This Week in Milford

September 25, 2018

And Gil Screams Eiffel Tower High

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Awwwwwwwwww. Gil is in utter disbelief as his team is virtually getting railroaded. No doubt the Oakwood coach did call a time out but us Thorpiverse veterans are used to not holding our breaths when the Mudlark finishes the Mudlark Marathon run from Athens, Greece (where the Olympics all began) to Milford (well, the plot’s always a marathon, anyway) and beats the rest of the world by 2 days, 29 hours, 34 seconds, 1/456 microseconds, lapping France, Kenya, Sudetenland, Maldives (appaently training techniques suck, such as bad nutrition, i.e., dearth of Special K, Lucky Charms, apples, oranges, limes. uglis, mangos, beets, onions, borscht, prunes, etc.) et al only to find out he was disqualified because he skipped the Strait of Magellan when he was negotiating his way from the Atlantic to the Pacific. We’re resigned to our fate, thankful for the day when every ONCE IN A BLUE MOON they win SOMETHING. Nope, gang, Charlie Brown and his band of merry losers can keep on losing and build eternal character along the way and still keep its readership going. Not so in the world of Thorpiverse. Win SOMETHING, preferably a State Championship (Normally that’s wisely the case) or watch EVERYBODY switch over to Dagwood (technically Blondie).  A Doug Flutie like Miracle Bomb from the Strait of Magellan to the other end zone will have subscribers for life.

“Marino heaves a torpedo from 99 yards for the game TOUCHDOWN MILFORD. There’s an injury time out as the explosion caused mass destruction and the game can’t end on a natural disaster but the Mudlarks will likely win as De Windt, though blown in two, still managed to hang on and keep one foot in bounds!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Plus, everybody else got blown sky high!!!!!!!!!!”

If that doesn’t spike subscription sales, Marty Moon’s an astronaut.

 

And if Gil’s frown doesn’t prove that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, nothing will. That arc on his visage is the route you would negotiate through the Alps from Milano, Italia to Innsbruck, Osterreich. You forgot the Simplon Tunnel, Thorpiverse, assuming it’s nearby. Or just pick your favorite Deutscher Kaiser or Pope and attach an appelation to it. Make this fun.

Then there’s the fashion statement the referee is making. Time was, a referee might get yelled at by the Milford die-hards but  THE BLACK AND WHITE was wider in the stripes. Now, they got that look that Jordache is after. They’ll be hitting the runway at the modeling show at the Milford Expo Center after the game. At least there they’ll get cheered at.

 

Gang, wouldn’t you JUST ONCE love to see Coach Thorp do a tarantella when he gets waxed like he’s getting in P1? Granted, throwing a chair out on the field might not travel far in the natural grass and the field has bigger dimensions than a basketball court. But the worst I have seen from Coach Thorp the last 60 years are some Egyptian symbols (planet, ibis, North Star, pound sign, pyramid, etc.) out of some Sphinx somewhere along the Nile but I personally would like to see more animation and violent tempers and it starts with P1 in today’s strip. C’mon, Gil, you can do better than that. Scream so that Bulgaria can hear you, yell if the refs got their license out of a Trix box, say something about their mothers, they all have one, throw a helmet or a shoulder pad or a jock strap out on the field, ANYTHING to get ejected. Okay, Unsportsmanlike Conduct for throwing some player’s smelly piece of apparel is breaking precedent but the punting team has botched the snap several times, the referees are killing you and all you can manage is a Smiley face going the wrong way?  I hope the expression isn’t permanently welded. That might cause problems when you, Mimi and family do a family portrait at Milford Studios.

I do gotta admire the Nerfball sailing through the uprights at the Milford Observatory. The Oreo background makes for great atmosphere.

 

Walking toward the football field

He surely knows where to go

He slaps on his ‘phones

And puts on a show

Feasting on Gil’s fecklessness

And reckless leadership

And that Gil don’t give a shit.

 

He struts into the broadcast booth

He’s been there ever since

He strolls down to concessions

For a box of Junior Mints

Whooooaaaaaaa

Talking ’bout the game at hand

Thrashing Coach Thorp into sand

We’ll shout at Moon and demand

Try to get his attention

Scream at him

And we’ll scream, we’ll scream, we’ll scream

 

And we’ll scream Marty Eiffel Tower Highhhhhhhhhhh

And we’ll scream Marty Eiffel Tower Highhhhhhhhhhh

And we’ll scream Marty Eiffel Tower Highhhhhhhhhhh

And we’ll scream Marty Eiffel Tower Highhhhhhhhhhh

And we’ll scream Marty Eiffel Tower Highhhhhhhhhhh

And we’ll scream Marty Eiffel Tower Highhhhhhhhhhh

And we’ll scream Marty Eiffel Tower Highhhhhhhhhhh

And we’ll scream Marty Eiffel Tower Highhhhhhhhhhh

And we’ll scream Marty Eiffel Tower Highhhhhhhhhhh

And we’ll scream Marty Eiffel Tower Highhhhhhhhhhh

And we’ll scream Marty Eiffel Tower Highhhhhhhhhhh

And we’ll scream Marty Eiffel Tower Highhhhhhhhhhh

And we’ll scream Marty Eiffel Tower Highhhhhhhhhhh

And we’ll scream Marty Eiffel Tower Highhhhhhhhhhh

And we’ll scream Marty Eiffel Tower Highhhhhhhhhhh

And we’ll scream Marty Eiffel Tower Highhhhhhhhhhh

And we’ll scream Marty Eiffel Tower Highhhhhhhhhhh

And we’ll scream Marty Eiffel Tower Highhhhhhhhhhh

And we’ll scream Marty Eiffel Tower Highhhhhhhhhhh

And we’ll scream MARTY EIFFEL TOWER HIGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

 

I may have missed a verse or two. You might want to check me on that one. Also, thanks to Mimi Thorp for belting out the last verse and proving a suitable replacement for Grant Hart. We know she’s busy with her basketball team. She’ll be even busier this year as the conference upped the schedule by one game. How she finds time to sweat through a five-game schedule and rock with one of the best in the business and still find time for the kids and Gil (well, in bed, anyway) is nothing short of amazing. Scripts have a way of easing up the logjam.

 

If yore face got permanently contorted cuz that shot of Jack came straight from the well outta some corn field somewhar and ya wind up as a Witch Doctor Exhibit at the Milford Museum, ya might be a redneck.

“And Coach T’s inept coaching strikes again. That pouty gargoyle mien won’t save his ass this time. We’ll be back to wrap things up in a moment. The final score, Oakwood, 31, Milford, 28. You’re listening to WDIG, a division of Lear Field Sports.”

 

Coach Shaw is reading The Saturday Evening Post. He’s doing the “Where Do You Think You Are?” section. It’s all the Milfords in all the different states and he’s already figured out Milford, Delaware, Milford, Connecticut, Milford, Pennsylvania, and Milford Indiana, but can’t figure the state Milford, as in Mudlarks, comes from. (“It’s only 5 kilometers to Oakwood?”) While he’s wrestling with an Angel on this one

“Hi, Honey, I have a surprise!!!!!!!!”

“Wow, DO YOU EVER!!!!!!! I’m trying to solve this knotty problem. How many ‘k’s in ‘Mudlarkia’?”

“Darling, how can you indulge in one of Benjamin Franklin’s pastimes at a time like this when I have something in my possession that will alter your life?”

“You finally bought them mag wheels for my Dodge Durango? Wow, I’ll be the envy of my hunting buddies. Them raccoons will get their rings knocked off from all that glitter.”

“Nooooooooooooo.”

“Did my mail-order sawed off Winchester arrive today?”

“Nooooooooooooo.”

“Daggone it, I need to call the Milford FedEx office. It was shipped Tuesday. It’s already Friday. Looks like I get free shipping on my gun anyway.”

“I have something else that’s free.”

“Honey, you know they don’t run specials on deer tags. That’ll be the day.”

“Nope. Time’s up. Ta-daaaaaaaaaaa”

Shaw’s wife pops in the living room in a black bikini.

Shaw drops the Saturday Evening Post in the magazine rack between Field and Stream and Milford Outdoors Today

“Gloopy glop, um, I think I’ll head down to the Milford Public Library. I bet they’d know about Mudlarkia.”

“Uh, It’s Saturday and it’s 6:00PM and I think they’re closed.”

“Blippy bloop. That’s what you think (Coach Shaw recovering as fast as his brain can process the information) . I heard they were having a bake sale and handing out free cupcakes if you can read 500 Louis L’Amours in an hour. Shoot, the way he uses guns and kills off the bad guy in the end, it’s the same old same old. No Martin Charley Horse or whatever the name Dickens called him to contend with, let alone get on his hands and knees down at the Milford Shelter House beggin’ Oliver Twist for oatmeal and onion rings. Nope, bang, bang, take that you slimeball bank robber, you cain’t run off from Fort Knox with 500 tons of gold in your Conestoga Wagon. Louis’ll shoot you dead if ya don’t watch out. Them cupcakes is as good as in my belly.”

“The library has that many books on one person?”

“Oh, Hell, yeah. Then some lucky winner, if he/she can guess the State Flower, the State Motto, the State Flag, and the Admission Date of Mudlarkia will win a whole chocolate cake. I might have trouble with the last one since I don’t remember when the Carpetbaggers entered into our state but I’m pretty sure it was before the Gettysburg Address but just after the Wilmot Proviso.”

“Dear, why don’t we skip the history lesson and make our own history. We’ll do the 21-gun salute.”

“Because we might have run out of ammo?”

His wife caught off guard for the moment, Coach Shaw gets back on the offensive

“And if we read ‘The Positronic Man’ by Asimov before midnight, we get a $50 Gift Card to Milford Donut Solutions. I can taste those custard-filled chocolate long johns mow. Umm, umm.”

“I’ve never known you to read Science Fiction.”

“I read Clifford Simak and Ray Bradbury right before Game Film sessions. I can break down an opponent’s defense right after devouring ‘Fahrenheit 451’. AND the coop de grass is the drawing for the 2018 Chevy Blazer 4-Wheel Drive. It drivews through snow, salt water, sleet, ice, lichens, earthquake faults, Bavarian Alps, gneiss, permafrost, polar ice caps-”

“Polar ice caps? We’re nowhere near the North or South Pole. We’re in the State of Mudlarkia, remember? We’re practically across the Atlantic for the Bahamas, silly.”

“Blubby, blubby, there’s some snow that never melted at the Milford Wildlife area that the caribou dumped a load on and preserved for several months. If you’re not careful, you could drive your Blazer into the swamp and get eaten by crocodiles.”

“Caribou and crocs in the same refuge?”

“And all I have to do to be eligible for the drawing is read ‘Last of the Mohicans’ in Chinese before the cock crows twice.”

“Honey, you don’t KNOW any Chinese.”

“That’s what YOU think. I have this IBM Word Processor that can translate faster than you can say Rosenthal’s Methods for German. And it’s even been broken down into Cantonese, Mandarin, and Shikoku, in case the judges try to pull a fast one.”

“Isn’t the last one Japanese?”

Ignoring last slight, clinging desperately to his sexual barrenness

“And don’t you need batteries for the translator?”

One last stab

“Hell, I’ll get ’em down at Milford Electronics. It says right here, now where’d it go, ah, here it is, right under one of the electrodes ‘can…’, damn this Vietnamese can be a pain to read, only someone from the Gnomemobile can read it, ‘…only…be…special-…orderdered…send…SASE…'”

Coach Shaw looks up.

His wife is smiling in victory.

 

“It’s like Louis being surrounded by Black Bart and his gang without any bullets in his gun. You can’t have a happy ending in his novels if the supply office at Fort Leavenworth or Fort Cheyenne failed to order the right guns and ammo in time. We might still be using tomahawks. But at the Milford Men’s Clinic, you can shoot straight without any fear of the Dalton Gang spoiling your wedding. You can get married, get it on in bed that night, free from anyone crashing the party. With treatment programs that work, isn’t it time your wim-wim got the proper medicine and stood and be counted so that Louis can get that 1,345,586th novel he’s been working on? Don’t let Louis go the way of John Wilkes Booth and let him fight his way out of the barn. You’ll be glad you did.”

Gang, have at it. I don’t know which Art Deco bus I’m riding in, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

 

In Gil’s Living Room Decor

“Kaz, Shaw was listening to ‘Saturday Night Fever’ over the speakers, wasn’t he?”

“How’d you know, Gil?”

“There’s toilet paper forming a 540 degree angle from the shower stall to the film screen.”

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August 30, 2018

Tradition!

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Who, on the links, must scramble for the Juniors,
And who just plays golf, no soccer anymore,
To shave their final score a stroke?
The golfers, teen golfers! Tradition!
Not Tony, but Wilson! Concussion!
Who must know the way to play a proper game,
An honest game, a kosher game?
Start a phony tournament and leave the house,
So Mimi’s free to drink the holy grape?
Gil Thorp does, Gil Thorp does! Tradition!
Gil Thorp does, Gil Thorp does! Tradition!
Let’s watch the Valley tournament. They’ve rented a nice tent.
I hear they’ve got some nice trophies. I hope they’re pretty.
Ho-hum, ho-hum! Tradition!
Ho-hum, ho-hum! Tradition!
And who learns how to cheat, learns how to lie and fix,
At Pine Ridge and at Blackthorne? Geez, what a bunch of pricks!
The cheaters, the cheaters! Tradition!
The cheaters, golf cheaters! Tradition!
(apologies Bock and Harnick)
*****
Alright, enough of that.  Skeeters must be biting hard in Milford or else Gil’s pantomiming how much of a pain in the neck he’s become.
I’m truly confused about a few things:  (1) If scorers are tradition! at the Valley Juniors, why aren’t they also at the qualifiers?  (b) How does dude know about the Pine Ridge Boys’ thievery except as hearsay? (iii) Why does dude give a rat’s hinder about what Gil does at his Participation Trophy Invitational?
Gil has to realize he’s not the big man at the Valley Juniors, both figuratively and literally. Just look at that gargantuan couple to his left!
metapost: I’m having trouble with the spacing here today.  Not sure why but then again I’ve never bothered to figure out how to adjust the spacing on WordPress posts. Mea culpa.

July 21, 2018

We’re From Milford, We’re from Milford…

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… No one likes us
We don’t care
We’re from Milford
F***in’ Milford
No one likes us
We don’t care

I am Bader
Barry Bader
No one likes me
I don’t care
I am Barry
F***in’ Bader
No one likes me
I don’t care

It’s my dad’s fault
It’s not my fault
It’s my dad’s fault
I don’t care
Didn’t know that
Until last week
It’s my dad’s fault
I don’t care

Where was my mom?
Where was my mom?
For the last year
Did she care?
Did she stand up
To my father?
It’s not my fault
I don’t care

I’m Pelwecki
Kev Pelwecki
I hit homers
No one cares
I’ll beat Shankey’s
F***in’ record
You mean Sharkey?
I don’t care

I am Dafne
On a mission
Get in J-school
I don’t care
I’ll expose my
F***in’ classmates
They don’t like me
I don’t care

I am Ms. Rizk
I will take risks
Name’s ironic?
I don’t care
I just care ’bout
F***in’ Trumpet
I will take risks
I don’t care

I’m Kazinski
Bob Kazinski
I don’t coach much
I don’t care
Hair like Venus
Grab that penis
Off the basepath
I don’t care

I am Gil Thorp
Head Coach Gil Thorp
We’re still playing?
I don’t care
Trust the Process?
There’s no process!
When’s my tee time?
I don’t care

 

July 14, 2018

I Apologize, Betty Crocker was all out of trapezoid brownies.

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Wait, wait, wait. Before we go ANY further, weren’t Aunt Bea and Opie going to fellowship over brownies? At least, the last time Daffy Duck went to Yalta to report on Stalin’s and Churchill’s bitches and gripes for the Milford Enquirer, that’s what people munched on. And if Ma Bader is on her hands and knees trying to get Daffy to change Barry from Goofus to Gallant, well, BROWNIES WORKED THE LAST TIME. WHY SWITCH TO CHIPS AHOY?????????? I admit in Mayberry, the more conventional culinary wisdom when catching up on the latest gossip would have been milk and cookies but brownies was an adequate substitute. But those look like COOKIES to me on the coffee table, being washed down by a Bucket Triple Chocolate Shake. The Uber driver arrived well before The Summit (“WE have 1 more coming, does the Uber driver have another T-Choc Shake in the fridge in his trunk?”).

 

Steve Luhm, writing off Milford High School Janitorial Science Department stationery

“Ms. Rizk, I love everything about you. Your Granny dreadlocks get me erect and you have eyes like frying pans smeared in Pam.”

A week later

“Hey, I dig your letter but didn’t Fred tell Wilma that she had frying pan eyes? I think that was the episode where Fred and Barney took Dino to the Bedrock Veterinary Clinic to get medicine for Dino’s tapeworms. I was 79 years old then so my memory’s slipping. I watched that episode on the ‘M’ Computer during my planning period.”

 

Watching Barry in negotiations with Daffy is comical. ” I really DID see Elvis and now you’re making me a liar. He and OJ and me went down to The Bucket to see if I had any chance at pro ball since I’m the star of the team. As long as Moose is going to swing his weight around, I might as well do some swinging myself. And you write like I was still in T-Ball”.

Richard, you did a lot for the country, you normalized relations with China and Russia, the economy did well under your leadership, for a Republican, you were very environment-friendly, BUT YOU’RE STILL A CROOK.

 

And gang, I promised you That Daffy’s day in court was coming. The Day of Reckoning is today. Sung to the tune “Good-Lookin’ Woman” by Norman Greenbaum, awayyyyyyyyy we go

 

You’re a sleaze-talkin’ woman, oh yeah

You spew venom out of your womb, oh, oh, yeah

There’s no mercy when you write

All of Milford goes running

They don’t want to get slammed and slimed

Time after time

They’d rather be napalmed

 

It’s gonna take manners to keep you around, Baby

Nothing like manners to keep you on the ground, Baby

You wonder why they hate you

Babe, it’s no-brainer

You are a viper

We need a restrainer

On a sleaze-talkin’ woman

Sleaze-talkin’ woman

Sleaze-talkin woman

Sleaze-talkin’ woman like you

 

You did a hose job on Pa and Barry, oh yeah

Reese’s Bits ‘n’ Pieces, that’s what’s scary, oh, oh, yeah

You could be Society’s Child

If you live like a human

I’m not holding my breath on that

The chances are fat

And baboons act better

 

It’s gonna take manners to keep you around, Baby

You behave like a tick-ridden, smelly bloodhound, Baby

You worry ’bout the future

Babe, you could end it

Use manners like money

Be willing to spend it

On a sleaze-talkin’ woman

Sleaze-talkin’ woman

Sleaze-talkin woman

Sleaze-talkin’ woman like you

 

Thank you for your patience, gang. You guys did a great scouring on Daffy. Just finishing the job.

 

Don Drysdale comes to Milford

 

While Don is throwing grapefruits to Moose during batting practice

“Don, I understand you played a little ball.”

“That’s right, Gil. Played for the Dodgers for years.”

“And do you have any advice for Moose here?”

While Moose is whackin’ ’em to the top of OJ’s townhouse across the field

“Sure. It’s not an easy road, son. You gotta pay your dues. Long bus rides. Greasy spoon restaurants. And I roomed with Tommy Lasorda while we were playing for Albuquerque. God, the shit he left in the shower when we were getting ready to go. One day, I asked Tommy after he used the Motel 6 towel to wipe his ass, My Man, the maid does supply toilet paper in the stall. Then he used 2 rolls every time he took a shit. I got left with 1/2 a paper towel, that gritty stuff you clean your butt with in the Milford boys bathroom. On the mound, it’s HELL pitching against the Reds and the sandpaper itch creeps up your butthole. Son, take my word for it, it’s a long ride.”

Don leaves to go down to Milford Sporting Goods to sign autographs and endorse his latest book “Life’s Lesson’s I Learned in Milford”

“Well, Moose, did you learn anything?”

Trying to pry one batting doughnut off because it’s not heavy enough to help improve his bat speed

“Sure, next time, make sure you bring 2 Charmin Rose-Scented 2-Ply 12-Roll Paks and stash ’em under the bed.”

 

“Oh, but Daffy, my Barry really is a good boy. Just because he stares at the mirror doesn’t make him a bad boy. He may be deaf, dumb and a jerk but he’s not Bart Simpson.”

 

Today’s headline in the Milford Enquirer

“OJ Filing Suit After Baseball Lands In His Aquarium!!!!!!!!”

sub headline

“Proceedings Will Not Take Place Until October; Judge Ito Is On Sabbatical.”

 

“Mr. Chambers. Mr. Chambers. It is the meal time. Kindly state your preference.”

“Oh, all right. I want a Triple Bucket Burger, hold the mayo, extra pickles, extra cheese, and X-large order of Chili Bucket Fries, and a Dutch Chocolate Bucket o’ Shake.”

“Small, medium, or large?”

“Aaaaaa, I’ll take large.”

“My, my, Mr. Chambers”, the lighted tube speaking briskly and efficiently, “You are going to be a 3-course meal by the end of September.”

“I thought you Kanamits have no sense of time.”

“We always know when it’s a certain time of the year. The plot finally ceases and that’s when we make our move to earth to get more condiments, er, people. The population of Milford is high on our list. They are haute cuisine of the human race.”

“BTW, how’d you manage to bring another Bucket up here?”

“We had a little trouble at the 5th Galaxy but after that, the legal deeds, property taxes, easement issues, parcel outlots, legal fees, environmental concerns, economic impact studies were simply a matter of time.”

 

A one Michael Chambers is left to ponder in amazement the denouement of The Bucket in the world of the Kanamits while his existence is on life support. Many careers fade, sadly to say, into a pot of boiling stew and while you’re commenting away on today’s strip, this story exemplifies that Man is a star about to nova in a world we call…The Twilight Zone

July 10, 2018

Eyesight for the Belligerent

Filed under: huge earrings, Milford Idiots, song parody, What the hell is going on here? — tdrewhardin @ 1:08 pm

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Captain Gilbert didn’t come home

His unborn child will never know him

He’s believed to be missing with a couple of men

They planted 8 bombs inside the gymmmmmmm

 

It’s a boy, Mrs. Gilbert

It’s a boy

 

It’s a boy, Mrs. Gilbert

It’s a boy

 

Hear the joyful celebration in the street

It’s a boy the day we won the Final Heat

 

And gang, I think you know where I’m going with this. After watching “Barry: The Musical” and still thinking Daffy is still Queen of Sleaze, what was Barry expecting? To clear his name up IN THE MILFORD ENQUIRER?????? No, Daffy, I did not get on that UFO with Elvis. I was down at the Milford Moose Lodge with The King seeing if he could revive his career at the Annual Chili Cook-Off and Raffle Ticket Night. Man, some lucky cat was going to have the time of his or her life listening to “Don’t Be Cruel”, “Heartbreak Hotel” and “Suspicious Minds” and drive away in a brand new Cadillac, courtesy of Milford Motors. But no, your story killed his career. Thanks for nothing.

Then there’s Ms. Rizk. Aside from going back to the Granny from Beverly Hillbillies look, she’s gone from calling things straight down the middle to being Ebenezer Scrooge. The Baders are asking for mercy after you sent them through the meat grinder? Humbug! Serves them right!!!! I’m going to call the deputy sheriff and foreclose their house anyway. We’re going to turn it into the Milford High School Journalism Annex by the end of the year!!!!!!

I would like to give a shoutout to Heather Sanders in Louisville, Kentucky.  She may be confined to a wheelchair but her humor isn’t. She is VERY funny and keeps me going with her edgy wit and on-point insight. She makes my job easier and I have promised her that I will do EVERYTHING I can to get her in the next movie my dad does (my dad being a part-time actor). Heather, I intend to keep that promise. Right now, you are shining pretty bright because you deserve a moment in the spotlight. Keep the funny bone pipeline going because, well. YOU’RE FUNNY. YOU ROCK, My Friend.

 

Marty: Gotta feeling ’17 is gonna be a good year

Baseball season’s done and we can putt forever

Mimi: I had no reason to be overoptimistic

But with your 3-handicap, it’s a great endeavor

 

Captain Gilbert, smelly gym towel over the left side of his burned face, after a hard-fought overtime victory over Death, sees Marty and Mimi in bed.

Marty wakes up. Grabbing the 2014 trophy off Mimi’s makeup table, he wacks Captain Gilbert on the right side of the face, careful not to ruin the perm Captain Gilbert has sported for 60 years.

Barry, fresh from sneaking a sip of Cherry 7-Up out of the fridge, wiping the top so that nobody’ll get germs, steps in just as his father’s hair morphs into Hendrix from “Band of Gypsies”.

WHAT ABOUT THE BOY

WHAT ABOUT THE BOY

WHAT ABOUT THE BOY

HE SAW IT ALL

 

You didn’t see it

You didn’t hear it

Not a word of it

Not a sight of it

You’re gonna turn into a jerk

WITHOUT ANY PROOF

 

Now he’s deaf

Now he’s dumb

Now he’s a jerk

The guilty are safe

But always accused

By his asshole ways

 

What’s with this Betty Crocker motivational tool? I can see the commercial.

“Yes, what better way to preclude your friend from using a toilet plunger on a person’s reputation than to discuss the matter over buttermilk scones and tea? Mmm, mmm, and those sourdough biscuits buttered with Blue Bonnet on it tastes better than the stuff you have to swallow about your husband, coming from an amateur Ida Tarbell? Mrs. Olson should be coming in anytime and discussing Mr. Olson and Mr. Whipple (apparently they’re squeezing more than Charmin) having an affair with each other. Yes, Daffy, they’re coming out of the closet so have paper and Paper-Mate ready. After you’ve eaten your 10th sourdough, naturally. Set ’em at 350 and the gossip too and forget it. That’s the Betty Crocker way (“Cooking with Pam” theme whistling in the background)!!!!!!!!!!”

 

“Can’t you see the Christmas lights and all the toys that are so wonderfully enlightening

The Nike shoes, the bats, the balls, I swear it gets to be so terribly frightening

And Barry doesn’t know what day it is

He’s such a jerk, he doesn’t know who Jesus is

HOW CAN HE BE SAVED

FROM LOSING SECOND BASE

 

BARRY, CAN YOU HEAR ME??????? as Mimi whacks Barry with a bat.

 

And has anyone seen Ms. Rizk ANYWHERE but the Journalism room? We assume she takes potty breaks. We assume. And we assume she’s typing, or editing the school newspaper. All this time she’s been typing billet-doux’s to Luhm and  he’s cramming them into his locker at night? Anyway, I haven’t seen her down at the Milford Burger King ordering a Double Beef Whopper and unsalted fries. Or at a car show at the Milford Civic Center parking lot. Still glued to the chair along with Chris Elliott’s parents on “Get a Life”, I see. At least she isn’t in her bathrobe.

Gang, I realize Tommy is overshadowing Daffy today. She will have her day in court. Right now, I’m wagering nobody’s going to put up much resistance to the “DIE IF YOU WANT TO, YOU MISGUIDED PUPPET” approach, long-overdue at that, to Barry Bader. I’m wagering. I only make so much in my paycheck, gang, after taxes.

 

Barry, can you hear me?

Can you feel me near you?

Barry, can you see me?

Can I help to cheer you?

Ohhhhhh, Barry, Barry, Barry…

 

He seems to be completely unreceptive

The love I gave him makes no sense at all

Dale Carnegie is not in his demeanor

He pukes at Albert Schweitzer’s love and calllllll

 

SEE ME

FEEL ME

PLAY ME

ADORE ME

 

SEE ME

FEEL ME

LICK ME

WORSHIP ME

 

There is no chance, no untried operation

All hope lies with him and none with me

Imagine though the shock from isolation

When he suddenly owns up to reality.

 

At the Milford Girls-A-Go-Go Club, Mimi Thorp answers the sign out front that says “Taking applications. Must be 18 or older.” Figuring she still has time before the Playdowns start in August(they’re just doing a light workout today anyway plus some bunting drills), she swings the SUV into the place. Just because they play softball on the 4th of July  doesn’t mean they pay time and a half so Mimi is always up for the extra income.

“Next.”

Mimi Thorp follows the secretary to Al DeWindt’s office. He’s the Personnel Manager.

Al peruses the application. He eyes the “Reason for Leaving” section and notices that she left it blank for her employment at Milford Burger King.

“Why did you quit Burger King?”

Mimi really doesn’t know how to lie. So she confesses.

“I was 16 years old at the time and I told the manager I knew how to make a Whopper. I wanted to impress my friends so I had at it. I slapped on Mel Purnell’s Whole Hog Hot ‘n’ Spicy Sausage patties instead of ground beef because I wasn’t paying attention, then I put the wrong pickles on the sandwich, I should have used Vlasic, plus I spread too much Hellman’s, I used a paintbrush instead of a spatula, then the lettuce was too brown and it was wilting like my husband’s wim-wim, and I stuck a slice of Swiss cheese because I swear to God I couldn’t find American even though the manager insisted they were behind the ice machine and when a few customers complained to the-”

“Ooooooooookkkkkkkk,” convinced that her crime has reached the statute of limitations, having 33 more applicants to interview, “Mrs. Thorp, you don’t have any problem showing your tits?”

“I used to tell my girls on the basketball team to give 110% effort, no matter what the scoreboard says. If that’s the job description, I will let it all hang out and dive for loose balls with everything I’ve got. I’ll have a lot of floor burns on me at the end of the night.”

DeWindt writes “very mature” on the check-off list. He adds “could be performing Christmas show with the 2 ex-Rockettes.”

“Are you willing to work overtime? Sometimes the New Thayer Moose Lodge holds their annual convention over at the Milford Ramada and a few of ’em head our way. They can get a little rowdy.”

“No rowdier than that crowd at Tilden. A lot of people were throwing coins, chewing gum, program ads, and candy bar wrappers at our girls but when we beat them in triple overtime, we got our revenge. Plus, Gil is hiring on as a bouncer so I don’t foresee any problems.”

“You do know we’re Union? Milford AFL-CIO Local 808? You have a problem with that?”

“I don’t see why I would. Unions have a Right to Peaceful Assembly according to The Constitution. I don’t mind gettin’ it on next to the Union steward on stage. We will show our boobs as a sign of solidarity.”

DeWindt writes down “Could be possible problem at the bargaining table but not a rabble-rouser”.

“Mrs. Thorp, we’ll start you out at $11.00/hour and give you a 50 cent raise after 30 days. The $500 signing bonus will be broken down into $250 apiece with the 1st installment paid out after 60 days and the remainder paid out after your probationary status ends after 90 days.”

“Are taxes taken out?”

“Yup, Uncle Sam gouges even us strip joints. BTW, can you fit into 9-foot boots, staple jewelry on your boobs and shake that thang? We do ‘Pinball Wizard’ every weekend and the last dancer injured her tits when she accidentally grazed them on a strobe light on the ceiling.”

“SURE”, trying to be an eager beaver. Do everything they tell you. That’s how you move up the corporate ladder. “I have some 9-foot heels I wore at my high school prom. I’m pretty sure they’re out in the garage.”

“Super!!!!!” as DeWindt is trying to hide his curiosity where she got 9-foot heels, let alone why she wore them.

“Well, that’s all the questions I have for now. I will learn everything there is to know about the company.”

“You got the right attitude. All right, be here tomorrow morning in the Training Room at 7:00AM sharp with your photo ID for your name badge and your Social Security Card. Also, bring a red pen so that you can learn how to fill out time sheets. We do EVERYTHING in red.”

 

BARRY CAN YOU HEAR ME

CAN I HELP TO CHEER YOU

BARRY CAN YOU HEAR ME

CAN YOU SEE ME NEAR YOU

OOOOOO, BARRY, BARRY, BARRY as Barry is escorted by Gil the Bouncer after the former wandered into the Club, thinking the ball diamond was on the same latitude. A jerk has a tendency to get his horse latitudes confused(with apologies to The Doors).

 

“OOOOOOOOOHHHHHHH, BA-BY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

MY HEART IS FULL OF LOVE AND IT’S ALL FOR YOU

NOW COME ON DOWN AND DO WHAT YA GOT TA DO

 

NO!!!! NO!!!!! DON’T LEAVE ME THIS WAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

DON’T LEAVE ME THIS WAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

NO!!!!!!!!!! DON’T LEAVE ME THIS WAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“Doris, can I speak to you for a moment? I want to file a grievance. They’re having the dancers low on the Seniority List doing the Midnight Show.”

 

Daffy runs towards the spaceship set to leave Milford Int’l Airport.

“COACH KAZ!!!!!!!! COACH KAZ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! DON’T GET ON THAT SHIP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THAT ‘M’ ON THE COMPUTER SCREEN IN THE JOURNALISM ROOM!!!!!!!!! IT MEANS  ‘COOKBOOK’ IN KANAMITESE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

And Ms. Rizk reveals herself as one of the Kanamits, deftly handling the stilts and the sleeping gas on Kaz, the same sleeping gas that was used on Batman and Robin, indicating that Part One was about to end (The Joker: “How’d I wind up in the Gotham City Correctional Institute? My gang put enough nerve gas on the Dynamic Duo to bring the Statue of Liberty to its knees.”). Coach Kaz is dragged in the ship and the door is sealed and the vehicle heads 29 light-years into outer space, with a potty break on Deneb and lunch at Stuckey’s on Lyra.

“GODDAMIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! MEAT LOAF AGAIN??????????? THAT’S THE 7TH STRAIGHT DAY I’VE HAD THE STUFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AND DOESN’T ANYBODY KNOW HOW TO DUMP CHEESE INTO KRAFT GARLIC MAC ‘N’ CHEESE?????????????????” as Coach Kaz throws the dinner to the floor in a cubicle roughly equal to the size of Papa Bader’s living quarters.

A 10-foot Kanamit walks in, straight from his game in the 12-foot-and-Under League. picking up dumped merchandise “Coach Kaz, Coach Kaz, PLEASE, there’s no reason for these needless tantrums. We can get the chef to switch to chicken cordon bleu and baked lasagna with tortellini.”

“And can they make Nestea instead of that swill they brew out of the canister in Milford’s cafeteria?

“I don’t see why not.”

“With Nutrasweet?”

“Of course.”

Consider for your speculation a one Coach Kaz, about to be somebody else’s Peanut Buster Parfait at the Kanamit DQ but enjoying The Good Life in his dying days. The parmesan cheese on his steam-fried London broiled steak and vegetables will expunge his fear of being Blizzard Flavor of the Month, Oreo Blizzard, may we add, at the same DQ drive-thru. Tonight’s bill of fare in…The Twilight Zone.

 

Comment away,gang. I’m going to catch the late show at the Go-Go Club. Mimi ought to be entertaining, certainly more than this plot.

 

I’M THE GYPSY

I’M THE ACID QUEEN

I’M GUARANTEED TO MAKE YOUR

BOY A JERK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

“Mimi, you really went to town tonight. I liked how your wedding band bounced so lively between your breasts. And all those beads around your neck.”

“Thanks, Gil. So I heard you had to throw out Mr. Dr. Pearl?”

June 26, 2018

Hug Him and Kiss Him and Stab Him and Hurt Him, You Will Be Hisssssss

Filed under: Gil Thorp, song parody — tdrewhardin @ 2:24 pm

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HAH!!!!!!!!! Caught you, gang. I slipped that double entendre right past you. Pay attention, classssss (Sister Mary Elephant that time, that didn’t count).

But it’s understandable. This plot DID stink up and fart and we are paying the price in Snoozeland. And I hope NOBODY was surprised that Daffy Duck was going to pull a fast one. She goes through all this trouble on what appeared to be a goodwill mission, gets the proper papers signed in triplicate, got everybody’s approval short of Steve Luhm and that was because he was out of town on vacation, playin’ the slots. The Assistant Floor Buffer signed his John Henry in Luhm’s stead. THEN she had to have gone to the Prison Board and again filed all the proper papers, no doubt having to convince them that she wasn’t up for parole. No, I’m just doing an article for my high school rag, er, newspaper. I’m not sorry for giving my father 40 whacks. Or my mother 41.

THEN, disguised with good intentions but anybody with any sense being able to see that Santa’s beard is made of cotton candy, she’s about to pull a fast one. I can hear the Dick Dastardly laugh now. Hee Hee Hee, if he thought I was going to write about his setting a record for the most license plates while in prison, boy, does he need to renew his subscription to the Milford Enquirer to refresh his memory.

I’m bracing myself to say this. Take that Folgers and 2 tranquilizers, T. Drew. Barry, watch your back side. WHEW!!!!!!!!!!! Gimme another cup, please. Ran out of Folgers? Is that Sanka still boiling in Kaz’s office?

You always wanted a highball

with an olive

And martinis straight from the tap

Now you wound up in prison

You deserve it

How am I going to get through?

How am I going to get through?

I talked for hours

and gave you power

Your paper’s crap

and I’m a sap

So what have I

What have I

What have I done to deserve this?

Since you went away

I’ve been wandering around

From press room to ball ground

Crappin’ the town

You went away

And you need a new razor

How am I going to get through (what have I, what have I, what have I done to deserve this)

How am I going to get through (what have I, etc.)

And Daffy Duck, no. Nobody EVER accused you of being Barry’s pal, not in this century anyway. When George Washington was reading Gil Thorp in the Trenton Times, he never thought for ONE MOMENT that you were Fred and Barney. He had a lot on his mind before he crossed the Delaware but he had peace of mind that you weren’t lovey dovey, let alone buddy-buddy. No, Mr. Howell never wrote to the Letter to the Editor on Gilligan’s Island that his wife was sleeping with The Skipper. Just thought I’d clear that up, Daffy. It’s hard to imagine that Barry will be your Little Buddy after you sharpened your Ginsu knife and gave Papa Bader 42.

If yore request for an outhouse on the prison yard got approved after all the red tape that could stretch from Milford to Oakwood because yore homesick and the poophole is a good replica but not the real thang, ya might be a redneck.

And wasn’t Marcie teaching math several moons back? I can’t remember which plot, not that I care to walk in the manure to yank out the Jewel of the Nile, but Comrade Marcie Dern(read the Cyrillic alphabet on her door, silly) has the keys to Moose’s baseball prowess and Gil is sweating bullets, hoping to get Moose back on the diamond ASAP before the scout from the Mud Hens uses up his 4-days-and-3-nights special at the Milford Motel 6. “Oh, please, Marcie, if he can’t implement the proper launch angle for the Hartford Yard Goats, he’ll be a career sanitation engineer. And I’ve seen him ride one of those trucks with Luhm and he couldn’t ride a truck and chew gum at the same time.

“I think we can give him a break for Home Ec this time with the understanding that he’ll have to take classes to make up for those Betty Crocker recipes he flunked. He really botched coconut creme.  Somebody will have to show him how to practice on the temperature knob on the Amana range.”

You drank like a beaver

late one night

And now you sleep in a 6 x 9

with no lights

Guards don’t read bedtime stories

That just bites

How am I going to get through?

How am I going to get through?

I piss in pots

My brain is snot

I use cologne

For my gallstones

So what have I

What have I

What have I done to deserve this?

Since I went away

I just carved up your back

Didn’t cut you no slack

As a matter of fact

I went awayyyyy

To rip you a new one

How am I going to get through(What have I, what have I, what have I done to deserve this)

How am I going to get through(What have I, wh-)

“GIL!!!!!! GIL!!!!!!!!!! WAKE UP!!!!!!!!! Are you okay?

“Whew!!!!!!! That was a nightmare!!!!!!!!! I dreamed I spent Purgatory eternally in Studio 3 with Marty Moon!!!!!!”

“And this is Marty Moon, reporting from Hell, where I am doing an eternal interview with Coach T. I’m lickin’ my chops that he can’t duck out to his office when I ask him why he didn’t play Josh Sterling in the 4th quarter of the playdowns. He was taking a knee to pray, Coach. And we’ll be right back after this time out. You’re listening live from Hell on WDIG, a division of Lear Field Sports.

Late one night at Dr. Pearl’s home in the posh neighborhood of Milford Chase(next door to the stately manor of millionaire Bruce Wayne)

“Squiggly-Wiggly, Baby Bumpers, I found my bikini in the attic. You know, the one I wore at the high school dance when The Ventures played at Mudlark Lake.”

Mr. Dr. Pearl is in no mood for discussing intimacy, heavily entrenched in Tolstoy after a long day as a chemical engineer at Milford Dow Chemical. But he does his best to play along.

“Honey, Mudlark Lake was just a pisshole. I don’t remember The Ventures playing at a kiddie swimming pool.”

“Wrong, wrong, wrong, Peachy Plum. The Milford Contracting & Bulldozing Enterprises, Inc. built the lake right about when they hired Coach Thorp, fresh from the Marines. I had him in Strategies for Kickball when I was a freshman and that’s all I talked about was the dance when the lake was about to do its Grand Opening. You and I were cuttin’ it loose to ‘Walk, Don’t Run’.”

MDP, trapped in his own foggy memory, trying to stall any inevitable physical contact with Granny from The Beverly Hillbillies, grasps for straws

“All right, all right, you are correct. We were having the time of our lives and I remember how you SHOOK THAT THANG before The Rolling Stones made that a popular concept. I think I still have ‘Exile on Main Street’ next to the Breeze towel autographed by Porter Waggoner in the den.”

Then the inevitable. “Sweetie Pumpkin Doodles, how do I look?”

It is clear that DP is not fighting fair, especially when it still fits her to a T. Granny drank lots of possum juice and Ultra Slim-Fast over the decades. A chocolate shake for breakfast and one for lunch, then a sensible dinner of chicken gizzards and MDP is in a quandary. Still on page 738 of Anna Karenina, MDP finally relents, weakly looks up

“You look fine” trying to conceal THE PROBLEM

“Oh, Ginger Bread Man, you’re not even looking.”

“I’m sorry, Little Miss Muffett, I’m so caught up in the violence. They’re about to stage Gunfight at OK Corral.”

“Honey Bumpkin Lumps, Tolstoy didn’t write Westerns.”

“Well, Little Raggedy Ann, some of the Russians hid in the men’s room on the Mayflower and took Horace Greeley’s advice to GO WEST.”

“Apples, Peaches, Pumpkin Pie, why don’t we GO WEST and do a little WIPING OUT of our own in the bedroom?”

“When the story’s getting good? When there’s finally a shoot-em-up scene on page 1,138? When Dirty Harry is about to smoke out these Russian thugs at the Moskva Steak ‘n’ Shake where Anna goes for breakfast? I can’t wait to arrive at the part where Peer Gynt has a gun pointed at Anna’s head and Dirty Harry points his Magnum at Peer Gynt and says “Go ahead. Make my day.”

“Oogie-doogie, Lollipop Lovey-Dovey, wasn’t Peer Gynt Norwegian?”

“Weellll, bluh, bluh, they’re both north of the Equator. Same difference. Both get snow in the Winter.”

“Oh, Mammy’s Boy made of Aunt Jemima, is your little whim whim turning into a beanie-weenie?”

(Standing up, hoping she doesn’t notice the lack of a boner, replaced by the squishy banana) “Now you stop that talk this instant!!!! I do not need to be Dirty Harry or Ivan the Terrible to get me aroused!!!!!! I can pump my own Bridgestones!!!!!! I’m a guy, you know. And that centerfold of Anna Karenina on page 978 got me as erect as a fire hydrant.”

“Then drop your pants, peenie-pie.”

“What could I say? I was trapped. I could say that the zipper was stuck but I had sweat pants on. I knew Anna and her soulmates couldn’t lapdance this Lazarus of a phallic symbol. It was time to head to Milford Men’s Clinic and own up to the problem.

And I’m glad I did. With treatment programs that work without having to swallow Flintstones Chewables for a decent erection. Me and Minnie Pearl are headin’ to the Grand Ole Opry and all she’s gotta do is remove BOTH the bikini and the price tag. It’s hard to kiss when that damn thing’s in the way.”

Fire away, gang. If you don’t mind, I gotta pull out a few knives from my back. Man, Heather has a good eye. She must have hit the batting cages again.

June 7, 2018

Short Bader

gt06072018

Short Bader got no reason
Short Bader got no reason
Short Bader got no reason
To live
He’s got little patience
And little mind
His little ego
Got a great big size
He’s got little fuse
You never gonna know
Just what’s gonna
Make him wanna go
Well, I don’t want no short tempers
Don’t want no short tempers
Don’t want no short tempers
‘Round here
Short Bader just shifts the blame
On you and I
(He’s livin’ the lie)
“Boo Radley was snippy
Until the day she died”
(You can’t polish this turd)
Short Bader got nobody
Short Bader got nobody
Short Bader got nobody
For friends
Thinks second base is his and
He don’t wanna yield
You got to pick him up
To get him off the field
He got a little voice
Goin’ yap, yap, yap
All his teammates
Are sick of his crap
His little free library
Has gotta be the best
He can’t give things any rest
Well, I don’t want no short Bader
Don’t want no short Bader
Don’t want no short Bader
‘Round here
*apologies Randy Newman

May 29, 2018

Get Busy Playin’ Or Get Busy Dyin’, Barry.

052918

Hoo boy. When spoiled brat Bader doesn’t get his way and threatens to take his attitude and go home, as if that were threatening ANYONE, does he do an about-face after getting blind-sided by some angel (or the Derby jerk, you decide) on the road to Damascus and repent and consequently bow 5 times to Mecca every day, reciting “There’s no ‘I’ in the word ‘team'” from the Koran? Do you really want me to answer that?

He is in rare form today as he just about tells the team that he’s The Franchise and that he is holding out for more money and that he’s worth more than Coach Kaz, Coach Thorp, and Luhm’s time-and-a-half on the weekend when Luhm is pulling that bedraggled chain link fence to smooth down the baseball diamond. And I hate to bring up Jerry Pulver again, the KING of attitudes (trust me on that one) but at least he had the game to back up his immaturity. Bader’s decent but really not in a position to be a poster child for Preparation H for the month of February as he’s displaying in P1.

And apparently out of fear from Thorpiverse that we might, out of disgust for the development of ANOTHER bad plot a-brewin, switch over to Buzz Sawyer and Roscoe Sweeney (“Thank God Marty isn’t here to second-guess Buzz’s investigations at the strip joint”), Thorpiverse inserts a lame sidebar a/k/a HOR-hay pulling a Moose on us and trying his hand at pitching. Did HOR-hay go the way of Robert Johnson and sell his soul for an effective change-up or slider? Only the witnesses at the Milford/Oakwood crossroads know the answer to that one. Not that we’re pressing the issue, you understand.

Gang, I honestly tried. My dad has always taught me to never be predictable when doing comedy. He was right. As a part-time actor, he knows a thing or two about keeping the act FRESH.

Still, with that in mind, this was hard to pass up and the lyrics just wrote themselves as you’ll soon see. And because I truly love my dad and therefore really dig his reverence for Warren Zevon, it was a no-brainer. God, the miles we have gone listening to “Werewolves of London” going all the way back to my teenage years. And as a bonus, you whippersnappers, I’ll betcha didn’t know that Mick Fleetwood was on drums and John McVie was on bass (yes, Fleetwood Mac) accompanying Mr. Zevon. Small world, eh? Anyway, another offering from Zevon, sung to “Boom Boom Mancini”, sit back and enjoy:

From Milford, God knows where, Boom Boom Bader was born

A heavyweight pretender, like father, like son

They acted like buttholes to everyone they met

And they stuck Father Bader down in Cell Number One

So hurry to the ballpark, hurry right away

Boom Boom the Wienie’s fighting Coach Thorp today

Hurry to the ballpark, hustle on your way

Boom Boom the Wienie’s sittin’ flat on his “A”

When Coach Kaz gave Boom Boom a royal tongue-lashing

Boom Boom pouted and moped, he was thorny as a rose

Boom Boom does have the speed and the fielding prowess

But if he can’t take the punches, he should stay in street clothes

So hurry to the ballpark, hurry don’t be late

Boom Boom the Wienie’s gonna up and seal his fate

Hurry to the ballpark, hurry don’t delay

Boom Boom the Wienie’s gettin’ a benching today

When he lost his position cuz he’s a long-standing prick

Never should have fought him, Derby dude was a dick

They made hypocrite judgments after the fact

But the name of his game is be a jerk and jerk back

So hurry to the ballpark, hurry if you can

Boom Boom the Wienie’s sittin’ down with no plan

Hurry to the ballpark, hurry don’t be late

Boom Boom the Wienie’s gettin’ singed by his teammates

Loved your music, too. Warren. Miss ya.

If ya got nailed by the home plate umpire for “illegal pitch” because your change-up, curve, and slider went higher than 12 feet but the batter crushed yore slider for a home run anyway because the umpire had his left hand out in a fist, signaling “delayed dead ball”, ya might be a redneck.

Then there’s the Rogues Gallery again. I know, I know, I hear you Baders out there saying “T. Drew”, don’t beat a joke in the ground, you’ve already mentioned that one”. I’m glad SOMEONE cares to read my comments on the Comment section, nice to know that SOMEONE besides my mother reads what I have to say but P2 just REEKS of Mr. Freeze/Egghead. Both were bald, right? Just pick out the one you want and go with the flow. And at least I’m switching gears and jumping from Dick Tracy’s frying pan to Batman’s oven. Anyway, he and The Riddler are giving Bader an earful, pointing out that when Batman’s criminals are not terrorizing Gotham City, or Milford at rush hour, they DO take one for the team. Didn’t Egghead get down and dirty and soil his uniform for the winning run? You can look it up, Yogi.

“So much for launch angles. It looks like Gil’s trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Moose, next time, hit the batting cages at Milford Bat ‘n’ Putt and don’t use the machine spitting out plastic balls at 40MPH. And, Coach, loosely speaking, batting tees are for T-Ball, not floppy-haired teenagers who tried their hand at quarterback. And we’ll be right back after this commercial break, with the score, Oakwood 8, Milford 2, you’re listening to WDIG, a division of Lear Field Sports.”

Off the mike

“He’s back!!!!!!! He’s back!!!!!!!! Pay up!!!!! Told you he couldn’t bite the bullet on Coach T!!!!!!!”

“Those Anger Management classes at Milford Community College didn’t do diddly. Talk about a silk purse from a donkey’s ear.”

“Daddy, Mommy said you need an erector set. But I already have one in my toy box. You gave it to me for Christmas, remember? Don’t you remember when I made WDIG Station out of it? The doggie chewed up Studio 3 but you can have the rest of my Lego blocks.”

Spits out his Evian while teaching Keri the fine art of putting at Milford GC, at a random spot on the green at hole #5, par 4, dog leg left.

“Well, Honey, Mommy probably meant to say something else. But you’ll learn all about it in Health Sciences class this Fall at Milford Elementary.”

“WOW!!!!!! You mean they have erector sets in Health class????? I want to learn how smoking hurts your body!!!!! I saw a Lego guy puffing from a cigarette. The teacher pumped smoke into his chest. It burned about 40 Lego blocks. There was a great big hole in his body. Some of the naughty boys aimed their paper airplanes at it. A couple of boys got sent down to the principal for shooting spit wads at it.”

Gil, trying to recover, pulls out his Copenhagen Long Cut Wintergreen from his back pants pocket

“Well, blub, blub, I won’t have that problem, no Holy Chest from this snuff I’m putting in my mouth. Maybe from my incisors but I brush with Colgate with Fluoride twice a day.”

Keri, oblivious to the chaw Daddy is cramming in his gums

“I want to build Mommy’s body and learn ALL ABOUT how bad smoking is for you. But, Daddy, I have a problem. The doggie ate a lot of the pieces and I don’t know if I have enough Lego blocks to fill out Mommy’s boobs.”

Choking on his Copenhagen, his gums a black-chartreuse mix

“Keri, I think you’ll learn all you need to know about smoking this year and if you don’t have enough Lego blocks, I can special-order them. I kept the 800 number for lost toy parts. I’ll call this evening and the FedEx truck should swing by the house in a couple of days.”

“Thanks, Daddy, maybe you can special-order an erector set yourself. HEY!!!!!!! I GOT IT!!!!!!!!! You can make a horse!!!!!!! I always hear you saying that Marty’s a horse’s ass. I still have some blue squares, the dog didn’t eat those.”

“Blib, Blob, Bloopy, Oopy-Doopy-Doopy, GREAT SHOT, Keri!!!!!!!!! You didn’t need a putter’s aid that time. Atta way to line up the ball. Drive for show, putt for dough. WAY TO GO!!!!!!!!”

“I knew I had to confront my Erectile Dysfunction problems when Keri went behind my back and bought another erector set. It was bad enough that she used Mimi’s credit card but a yellow horse with a blue butt, some still with teeth marks, just didn’t look good on the coffee table next to the lava lamp and the ’63 Mudlark yearbook. I tried explaining to my poker buddies when we meet on Tuesday that it was an art project at school but I was dead meat when one of my buddies told me that his daughter was in the same art class and they were doing Henri Matisse using only Crayolas. I was trapped.

Fortunately, the Milford Men’s Clinic helped me avoid any more embarrassing conversations. They have treatment programs that work. I gambled on 4th-and-1 with my Visa Gold and not only got the 1st down, I ran in the end zone with the winning TD!!!!!!!!! I spiked the ball and did the Ickey Shuffle in celebration and in bed!!!!!!!!!!! Mimi enjoyed every minute of  my slam-dunking the goal post!!!!!!!!!!

Now I can show Keri how to drop the ball when she shanks one in Milford Nature Center and I am more confident under the sheets. 2 in, 3 out is confined to the golf course, I am happy to say. As a bonus, I sent that horse to Marty as a token of my welcoming him back. He’ll figure out the color scheme. At Milford Men’s Clinic, it’s all black and white, no chewed-over blue Lego blocks to cover your you-know-what. Mine is covered nicely and I have peace of mind. Come check ’em out yourself. You’ll be glad you did.”

Finally, to regurgitate the question, but in a different way, what measures does Bader pursue to solve the obvious problem, i. e., he’s a self-centered lout growing up to be just like his dad, sans prison outfit? Look in the mirror and decide he’s had enough? He will suddenly realize, through an epiphany, that there’s 8 other guys on the ball field, more in the dugout? Boy, the money I could make selling property in Milford Valley if anyone truly believes that one.

No, Bader, to repair a jerky image cuts the Gordian knot and bares his soul to Daffy at the Milford Enquirer. Let her pour ketchup on her cheese fries before you spill your guts, BB.

I mean, come on, does he REALLY think he’s going to get anywhere selling his rights for a story to keep his teammates from laughing at him? I personally wouldn’t throw a match at the gasoline tank and find out. But it’s his funeral. If he thinks he can repair his image by explaining why he’s a jerk in the column next to Gil and Mimi being taken up in a UFO for one night rather than the annual trip to Mudlark Lake Resort or Coach Kaz explaining how Vitamin B1 enhanced chest hair growth or longer sideburns, more power to him. Oh, you know you saw this one coming

Today’s Headline from the Milford Enquirer

“I WASN’T A TEAM PLAYER BECAUSE I WASN’T POTTY-TRAINED UNTIL I WAS EIGHT YEARS OLD!!!!!!!!!”

sub headline

“Daddy Bader was out of town on business trips many times to promote the new line of ice boxes.”

Gang, I forgot to mention yesterday to please thank a Veteran. Personally, I take 5 minutes out of my day to thank 1 Veteran for his services to our country but  I understand everybody’s different. The point is DO SOMETHING to let our Veterans know they’re appreciated. If EVERYBODY would do SOMETHING, the world would be that much better. And our  Veterans would be taken care of, in the bargain.

Gang, it’s your turn. Bonus points if you can sock it to Bader but, hey, we’re not picky around here.

 

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