings...   And of course, there's always ways to help when an album is recorded by [insert name of any annoying, self - righteous Christian music act here].   But that's not the point. The point is that any time I am stuck for describing how crappy one job or another has been done, I just say, "Jerry Lee Lewis could have done a better job." If the listener wants to know why I say this, I explain the whole story about how Jerry Lee Lewis could do a better job with his dick.   At this point, I have about two dozen people uttering this phrase. It will make the rounds, of this I am sure. There is no doubt in my mind that I will one day hear a presidential candidate say about his or her opponent...   "Yes, sir, Jerry Lee Lewis could have done a better job."   Blarney   VIEWER 1: What the hell are you watching?   VIEWER 2: Oh, it's that stupid dinosaur show. What's it called?   VIEWER 1: Blarney, yeah, he's the big purple pedophile paid for with our own tax dollars. He's the one that goes around telling kids that it's OK to tell faceless strangers in dinosaur costumes shit like "I love you, you love me"...   VIEWER 2: No shit... I'll bet Jeffrey Dahmer just loved having this asshole telling little kids stuff like this....   VIEWER 1: Yeah, get a load of this. What's that he's holding up?   VIEWER 2: A picture. Oh man, this is a joke, right? This is some sort of gag tape or something, right?   VIEWER 1: No, this is real. Shit. I'm losing my mind... It can't be!   VIEWER 2: What the hell??? Turn it up!   BLARNEY: And here's a picture of my good, good friend who went to clown heaven just a little while ago...   VIEWER 1: Jesus Christ! That's a picture of John Wayne Gacy!   BLARNEY: Yes, kids. Do you know who this is?   KIDS: Gacy the clown!!!   VIEWER 1: Fuck me!   BLARNEY: And what did Blarney like most about Gacy the Clown?   KIDS: He loved kids!!!   BLARNEY: Yes, he did! Just like I do!!! Well, kids, we'll talk about uncle Gacy in a little while. But, right now it's time for something else. Can you guess what time it is?   KIDS: It's story time!!!   BLARNEY: Yes! Duh hoi! Ok, kids, sit down. Today we're going to talk about a group of people that work in the field of paleontology. Do you know what that is?   KIDS: It the study of dinosaur bones!   BLARNEY: Very good! And today we're going to talk about the etiquette of paleontology. You see, when paleontologists complete their digs, they have to take all of the bones from the dinosaurs and ship the bones off to various places in the world.   JOEY: How do they know where to send the bones?   BLARNEY: Well, that's a good question, Joey. You see, they package the bones up in plaster casts and send the bones to the museums of their choice.   JOEY: How do they choose which museums to send the bones to?   BLARNEY: Well, duh hoi, they do it by sending one bone to each museum that the paleontologists consider to be their friend. And the better the friend the museum is, the bigger the bone the museum gets. And that's why I've decided to start giving all of my friends a Blarney Bone, just like the paleontologists give to their friends. The more I like 'em, the bigger I bone 'em! Isn't that right, Mikey?   MIKEY: Yeah! Blarney gave me a REAL BIG BONE just before the show!!!   Blarney: Yup, but remember, Mikey, that's OUR secret.   MIKEY: Oh, yeah, sorry Blarney.   BLARNEY: That's OK, Mikey, no one really cares. You know, I think that the greatest thing about Blarney giving kids the bone is that our school system actually endorses such lunacy!   JOANIE: I don't understand, what do you mean?   BLARNEY: Duh, hoi! Well, you see... Your parents are the product of a liberal education system. A system that teaches children that we should all trust people that casually toss about terms like "Love" "Hugs" "Peace" "Brotherhood" and other 1960s flower child talk. They've been taught to unconditionally accept anyone and everyone that spouts the universal hippie speak of the late 60s regardless of the fact that the ones spouting this garbage may actually be insincere! Couple that with the fact that all of your parents have been taught to get away from the unfair judgemental practice of using critical thinking and you've got something that I like to call "Pedophile Nirvana".   HENRY: What's Pedophile Nirvana, Blarney?   BLARNEY: Pedophile Nirvana is any place that an adult can get away with dressing up like a big purple dinosaur, saying that he just loves little kids and that he'll demonstrate his love of these children by giving them the bone!   MIKEY: LIKE HERE!!!   BLARNEY: Yes, just like here. Well, we're just about finished with the show. Looks like we'll have to get back to the Gacy The Clown story at a later time...   KIDS: AWWWWW!!!   BLARNEY: That's OK, you'll be back tomorrow, you always are. Well, duh hoi, it's time to sing...   (Song) He owns us, heart and soul, we give Blarney full control. And we do most everything he tells us to do. Blarney is our God, it's true.   VIEWER 2: Christ, turn it off. Copyright 2005 by Frank Emsley