Involved as we were with the Subterranean Circus literary sixpack, we might have given the year 2021 short shrift. Despite the fact it was a downer annum, it nonetheless had its moments. Donald Trump was finally consigned to the ‘miscellaneous’ bin at the Palm Beach Dollar General, Rudy Giuliani disappeared into a fetid sinkhole and, in a masterpiece of irony, the QAnon Shaman was found guilty of bad taste in headwear and sentenced to three years on the Capitol Police Force. Meanwhile, Siobhan and Bill cleverly traversed the state of California, getting neither Covid nor arrested, Will Thacker allegedly learned to drive again (the jury is out), Danny Levine emerged from the depths of some jungle jungle and Jeff Goldstein put the final touches on his Bill Killeen voodoo doll. Here’s to 2022!
But My GPS Says The Eiffel Tower Should Be Right Here.
Those Belgian troublemakers are at it again.
In 1820, France and Belgium literally set their borders in stone, placing 300-pound markers in the ground delineating the boundaries. Trouble is, nobody told Belgian farmer Phillipe in the town of Erquelinnes about it. Irked by the presence of a bothersome stone in the path of his tractor, Phillipe promptly moved it out of the way, accidentally expanding Belgium’s territory by 10,000 square feet. Not a very thoughtful thing to do to a piece of rock which had been there since the defeat of Napoleon. But pish-tosh, who would ever notice?
Turns out there’s a local history buff behind every apricot tree and one of them pointed out the travesty to mayor Aurelie Welonek of Bousignies-sur-Roc, a French commune which had unknowingly lost some territory. Mayor Aurelie was not the sort of compagnon to take this lying down and he demanded justice. Eager to prevent a border war, the local Belgian political contingent marched out to farmer Phillipe’s place and talked him into putting the stone back. Wisely, they brought bread, his favorite cheese and some gas for the tractor. “I think I put it back in the right place,” said Phillipe. “No one wants to stir up the French. They are very fussy people and will behead you for the smallest offenses.”
“But Mom, That Was Volume One, Number One Of Superboy”
Show of hands---how many of you out there would be millionaires today if your mothers hadn’t thrown away your old comic books? That would be about everybody. So most of you can understand how poor David Werking of Grand Haven, Michigan felt when he arrived at his parents house one day to discover his entire porn collection, a trove of magazines, 400 cassettes and 1600 DVDs down the tubes. The 38-year-old collector became enraged, fell into dyspepsia and shrieked something about the collection being worth $25,000. His father was unsympathetic. “I do not allow pornography in my house,” he wrote in a note. “It has either been destroyed or disposed of. It is gone, along with your sex toys.”
David did what any self-respecting smut collector would do, he sued his parents, claiming his collection was irreplaceable, consisting of many out-of-print items made by studios which no longer exist. Good news for Werking---he drew a dirty old judge who agreed with him and awarded him a nifty $30,441 with another $14,500 thrown in for his attorney. His dad, alas, was last seen rooting around the basement looking for leftover porn to ameliorate the expenses.
Attention Gary Borse!
The lovely and talented Abbie Bela was having a bad year. The London actress. looking for love in all the wrong places, had one bad date after another. Throwing up her hands in frustration, she told her internet friends, “That’s it! No more dating. I’d rather be abducted by aliens!” Be careful what you wish for, folks, someone might be listening.
On May 31, 2021, Bela had an odd dream about a strange “white light,” accompanied by a voice which told her to “wait in the usual spot.” Instinctively, she knew this meant a place by her open window. The next night, Abbie complied and before you could say “Area 51” a brilliant green light swept her up and carried her off to a UFO. Being a feisty sort, this didn’t bother Bela one bit. Five tall beings resembling the archetypical alien grays welcomed her inside and she floated around for a few minutes checking out the draperies while the guys played Scrabble. Then, a funny thing happened.
“I felt myself falling in love with one of the aliens….I’ll call him Cyril. Cyril advised Abbie his alien ethos forbade interplanetary hanky-panky, but she persisted. For about an hour, there was ‘ooh eeh ooh ah aah ting tang walla walla bing bang” all over the saucer. “It was the greatest,” said Bela. “These alien guys provide extra quality of care, if you know what I mean. Cyril wanted me to go with them but it was, like, forever, and that’s a long time with no fish and chips. I’d sure like a second date, though.”
Lonely, bordering on suicidal? Look to the skies. When you see an eerie green glow in the west, turn on your beacon. The boys are back in town.
Last We Heard, There Was An Opening In Oz.
When Ian Brackenbury Channell first appeared in the town square of Christchurch, New Zealand in 1976, the locals were befuddled and bemused. Standing on a ladder while dressed in a magnificent cloak and the requisite pointy hat, the self-described wizard addressed passersby and appeared to cast spells. Naturally, someone called the police, which unfortunately had no Wizard Squad.
When the cops came, the populace protested in Channell’s favor, claiming no wrongs had been done. Happy at this turn of events, the wizard took up residence and began performing on the streets daily. In 1982, he was even declared a Living Work of Art by the New Zealand Gallery Directors Association. His true legacy began in 1998, however, when he accepted the city’s offer to become the official state-appointed wizard of Christchurch. For nearly a quarter-century, Channell earned an annual tax-free salary of $11,000 a year, not great by some standards but pretty good for wizard work.
Alas, in October, 2021, the city council pulled the plug. Determined to leave the aesthetics of Lord of The Rings behind, Spokesman Lynn McClelland said the town’s new tourism campaign was going in a different direction. “Ian will forever be a part of our history,” she swore, just without the eleven grand a year.
The wizard wasn’t happy. Pounding his staff on the ground in a fit of a rage, he testified, “It implies that I am old and boring, but there is nobody else like me in Christchurch. It’s probably because they are the boring old bureaucrats; everyone likes me and noone likes them.” Channell was hoping the city residents would take up his cause, rally behind him and get his job back but apparently the widespread love of wizarding has waned and there were no reported self-immolations or sit-ins. The wizard’s last check went out in December. He’d like everyone to know, however, that he is now available for weddings and bar mitzvahs at discount rates. For a little extra, he’ll even croon Over The Rainbow, but not well.
Welcome To Candle-Land, Sir. Are You Interested In Pine, Patchouli Or Vagina?
You probably think we’re making this stuff up, but no, it’s beyond our capacity to imagine.
Seems Gwyneth Paltrow, after years as a movie star and Academy Award winner, decided to get into the lifestyle business, starting up a company named Goop in 2008. The thing grew faster than a Florida trailer park and is currently a $250 million brand that sells clothing, perfume and even candles. Supposedly, Gwyneth, herself, designed a $75 candle that smells like her vagina. How do we know? Because it says so on the label. We don’t know about you, but we’d feel a little squirmy going into a crowded candle store and piping up, “I’ll take the vagina, please. Oh, and throw in some ylang-ylang, would you?”
Jump forward to a Christmas party where 50-year-old media consultant Jody Thompson has just won a prize in a quiz game. Turns out it is a wonderful vagina-scented candle. Now Judy can take a joke as well as the next person and it is a $75 product so she took it home to her studio apartment in Kilburn, North London, where she lives with her partner and two cats. Following instructions, Thompson unwrapped the candle, set it on a coaster and trimmed the wick, then lit it to let the aroma waft through the room.
KA-POWIE!!! With no warning, the candle exploded, emitting huge flames which engulfed the living room. “There were bits flying everywhere,” said Judy. “I’ve never seen anything like it. You couldn’t get near the thing it was so hot and there was an inferno in the room. It took awhile before we got it under control and threw it out the door.”
Inquiring minds would like some answers. Do all these vagina candles erupt into similar orgasms? Are there Gwyneth candles popping off all over England, scaring the animals? A Goop spokesman sniffed with great disdain, “We cannot verify the product’s authenticity as it hadn’t been purchased from a proper outlet.” Could that be it? Has Great Britain fallen so far that infidels have taken to their basements crafting fraudulent vagina candles? If so, God Save The Queen.
A Florida Woman Needs No Introduction.
All of us know the Sunshine State leads the country in zany activities. If someone is not tossing an octopus into the Wendy’s drive-thru window then somebody else is mud-wrestling an alligator on the Tamiami Trail or blowing up his porch during the neighborhood chili cook-off competition. It’s almost a prerequisite to residence here. Thus the Pinellas County Sheriff’s Office in Dunedin was not at all surprised to hear of three suspicious teenagers brandishing a pistol on the corner of Fairway and Harrison. They decided to send in the SWAT team.
The cops immediately released a K9 unit to track an evildoer named Myles Abbott as he climbed onto the roof of a home and began firing at passersby. It was an agonizing 6-hour standoff between the lawman and the clever criminal until he accidentally shot himself in the leg. While the cops were moving in, however, an intoxicated nude woman came barreling through the scene in a golf cart. We hate to admit it but it was good old Jessica Elizabeth Smith of Boston, who paid no mind to the array of police cars serving as a makeshift barricade to keep civilians at bay. Jessica blithely ignored shouted orders to leave while drunkenly careening around the scene.
“Her actions and inability to follow directions put multiple deputies at risk of getting shot at” claimed a fuddy-duddy police spokesman. “The defendant had a distinct odor of an alcoholic beverage coming from her person and she was completely nude.”
Myles Abbott, irked to be upstaged, was charged with loitering, prowling, aggravated assault and felony possession of a firearm. “I do all the work,” Abbott complained, “and she gets all the glory.” ‘ Twas ever thus.
Jesus Loves You, Anyway, Bishop Xavier. You’re Going To Hell, Though.
Xavier Novell used to be a popular guy. At 41, the clergyman was the youngest bishop in all of Spain and even bigger things were expected. Devout citizens found him an ideal representative of a faith that was in dire need of modernization. Then, as sometimes happens, before you could stack your cue in the rack, Clancy lowered the boom.
In August of 2021, Novell announced his resignation. Much to his chagrin, he had fallen head over heels in love with a writer of Satanic erotica named Silvia Caballol. “I want to do things properly,” said the bishop. Xavier averred he had nothing but pure intentions when he contacted Silvia, whose novels are filled with research into the occult and demonology. He was just hoping to become a better exorcist. That makes sense, right?
You know how it goes, though, when people huddle together at night with a bottle of wine, discussing The Devil. Sometimes he shows up. Especially when one of the participants hasn’t dabbled in sex for the past twenty years. Maybe it was the animal magnetism of the lusty Sylvia, maybe it was the Gwyneth Paltrow vagina candles, maybe it was Love Potion #9, but the bishop was smitten.
Novell called the Vatican. He discussed the situation with the Pope, himself. Tears were shed, garments were rent, Confessions were heard and the bishop was finally absolved of his sins. “I probably shouldn’t be saying this,” giggled Xavier, but the Pope told me a few stories about himself and a couple of senoritas in Buenos Aires back in the day. “He told me I had made my bed and now I should go and lie in it, then we laughed like silly schoolboys.”
In a commendable attempt to better understand his flock, the Pope has immersed himself in Caballol’s book, The Hell of Gabriel’s Lust. “It’s a page-turner,” raves the Pontiff.
That's all, folks....
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