Humor

Eye-candy is not entitlement, boys.

“Wearing this to work is #sexual harassment!” proclaims the tweet.

“It’s not other women you’re teasing!”

It’s been published by a young male; the accompanying photograph (left) ostensibly shows a female worker in what might be an office environment (or possibly a brothel somewhere in New Jersey, potato, potato, pronounced differently).

She’s a tasty brunette, as you can see, tall, long-haired and leggy. Curiously, two-thirds of her face is missing, which is either to preserve her anonymity, or which may simply indicate that anything above her neck is of  minimal interest, but you can still tell she’s Melania-beautiful, read, exotic; and her tall, leggy, Melania-beauty is more than a little revealed by a mini-skirt —

—is that what they still call them? I was around for the first one, Rudi Gernreich was the designer, I believe, or was it Mary Quant? and it seems a desperately long time ago —

— and a sheer blouse with a plunging neckline displaying more than a single eyeful of toys-for-needy-boys cleavage.

I’m gay, by the way.

The point of this tweet, also hash-tagged #WarOnMen, seems to be that any man skewered by the glance of this radiant smiling siren, who is clearly out for career advancement and willing to go the mile in displays of leg and cleavage to achieve this, would be a victim himself of sexual harassment.

#WarOnMen. First cousin of #StraightPride.

#StraightPride is a ludicrous concept because every day is straight pride; #WarOnMen is ludicrous because men aren’t being outed just because they’re men; not all men are being outed.

Just the ones who behaved like pigs.

Now, I’m all for shades of grey, and cutting guys some slack, and guys being hot for women. It makes the world go round, not that I would know from direct personal experience, but hey. You can’t always partition your brain into “sexual” and “non-sexual” components at will; sex seeps into everything.

But eye-candy is not entitlement. And it is painfully apparent from the current outings of sexual misconduct that men, a lot of men, need to learn self-control, and to stop blaming women for their own failings.

Self-control is not a small achievement for a man. But learning self-control is part of becoming a man, not remaining an eternal teenager; it’s an essential marker of a guy’s maturity.

As the allegations of shameful male behavior pile up, I ask myself: whatever happened to, as it was called in my day, being a gentleman?

Being a gentleman was something fathers or male mentors taught to boys and young men. It was a code that was unwritten, in other words, a cultural phenomenon, and that means it had to be taught by example; absorbed.

Do as I do.

Being a gentleman was a code of conduct based on, first of all, respect for women — that was its bedrock and raison d’être; and though it undoubtedly had sexist thinking behind it then, there is no need for respect to be sexist, no need at all. Respect is always relevant.

Courtesy, and appropriate, dignified behavior, that’s how it manifested; but being a gentleman was a whole concept and not at all stuffy or unmanly. Its insistence on respect for women allowed flirtation within its firm boundaries; it tacitly acknowledged that male sexuality is potentially dangerous, unruly, and has to be contained, and must be contained by any man aspiring to be considered civilized.

(Being considered civilized was something we cared about. Talk about quaint!)

Being a gentleman also embodied civil discourse and restrained speech, concepts that required listening with sincere interest to opposing viewpoints, rather than reacting with shouted obscenities like a spoiled, thwarted child. It required working knowledge of culture; art and music and current events; it revelled in quick wit and intelligence.

But primary and forefront, respect for women.

Where did it go, being a gentleman?

gawd, I feel old.

Woebegone, be gone…

This one hurts.

Guess who turned out to be a jerk when the ladies are around?

I have, because of l’affaire Keillor, broken out in a severe case of Wagner Syndrome.

Wagner Syndrome consists of a nasty rash and a splitting headache that go on for about twenty-three hours, along with a tendency to fall asleep, then awaken with a little yelp to find it’s only two minutes later.

All that, plus:

  • the cognitive dissonance created by being lost in admiration for a sublime, or a great, or even a merely pretty good, work of art;
  • aggravated by, despite one’s ethical and moral concerns, admiring the supreme skill, or above-average talent; the numinous creative genius, or the rather amusing fratboy cleverness, that created it;
  • and at the same time realizing that the man creating it was, in Wagner’s case, an anti-semite, a foul inexcusable spouter of hateful bigotry; or
  • in l’affaire Keillor, a common-or-garden asshole, at least part of the time, or at least part of the time a pathetic, ageing “isn’t that just like a man” jerk.

And jerk is plenty bad enough.

Keillor waffles; he put his hand on his friend’s bare back to comfort her, he says, but then “my hand was six inches up her back”. That’s not a shade of grey.

Keillor worries that the world will be a dull and joyless place when the day arrives that men can no longer paw women with impunity and call it “flirting”.

Sexual assault and flirting are not synonyms.

There’s a lot of static currently about this so-called “War on Men”, so let me remind you of a legal concept.  In fact, don’t believe me, believe this interpretation of Section 256 of the Canadian Criminal Code; the section on assault. Two factors in particular are important in proving assault: intention, and force. And regarding force, I read the following:

An assault includes “the least of touching” without consent. The amount of force used is not material.

The amount of force used is not material. It’s the least of touching without consent.  Assault.  We already agree on this; it’s common law, it was common law before “feminism” was a word.

War on men?  Well, then, let me ask you this: If men hold positions of power, and have always done, and continue to do so, and continue to use their power to discount, degrade and assault women—what choice have women left but war?

ω

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From My Squalid Kitchen, Episode 3

 

Kraft Dinner With Building Manager Garnish.  Yumm.

When you’re fighting eviction, the

simplest solution is to make a meal of your enemy.  It helps that we now have Google Translate, so we can curse them in their native tongue, in this case, Russian.

Dear Mr P:

May your blinis be always too thick!!

Пусть ваши блины всегда будут слишком толстыми  !!
Pust’ vashi bliny vsegda budut slishkom tolstymi  !!

May your wife smell of the gulag and your children have kasha for brains!!

Пусть твоя жена пахнет гулагом, а твои дети имеют кашу для мозгов!
 Pust’ tvoya zhena pakhnet gulagom, a tvoi deti imeyut kashu dlya mozgov!

May the sturgeon of your district be always barren and the oysters out of season!!

Пусть осетр вашего региона будет всегда бесплодным и устриц вне сезона!
Pust’ osetr vashego regiona budet vsegda besplodnym i ustrits vne sezona!

May you be anally penetrated by a thousand Vladimir Putin’s!!!

Я желаю, чтобы вы были проникнуты тысячами Владимиром Путиным!
YA zhelayu, chtoby vy byli proniknuty tysyachami Vladimirom Putinym!

Funnest. Fun. EVERRRRRRR.

New Levels of Needy: In which I force you to read my new “page”—

— but, let’s be honest, you’d never read it otherwise.

Would you, my collective Virginia?

There’s nothing worse for an artist stroke writer stroke lazy buttwad than labouring like ten toked-up Tolstoys over something vaguely humorous, in order to distract himself from that Mrs. Danvers voice in his head urging “Jump, little unnamed protagonist, jump! It would be so easy!”, then realizing that his feckless followers will take one look and say,

“Oh, he’s updated his Privacy Policy! Could someone shoot me in the head while I’m sleeping?”

—or something equally supportive.

What’s wrong with you guys?  Am I not paying you enough?

wix-about

Poot, snicker, Mrs. Danvers, totally.

Today started with me posting on Facebook about how I was going to go great guns on my marketing (a.k.a. forcing you to buy stuff from me that you don’t want, I did a course).

But then a page called Weird History caught my infinitely distractible eye, and a post “revealing” that cowboys in the old days of the Wild West used to rely on the culinary, and, ahem, other, favors of their fellow cowdudes when there were no gun-totin’ mamas around to, as it were, cook their breakfast.

Well, run me down with an army tank!

Cue the snarky, unnecessary comments from a couple of str8-tards (“is this trying to prove this is normal, not insane”) and naturally something about “extreme liberals”—because there’s a Venn diagram overlap between the “str8-tard” and the “conserva-tard” wedges, and those slack-jawed Dorito-munchers will cram the Ugly Sisters cookie-foot of their bigotry into any old cowboy boot they can find, glass slipper be damned.

Also spotted in the thread were the usual tired insults aimed at those who apparently qualify for the labels “femo”, “Nazi” (in its str8-tard sense of “someone who I dislike on principle”), “Lesbo” and “Bumfucker”, with “transgenders” thrown in as a free gift, as if to make it absolutely clear that these guys have been clicking the maybe later option on their own firmware updates since around Grade 9.

So there’s an hour gone already as I address each objection point by point with my gobsmacking, conversation-stopping rebuttal.  That would have been fine until—

—my computer turns itself off without warning, with a moist, mucus-membrane-y sound halfway between “snicker” and “poot”. Do computers even have mucus?

Reboot. Poot-snicker. Reboot again. Mrs. Danvers. Now the desktop icons are “large” rather than “medium”, they’re on the other screen, including one for a program I don’t recognize, and the desktop background has changed.

WhatEVERRRR! Marketing, marketing!

But first, Gmail!  I’m chuffed as all get-out to find I’ve received a response from my City Councillor to an email I sent decrying the high cost of Internet and cell phone service, and under their complimentary close that all but explicitly states, “Thanks for the laugh, go fuck yourself”, is an invitation to check out whether I would need to register as a lobbyist.

Would I like to check this out?  I totally think I would!

Now comes a merry ninety minutes as I ponder the minutiae of Toronto’s Lobbying By-law and legal definitions of conflict of interest, real or apparently real, including a wonderfully sleazy tale of the late Rob Ford and his brother, Doug, being wined, dined and tennis-matched by the president of the company that owns their family business.

This was the Mayor, you understand.   Marketing, marketing!

But first, flog my shit!  Two P.M. by that point. Galloping madly off in all directions, it’s to “letgo” I go to sell my air conditioner to help pay the rent.  But every time I complete a description so painstakingly enticing it would have you eating the eco-friendly coolant of my 8,000 BTU portable unit for your tea-time walnut cake—my arthritic old-guy fingers missing only every other letter and frantically jabbing at the wrong spell check suggestions as I type, because some vegan millennial developer has mandated, as a passive-aggressive attack on actual adults, that this all must be done entirely on my phone—the whole description disappears and is rendered as “gray portable air conditioner description suggested by app translation by Google” while I tear out my nose, ear and armpit hair with frustration, until—

—the computer turns itself off without warning. Mrs. Danvers Poot-Snicker. Reboot. But first—! Do I want my hamburger medium or well-done? Is it time to make some mayonnaise from scratch? Oh, yes. Totally.

Which brings me to you, and a gentle nudge with my toe. Pssst. Come to, my little sycophants or I’ll have to nibble on your earlobes. Herewith some insight into the behind-the-scenes mechanism that keeps this blog—afloat? Well. They say that some people always see a life-raft half empty.

But I see one half-full.


Below is the content of my new permanent

page, and here’s the link to it: Care and feeding of, a.k.a. legal stuff etc., but you can still ignore both of these then just send me a fake compliment.  

Can you believe the amount of validation I need? Seriously. But I can’t find my internal locus of control. Or the remote for the TV.  


There are certain conventions

I follow on this site, and I flatter myself that you might like to know about them.  Play along—you have no idea how needy I can get.

General:

  • I’d put you on salary to wake up every morning and click my “Like” buttons if I could afford to.
  • I use a lot of special characters, especially the “M-dash” (—),  curly quotes (“ ”) and my favorite, the right guillemet (») which I use to set off a link, now that it’s no longer those heady “I just coded my first web page by hand in only two and half months and filled it with animated GIFs of PAC-MAN” days, when the geeks waged war on the creatives and mandated that all links for ever and all time would be underlined in bright blue when unvisited, but dime-store-lipstick red when active. So I’m scared you might not notice them.
  • I also spend a lot of time memorizing the Unicode key combinations for these special characters, which I realize is about as impressive as the check-out millennial at Loblaws knowing the product code for broccoli.

Links to external sites:

  • All external links open in a new window.  Always. So get over your “pop-ups thing”. This is no longer those heady etc. etc. (see “I use a lot of special characters”, above).
  • I’m not necessarily endorsing the content of any external site.  Go there at your own risk.  But I usually approve of the content I’ve linked to, because why would I publicize it otherwise?  You know something, I just thought of that.

Copyright:

  • If it’s not already obvious, all writing on this site is my original work and is ©David Roddis, 2014-2017, except short quotes and excerpts where noted.
  • My writing is covered by a Creative Commons “Pass off this work as your own and say goodbye to answering your front door after 5 P.M.” license.
  • I even took a lot of the photographs, but not all of them. The ones I didn’t take myself I stole from the Internet. Honestly. Do I look like I have access to Melania Trump? I try to keep my weight down, but I’m still too big and unimportant to hide in a fake Egyptian urn and just jump up with a Nikon and a speedlight and snap her before she’s had a chance to Photoshop her face.
  • If I’ve stolen your image and you’re not suitably grateful for the extra notice it’s getting you, but instead are feeling all resentful and antsy about it, send me an email and I’ll apologize to you and take it down. I really will. But trust me when I tell you that I’ll roll my eyes and sigh when I do it, which anyway you won’t see.

Privacy and use of personal information:

  • Really? You spend your days off in a negligée doing “exotic dancing” on Chaturbate and you’re worried I might find out your address?  Never fear. Bro’s gotta stick together, Yo!
  • You probably have to give an email address when you comment so I know you’re not a bot. As if I care! Which reminds me, I’m still trying to fool Margaret Atwood into lending me her celebrated remote-signature machine, which I will then use to sign her name to abusive comments about Alice Munro before posting them to the Times Literary Supplement.  Let “The Divine Feud, Canadian style” begin!
  • If you purchase any of my heart-stoppingly beautiful merch, the whole shebang will be handled either by PayPal or Shopify, both of whom use the latest 4K-Ultimocryptothon technology to make sure your pre-paid gift card from Shopper’s Drug Mart is safe.
  • I never have access at any time to the personal information you provide during the purchase process.
  • Note to George Clooney:  You gave up your right to privacy when you stole my heart, baby—

—now answer the fucking phone.

After All I’ve Done For You— ! (a.k.a. Shameless Self-Promotion)

Look into my eyes. Sink back, back,

back into your chair.

But not so far back that you fall out of the chair onto that straggly-looking cyclamen your grandkids brought you six months ago and that you keep “forgetting” to water, and have to lie there helpless on those freezing-cold tiles for eight hours with your day-time-casual hospital gown all hiked up around your waist as you watch the cleaning staff come in, point at you and laugh.

You know, like last time.  Just a little bit far back, OK?

OK.

Now look into my eyes and hear my voice. Feel the soft—honestly rather pervily-sensual— squish of your filled-to-the-brim adult diaper. Oopsies!  Press the big red button to call for help from the nursing station—except they’ve all gone to smoke crack in the utility closet, and you know, can I just say, honestly. This is how socialism always ends up.

Or is it capitalism, I always get them confused.

‘Cause no matter if they’re gussied up like Chairman Mao and eating monkey brains with chopsticks—or stuffed into a three-piece suit from Brooks Brothers and scarfing duck confit at Per Se—

—no matter whether those rulers you never voted for are crushing protesters in Tiananmen Square with army tanks—or driving stretch Hummers through Times Square as they toss Planet Earth out the windows like so much used kleenex—

—It’s the very same one percent.

The very same one percent with the very same hairy forearms shoved up the servants’ entrances of the very same bent over, wide-opened ninety-nine percent, just exactly the way it’s been since time immemorial—and pardon my cliché, but I haven’t had my coffee yet.

Well, then.  Let’s set that aside for the moment and just listen to my voice. OK?

OK.

Life is good, here at the Sunset Lodge.  Oh yes. You’ve made a lot of friends.

People you only ever read about until now! You’ve met Napoleon, that li’l ol’ freckle-faced rascal!  Oh, and Liz Taylor stopped by. Always flogging that cheap cologne! Well, it keeps the flies off, you told her with a saucy wink, then you cackled with laughter!

Dear Liz, absolutely love the child to bits, what a poppet, but she is not known for her self-deprecating sense of humor.

You’ve met Bernie Sanders!  Yes siree, our very own trouble-haired Nutty Professor himself, and you’ve stolen his Birkenstocks, because—

Just because.  Tee hee.

But though life is generally good, one or two details could use some improvement. Like those hot roast beef sandwiches. Gravy???!!!  Seriously??! They call it curry, or dipping sauce, or sports drink, but it’s all the same brown, viscous glop.

You’d ring up The Toronto Star about it, but your arms are still a bit stiff from “exercise time”, and since when does exercise always involve a 200-lb filipina-lesbian nursing assistant and a leather strap?

But hey!  Let’s just wrap that up in the Pepto-Bismol-pink cloud of love and send it to live the rest of its natural life with Jesus. Or Mohammed, or whoever.  Just fucking try to listen the fuck to my voice or I’ll really give you something to fucking cry about!! OK?!?

OK.

Now that you’re in a state of full relaxation, here’s what I want you to do.  I want you—or your Power of Attorney, I couldn’t give a fuck which one of you—to open your wallet and take out your credit card.  That’s it, hold it lightly between your thumb and index finger. And you know what’s coming next, don’t you?

I want you to BUY MY PRODUCTS.

OH, YES.  BUY. MY. PRODUCTS.

And whether you’re chasing some extra sympathy by dribbling saliva down your chin, or just hangin’ with your homies while finger-painting with the yolks of your soft-boiled eggs, these witty, wearable Gandhi T-shirts—in baby-bottom-soft cotton—are designed to look great AND start conversations that don’t begin with,”You naughty boy, look what you’ve done!”, just like it was before you threw in the towel and began faking urinary incontinence!  Good times, pops. Good times…


Gandhi Tees are here!

Inspired and bemused by the

plethora of misquotes and wrong attributions online, I’ve retaliated with this first set of non-existent quotes by the famous, infamous and just plain dead. My Gandhi Tees will leave you and your friends feeling enlightened – yet confused.

These heart-stoppingly beautiful tees with my original “quotes” and design are totally up-snappable @ $25  $20 CAD  until July 16th only! Be the first to own one of these sure-to-be classics!  

Three concepts:

 

About your Tee: This updated unisex essential fits like a well-loved favorite, featuring a crew neck, short sleeves and designed with superior combed and ring-spun cotton. Sizes XS – XL.

Each concept is available in white and two additional colors , chosen by me to match its design. Below are just a few examples.

 

Shop the T-shirts »

(opens in a new window)

In Which We Discover That Our Suspicions Were Correct: It Was All a Big Fucking Joke! ++ PLUS++ For Happier Mondays, Think Pink!!

alt-big joke

Sanders at the UN?  Hillary for Prez?  Toss a coin, try some Pizza Bianca Monica and… pull the other one, it’s got bells on!

 

Exclusive Story by Glossolalia-Jeezus “Real” McCoy, Girl Reportress
“All the news that gives you fits, in print!”™

May 8th, 2017
WASHINGTON / NEW YORK—

The world is heaving a sigh and chortling itself sick

as it absorbs the events of the past few days, during which it was accidentally revealed that the whole “Trump thing”  was exactly as most people had suspected—an elaborate joke of vast proportions.

As the scope of the scampy subterfuge unfolds, it’s apparent that absolutely everyone was in on it, starting of course, with Trump himself.  It was The Donald, that li’l ol’ freckle-faced rascal, who burst the bubble with one of his quasi-adorable slips.

Speaking to Australian Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull,  Trump opined:

Right now, Obamacare is failing. I shouldn’t say this to our great gentleman and my friend from Australia, because you have better health care than we do —

Oopsies!!!  And this only moments after the Republican-controlled House voted to dismantle Obamacare, the better-than-nothing sorta-healthcare kinda-system which had brought almost-affordable though short-of-satisfactory protection to millions of America’s uninsured, or so those scallywags had convinced themselves.

The cat was out of the bag, the ball was rolling and who knew if the fun would ever stop as Trump, clearly unable to contain his delight, began—to use a theatrical term—”corpsing”, or breaking down with nervous, uncontrollable laughter: a weirdly appropriate term considering the circumstances.

This quickly triggered his Australian counterpart, who seemed to appreciate the delicious irony—heck, let’s give the man his due—the lunacy to rival the Marx Brothers’ best, of Trump praising single-payer, tax-funded health care.  Pull the other one, it’s got bells on!

” ‘Course it’s all a big joke!” Donald admitted when we called him after his Turnbull photo-op for an explanation. “Oh, my ribs and death panels! Are you guys retarded or what? Lemme – oh god – lemme catch my breath here…!”

He continued, “It’s a joke, just as sure as I’m a Ph.D. Magna Cum Laude in Mediaeval English Literature! And I am! Princeton, Class of ’82!  Would you care to read my ground-breaking dissertation on the uses of proto-feminist iconography in Chaucer?

“The Times Literary Supplement called it a page-turner that not only rivals Moby Dick—it surpasses it on every page in scope and ambition!  Not bad for a poor farm kid from Nebraska, right, Vlad?”

“Da!  Da, baby!”  Even by phone it was unmistakably Vlad Putin, butmellow ?

“Listen,”  Putin continued, “Cuddles now going, yes? I makink fresh blinis and any minute Liza’s comink over, she is then teaching me Fosse neck, jazzing hands and something pikantnye with a chair. This Leessa! She is introducing me always charming homosexuals whom I love every day more!”

Putin a sultry romantic with a newly-awakened taste for well-aged trouser snake and the occasional gay icon?  That bad boy routine was all a big blustering charade after all!

Intrigued as all get-out, we turned next to the redoubtable* Bernie Sanders. We’d already experienced our beloved Nutty Professor on CNN as he turned his signature beet-red and threatened Trump with “holding him” to his comments on healthcare.  What did our trouble-haired also-ran have to say for himself?  Did he realize the scope of the deception?

Sanders confessed, “Yep, it’s true—Hillary, Cuddles and I—oh, Cuddles? That’s what we call Donald—yep, we’ve been planning this little escapade since 1980! We never thought you’d buy that I was presidential material!

“C’mon dudes!  Socks with sandals, dandruff on my corduroy jacket lapels and that vague but persistent urine-y old-guy smell—Seriously?  And talk about age!  Christ Almighty, never mind the nuclear codes, I’m lucky if I make it to next Tuesday!!

“I’m just sorry we didn’t get to do that prank—you know, when I kit up in a Mao suit, address the General Assembly of the United Nations and then halfway through I unwrap a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich because ‘my blood sugar is low’, then lecture them on five-year planning!  Man, I wish I coulda taken a run at that one, just to have seen their faces!”

Wiping the tears of hilarity from his cheeks, he added, “Do you think I’ll be able to get a refund for these Birkenstocks?  The fuckers are killing my feet!  No wonder the Krauts won World War II!”

Our final port of call in our exposé of Washington wacky dust was the Clintons’ palatial estate in upstate New York, where it appeared that an enormous “come bare as you dare party” was winding down.

“Y’all come on in to the Yellow Drawing Room”, said Hillary in her characteristic Arkansas drawl as she opened the front door.  The former Miss World and college-drop-out-made-good, her hair damp and slicked back, her voluptuous curves barely masked by a Martha Stewart bath sheet, waved us in with a welcoming gesture.

“This ol’ cluster-fuck’s been going on since the election”, she said with an endearing giggle as she padded bare-foot across the parquet. “Or rather, the ol’ coin-toss.

“You see”, she explained, “we decided the winner by tossing a quarter, best two-outta-three, and whaddaya know, it was Cuddles!  Then it’s just a question of makin’ sure the press gets sent the right results.  You get mah drift?

“Frankly, I was relieved!  I gotta whole bunch of new pizza franchisees opening next week and I’m workin round the clock on product development —that’s right!  It’s always been mah dream to bake! Y’all try this lil ol’ sample now—”

Clinton held out a plate piled high with various silver-dollar-sized nosh.  I chose one at random—was that mozzarella?—and popped it into my mouth.  “It’s delicious, what’s with the funky smell?”

“Shhhh!  Top Secret!  It’s the Pizza Bianca Monica—all white, but boy does it leave nasty stain on your shirt!  Damn!

“Anyways, what with the tension of keeping this whole surprahz under wraps, we’ve all been a bit frazzled, y’all know how it is. So Billy and I decided to call in a few favors, if you get my drift and just – ”

We were interrupted by the appearance of James Comey and Paul Ryan, both wearing nothing but a light beading of sweat, who without so much as a by-your-leave whisked Clinton away to what they called the “Interactive Discussion Room”, apparently located somewhere in the upper floors –  traditionally forbidden to the press.

“Hey!” Clinton shouted back to us as Ryan and Comey carried her up the celebrated circular staircase. “These boys tell me it’s tahm for mah double-teamin’!  Woo-hoo!!  Hey, y’all know how to shoot me up?  We’ve got just the best crystal in from Palm Springs—and it’s makin’ me me feel sooooo—reckless —!”

Looking crazed and dishevelled, Bill Clinton and his playmate Ivanka—having finished at least the first round of discussions by the fireplace—and chortling fit to bust, scampered up the stairs behind them.

But Hillary – was it possible?- had one more surprise under her bath-sheet.  Bless her ol’ cotton socks!

“You know about Billy?— Whaddaya think honey, shall I break it to them? Shall I?

“Well, y’all finally maht as well know—Billy, he’s mah cousin, right?!  You betcha!  Old Arkansas tradition!!”   And with a final guffaw, they were gone, leaving us standing speechless in the foyer.

Laugh?  Laugh??!!

We nearly died.

~

With reporting from Glossolalia-Jeezus “Real” McCoy, girl journalist.

— AP / Reuters  ©2017

UP NEXT: “Barry” Obama takes up smoking.  That li’l ol’ freckle-faced rascal.


And speaking of Helen Keller,

HAPPY MONDAY EVERYONE!

pink

But especially:

To the women everywhere–

Banish the black! burn the blue ! and bury the beige! – from now on ….

Think Pink!
Think Pink when you shop for summer clothes –

Think Pink!
Think Pink when you want that “quelque chose”!

The redoubtable* Kay Thompson, who oughta be inducted into the Homo Hall of Fame as an honorary gay man, was Judy Garland’s vocal coach, which tells you a lot, and, when not flailing her arms about while talking and calling it “cabaret singing”, also wrote a series of children’s books called “Eloïse”, about a little girl who lives at the Plaza Hotel in New York.

Yep, the Plaza Hotel. From these humble beginnings, Eloïse sallies forth to have Pirate Adventures, among others, though we must forever regret that Thompson shuffled off this mortal coil before updating us with “Eloïse Gets Shtupped While Unconscious At Studio 54″.

The opening musical number of Funny Face, “Think Pink”, features Ms Thompson, plus her swirly-skirted minions—who for reasons never explained speak in unison, like borg—and a virtual steam room’s worth of  butch-dancin’, Bronx-talkin’ “we’re not gay, no way!!” male dancers dressed in overalls.

Please, I beg you, before watching, turn out the lights, put down your Bayeux tapestry restoration work and resolve to give this gem your full attention. For this is not just another musical number, oh no.

This is one of the supreme camp moments in cinema. It is the Sistine Chapel ceiling, it is the Cellini “Perseus Holding the Severed Head of Medusa” of camp.  Often imitated, usually by me around 3AM when I think everyone’s left, but rarely equalled

except by the crack-addled ad minions of the late Eatons department store who, in their desperation for another ball of hard, not to mention their jobs, churned out an eye-popping parody, “Aubergine”, a paean to the Pantone© spot color used in the soon-to-be-dead-as-a-beaver-tail Eatons branding.

And I have the dinner plates to prove it.

Kay-lounging

Kay Thompson, casually, you know. Lounging. On her bed. The way we all do.


*redoubtable:  If anyone is aware of the meaning of this word, which just kinda sounded good at the time, please contact the News Desk. —G.-J. “R.” M.