This Week in Milford

December 6, 2018

I’m Going Down To Fazoli’s For No-Football-Plot Fettucine With My Buddies.

Filed under: Gil Thorp — tdrewhardin @ 6:05 pm


Gang, gotcha covered today with no-nonsense stuff after perusing the haps. When we know more of Joe’s travel plans(Italy) than we do of the final result between Milford and Tilden(pick ’em), you know Thorpiverse needs to take a vacation of its own. Remember to renew your membership with AAA, Thorpy, baby. No, if the plot stalls, AAA will not send a tow truck to pick it up.

Really, oddsmakers make the odds BEFORE the game. Not in Thorpiverse. Ohhhhhhhh, no. The Vegas Line is busy at the Milford games because we are many times left hanging as to what the final score would be, making it a field day for bookies.

“I dunno, Mimi was staging a huge chocolate chip cookie sale at the Milford Flea Market so they had to cut short the Milford-Jefferson game with 6:49 To go in the 4th quarter. Milford leading 31-10. But Milford has been worn down from lack of conditioning and bad plot scenarios. I’m predicting Jefferson, 61-31.”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh, I disagree. The New Thayer thugs snuck some of Mimi’s fruit cake in Jefferson’s Gatorade cups and they’re gonna be lini9n’ up at the Port-o-lets before the night’s out. Milford, 83-10.”





And Gene Rayburn was kind enough to stand by like a good soldier, knowing the plot really wasn’t going to improve. A contradiction in terms when you think about it.

Be that as it may, take ‘er away, Gene.

“Dumb Dora was SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO dumb (HOW!!!!!!!!!! DUMB!!!!!!!!!!! WAS!!!!!!!!!!!! SHE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) , she thought No ______________ Practice Pizza was something Domino’s delivered in 30 minutes or less.”



We interrupt our regularly scheduled program, “Surviving the Wilds of Milford” to bring you the following.


“Good evening, welcome to our collection of the bizarre and the beastly. I’m your host, Rod Serling. Our first offering concerns a rabid ne’er-do-well whose only ambition is to get to his uncle’s money in short order. He is willing to shove anybody out of the way who obstructs his path to his financial El Dorado even if the modus operandi is a bit questionable. He will find that Death can be a worthy opponent that he is perhaps no match for because Death can utilize some unworthy methods. We call this painting “The Cemetery” and this is “The Night Gallery””.




“Portifoy, now you stop them idle-minded, half-witted, hare-brained ideas ya got in yore head. This plot is stronger than anything you’ve ever encountered in your life.”

“I think not, Mr. Jeremy.”

“Don’t you get uppity with me, Portifoy. Your master is dead and I run this mansion now. And contrary to your wishes, Gil and Mimi are going to sleep the night.”

“And where will the kids sleep?”

“I have a nice tent set up for them out in the cemetery, next to yore master’s grave marker. I have candy bars and cookies and Cokes to keep them well-fed throughout the night. I don’t think yore master is gonna get up tonight. Maybe after Gil gives the game away with Tilden will he rise from the grave demanding his resignation.”

“You ill-mannered swine, you unconscious ignorant lout, how dare you keep the kids out in the wild like that while you sleep in a comfortable bed and slurp your wine!!!!!!! Have you no shame?”

“Money talks and bullshit walks, Portifoy. That’s what happens when you get a good lawyer and sneak into yore master’s will. And I still say this plot is strong enough for its breath to knock out a cow.”

“Again, I think not, Mr. Jeremy.”

“You DARE contradict me?”

“I think HATE is stronger than this plot, Mr. Jeremy. And that my master will rise up from the dead before this football plot which never really has risen from the dead because it was ALWAYS dead.”

“NOW YOU LISTEN HERE!!!!!!!!!! Gil and Mimi are gonna be served the best from Church’s Fried Chicken and I have stocked the cellar with plenty of Boone’s Farm Fermented Lemonade!!!!!!!!!!”

“And you’re going to have them sleep in the pantry? I hardly call that southern hospitality. And how did you manage to secure beds in there?”

“Portifoy, you ask too many questions. I brought in two cots that Huey Long used to sleep on when he was on the campaign trail. Comfortable as a Jacuzzi. And I placed a billion blankets over them so they won’t freeze.”

“How the Hell are they going to freeze? This is The South, Mr. Jeremy.”

“Portifoy, you sass me one more time and I will give you yore walkin’ papers and personally send you on a Greyhound to Tijuana!!!!!!!!! You won’t freeze THERE. And when Gil can separate movies from football, he can sleep in my master’s pool room. Now go get Gil’s luggage and tell Mimi I want a copy of her 5-game basketball schedule. Pronto!!!!!!!!”


God, the things I can do with The Night Gallery.


I feel like I’m reading Alice in Wonderland. Joe plays a football game with the team when he’s not playing Uno with Tiki on the sideline (not holding my breath that Tiki is the starting offensive tackle, you can tell) , then goes through this mirror on the tunnel wall and suddenly winds up in front of a travel agency. YOU make up your mind if it’s Milford. For all we know, it might be Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia and he took the Appalachian Trail to the center of the city (done by yours truly, BTW) . He might have to get past John Brown and the Queen shouting recklessly “Off with his head!!!!!!!!!!!!” but it’s a pretty safe bet that The Headless Horseman will have his Delta Air Line ticket, Fodor’s Italian in Less Than 10 Days, and his hotel reservations at the Fiorenze Hilton if P3 is any indication. What is P3 leading us to believe? “Uh. no, Italy’s booked solid and the border patrol is taking in no more tourists at this point. But you won’t have to jump the fence in Tierra del Fuego.”






Homey Claus spends Christmas at the Thorps’ residence. He’s the star of the kiddie Christmas party.

“Gil, you think I’m gonna have mercy on you just ‘cuz you are a father figure to these kids and I’m black and I’m supposed to thank you for the last 60 year even though I was in prison for half that long, being a cell-mate to Barry’s dad, and having to stomach his B.O. all that time and I’m supposed to have a contrite heart and let this kitty litter of a plot slide by?”

Homey Claus whops Gil on side of his head with one of Bolek’s videos

“I don’t think so. Homey don’t play that.”


“Okay, children, it’s time to sing along

The plot is bad.”


“And Homey’s mad.”


“And he don’t know why he’s got to put up with all this bullshit when The Man sent him up the river for some chickenshit offense, all I did was take a couple of mints from the counter at The Bucket and they were free, Man, that Bucket Liver Cheese Burger was some nasty shit and I had to clean out my mouth and you get them free after your meal-DAMN, I don’t hear no singin’, children



If ya went to the travel agency and ya plan on goin’ ta Vatican City and ya rent a 4-wheel drive from Hertz Rent-a-Car in Rome ta git thar, not ta mention take it ta see the Roman Colpsseum, ya might be a redneck.


Thanks, Professor Anthrax on the kind words about the Night Gallery insertion. Those 3 episodes scared the crap out of me (we were kids) and what better way to resurrect them (pardon the pun-ha) than to impale Gil with them. You da Man.


“Portifoy, come here!!!!!!”

Portifoy reluctantly leaves his Bucket o’ Crab Meat that he ordered online and comes to Mr. Jeremy.

“Yes, Mr. Jeremy?”

“Portifoy, I explicitly told you to bury Coach Thorp and get rid of the evidence. Burn all the videos, throw his Everly Brothers toupee to the wolves, shove the footballs in the garbage dispenser, and flush all his Bucket Full o’ Shark Fins Souffle down the toilet.”

“I did as you ordered, Mr. Jeremy.”

“Then why is Coach Thorp coming out of the grave in the painting???”

“What are you talking about?”

“THAT PAINTING!!!!!!!!! You don’t see it???”

“Mr. Jeremy, all I’m seeing is Coach Thorp biting the big one to Tilden while your master’s grave marker stands in full view behind Coach T. Mr. Luhm has both grave plots well-manicured. You have a wild imagination.”

Mr. Jeremy cold-cocks Portifoy.

“What was THAT all about???”

“Why, it’s just yore imagination, Portifoy. I didn’t really hit you!!!! And Gil Thorp can actually coach his team to victory. And this plot will end before Valentine’s Day!!!!!!”

“I won’t stay that long, Mr. Jeremy. I am resigning.”

“And who’s gonna serve me and help bedraggle this plot to the bitter end????”

“Why, use your imagination, Mr. Jeremy, you seem to be very good AT THAT!!!!!!!!”



Mr. Jeremy is sleeping in his bed upstairs when he hears some rustling downstairs that sounds like it is coming from “Milford Cemetery During The Gothic Age”, a paintinghung in the wall at the bottom of the stairs.

“Portifoy, is that you?”

Some more rustling and a faint “Damn, look the ball all the way into the tuck” from Gil’s voice.

“Portifoy, is Gil still living? I thought ya ran him over with the tacklin’ dummy.

Some even more rustling and a louder “Bunkin!!!!!! Wrap the guy when you tackle him!!!!!!!! You’re not a pinball!!!!!!!!”

Mr. Jeremy runs out of his room and downstairs, wine glass in hand, Milford Valley Lime Concoction, the bill of fare. He sees the painting.


“What’s this???? What’s going on??????????”

Mr. Jeremy skims the Milford Enquirer that Portifoy left in the kitchen and checks the obituaries.

“Coach Thorp died of severe injuries caused by a runaway tackling dummy. Sources say the emegergency brake failed…”

“He’s dead. I made sure.”

Mr. Jeremy returns to the painting.

Gil is walking to the mansion, the football in the tuck.

“NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!! You’re dead!!!!!!!!!!! The plot is dead!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Mr. Jeremy looks at the paper fan with Gil’s particulars on it.

“I remember fannin’ myself at the funeral. It was very hot. Marty’s eulogy was full of recycled air. I had ta plug ma nose.”

Mr. Jeremy returns to the painting again.

This time, Gil is walking toward the mansion with a ghetto blaster to his ear, listening to “The Love I Lost” by Harold Melvin and The Blue Notes. Guess he’s rubbing it in and trying to get into Mr. Jeremy’s head.

“NOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!! NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!! I saw you dead!!!!!!!!!!!!! Why don’t you stay in tha grave where you belong!!!!!!!!!!!! The football plot got shot in the head along with Black Beauty!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Gil is walking up the steps. He takes a sec to scratch his crotch. Jock itch is brutal with all the mosquitos buzzing around.

“You scoundrel!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You wretch!!!!!!!!!!!!! YOU DIED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And I’ll take this picture and burn it to ashes!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” as Mr. Jeremy seizes the 1981 Milford High School Boys Basketball Team composite on the landing of the staircase.

KNOCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! KNOCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! KNOCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“YOU FIEND!!!!!!!!!!!! I will ship you back and give you a reburial!!!!!!!!!! I will destroy this picture and destroy YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! as Gil is seen rapping on the door, evermore.

Mr. Jeremy lunges with all his might to throw the picture in the fireplace but loses his balance in the process. He rolls all the way downstairs and breaks his neck and dies. Wish the plot would roll down the same way.

Portifoy comes out of the wall. Hey, this is Night Gallery. He spots Mr. Jeremy for a second, then answers the door.


The Lyft driver is here .

“I have a Large Pan Pepperoni and Canadian Bacon Pizza from The Bucket for, uuuhhhhhh, lessseee, oh yeah, Mr. Jeremy.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Jeremy is incapacitated for the moment. The plot killed him. I’ll cover the charges. Bad plots work up an appetite. Here’s a 50. Keep the change.”

“Gee, thanks, Portifoy.”

“MISTER Portifoy.”

“Sure, Mister Portifoy.”


Have at it, gang. I’m going with Joe to the travel agency. Does anybody know where Never Never Land is on the map? Todd Rundgren said we’d have treasure if we stay there.


Gil trying to maneuver the crane towards the object after inserting his 55th quarter.

“Daggonne it, they must put lead weights in the pulley!!!!!!!!!! I KNOW I can get that Teddy Bear out of the machine!!!!!!!!!!”

Thanks to Craig Holt, of Louisville, Kentucky, for help with this comedy idea. Craig, I promise there’ll be more as you gave me a ton to work with. Gang, treat him with respect. He’s got mine.


“Oh, so Mimi, you think Homey’ll take yo’ ugly-assed  brick fulla puny raisins and refried prunes and Gold Medal Flour and Planters Nuts you call a fruit cake and cram it in his stocking as a token of Peace on Earth, Good Will Towards The Black Dude, not carin’ later on that that same Black Dude is nailed to the john ‘cuz the Mudlark Farms Fruit Cake shot diarrhea through his axon and dendrite and electrocuted him while giving him the mimi=shitties? Is that what you were intendin’, Mrs. Whipple? A peace offering?”

Hits her over the head with the fruit cake.

“I don’t think so!!!!!!!!”

Homey don’t play this plot very well, do he?


  1. 1. LOL at that!!! A TRAVEL AGENCY?? A 1930s-style brick-and-mortar storefront?? How adorably quaint! Exactly what fuckin’ year does Rubin think this is??

    2. Smalltown seventeen-year-olds with no credit card or passport regularly schedule vacations to Italy?? Or is he really there to get balls deep up in Kelly’s ass (and who could blame him)?

    3. Thanks to executive producer Tim Tebow, we now have the “Gilberto Tharpiest” movie to ever grace the silber screen… Seriously, just try to count all the cliches and tropes — I dare you:

    Comment by hitorque — December 7, 2018 @ 9:51 am

  2. P4: “yes you can Kelly, just let me undo my zipper first”

    Comment by franku2016 — December 7, 2018 @ 10:20 am

  3. That movie looks pretty good too.

    Comment by franku2016 — December 7, 2018 @ 2:57 pm

  4. We don’t play that… here, in the Night Gallery.

    Comment by Prof. Anthrax — December 8, 2018 @ 7:42 pm

  5. […] swings by Joan Anderson Travel to visit Kelly. She’s not busy, as usual, because nobody uses travel agents anymore. (Or do […]

    Pingback by Billbored | This Week in Milford — December 24, 2018 @ 10:57 am

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