The Voice of Sanity

Upon returning from Japan recently, like you, I have only just come to terms with the death of Wacko Jacko (aka Michael Jackson) and now, like a hammer blow, we learn that members of his entourage secretly plotted against the singer’s closest confidant - Bubbles the chimp - for years. Bubbles was banned from his master’s funeral because he is “too violent”. But the reason Bubbles is violent is that he clearly knows something. And the last thing the Jacko circus wanted at the funeral was a furious monkey leaping up and down, screaming and pointing an accusing finger at any one of Jackson’s retinue of shady quacks, spoon-bending spiritual advisers, skin-bleaching operatives etc.

Indeed when it looked like the Rev Al Sharpton wasn't going to be invited to the funeral, he immediately began making wild claims that Bubbles was linked to organised crime and a member of a very obscure Ukrainian branch of the Klu Klux Klan.

In the madcap world of Jacko, Bubbles was a rare voice of common sense.

Abundant Love

"You big fat woman get your fat leg off of me

You feel so good

Scare the hell out of me

You got a great big leg

Got a whoppin' thigh

You big fat woman get your fat leg off of me"

So wails bluesman -Homesick James-his tortured voice lilting from my car's right hand speakers (the left unfortunately were blown out to Deep Purple or something - can't remember). He's singing his classic "Big Leg Woman". I'm pulling out of Forysth Park, downtown Savannah in my big 'ole barge otherwise known as a Cadillac Deville on a glorious Saturday morning, and I croon along with Homesick:

"big leg wooooooomannnnn,

keep me warm in the Winter

give me shade in the Summer"

The song ends and ole Theron "Ike" Carter the voice of "Nothin' but the Blues" on Savannah State University radio, regales us with some obscure facts about Homesick James. He lovingly names every musician on the album and finishes with his signature "yessir - shaw nuff!"

The caddy glides down Drayton Street past the old ante bellum houses overlooking Forsyth Park and a blues song about fooling around with married women is about to start. Old Ike murmurs "dangerous occupation- shaw nuff!" And this is how a Saturday should begin.

I've just run ten miles including the Savannah Bridge, and I'm feeling good. Well that's a lie. I'm actually knackered. I feel like my liver has been dislodged and my piehole has a faint glow of something fished out of a heron's throat (not that I know what that's like you understand).

"Savannah babe magnet"

But aside from the perpetual dire warnings from the caddy's diagnostic computer "SERVICE RIDE CONTROL" or the more apt "YO HOMEY! CHANGE OIL SOON" I'm cruising in my caddy circa 1994 model lovin' life. It has a bloody great gouge down the passenger side, cruelly inflicted I might add after an argument with a downtown tourist tram. Devastating pieces of angle iron on wheels that's what they are and every local hates them. Especially me. The drivers are all nutters, and, I'm convinced, secret card carrying members of the "extravagantly bearded Muslim fanatic club" wearing T shirts under their neat company uniforms that say “Death to the Infidel Cockroach Scum” With white foam dribbling down their chins and several numbers from the Waziristan region logged on pay-as-you-go Nokia mobile phones, they casually announce into their microphone to gormless plates of jello jiggling about in the back of the tram "we are now approaching Pulaski Square so named for Count Casimir Pulaski the highest ranking foreign officer to die in the revolutionary war" all the while resisting the urge to maniacally scream "I would have shot him in the back of the head and fed his scrotum to the wolves!" followed up with an equally fascinating "you are all decadent snail piss!" while gleefully driving into the turgid waters of the Savannah River. Which actually is not a bad place for the dreaded trams. Although it's rumoured the drivers hate to run over a tourist because the paperwork is hell.

The caddy glides on past the old burned out location of Churchills Pub destroyed in a grease fire when one of their famous battered rubbery fish decided to emulate the origins of life and climbed out of the deep fat fryer onto a pile of hideous soiled something and up she went.

"Last orders please!"

The caddy's right door doesn't lock but will set off the alarm if opened, and the trunk motor refuses to perform its only purpose in life and gently pull down the trunk the last few inches. But hey who cares! not even the homeless laying around on park benches will bother this old brute. Unexpectably the change oil warning goes radioactive and begins to spit CHANGE OIL NOW ! then I PITY YOU FOOL!

I'm half expecting a boxing glove on a spring to shoot out through a hidden door on the dash and wallop me in the mush. I've had this car for six years and still discovering things about it I never knew. Although I'm probably half way through the six hundred or so dire "check this" warnings that flash up on the dash with a few others like SKIMPLY DRESSED FEMALE APPROACHING - 200 YDS AND CLOSING! I've never discovered where this particular warning sensor is although I've had a few suggestions.

My Woman from Tokyo

"Don't remember this in Rosetta Stone"

Well fellow readers (or in the case of reader just shout "I am he" and raise your hand) I must apologise for the abscence of drivel lately. I've been in the land of the rising sun for the last month and I must say Belgium is a suprising country. Everybody is slimmer than I remembered, and when did they give up beer and start on the green tea kick? Most perplexing, however, was a national obsession with squid - or was it eel? hmmm ...no I think that was a promise of visual delights from a young lady hanging out of massage parlour window purring the enticing "hello strong man, your body could use me!"

Oh!! just realised ! ..... could my geographical awefulness and incompetence be equal to or totally eclipsed by that loveable bounder Lord Halifax? It's a close call. In that extraordinary tense year of 1938, Halifax was dispatched to an important meeting in Germany where, on arriving at the Berchtesgaden, he mistook a beaming Adolf Hitler for the doorman.

Relations between the two countries were never the same.

Normal service to be resumed soon. Meanwhile must get cracking on my buttock washing.

Don't Mention the War

So this past weekend I took my 12 year old to see Valkyrie. She is fascinated by the dynamics of the Germans during WWII (message to myself - must talk to her about that). In this movie there is a noticeable shortage of the typical wicked Nazi High Command boss men, although Hitler and Goebbels do skulk around a bit. They all appear quite congenial, tottering around slurping Courvoisier, listening to Wagner, and slapping each other on the back like they’re attending a fifty year reunion of the Youth of Berlin Lederhosen Club. Gone are the withering stares, menacing silences and demented screaming fits guaranteed to loosen the bowels, and get this, there isn’t much of the buttock clenching “Heil Hitler” salutes happening either. In fact what we have is a happier kinder Nazi, a Third Reich sojourn, blissfully unaware, it seems, that Joe Stalin’s boys are pouring in like ants from the East. Perhaps they converted to scientology years before it became hip? Who knows.

Except of course Tom Cruise who plays Colonel Stauffenburg. He resembles the only real German we've become accustomed to, except for a few stern looking guards with squashed noses and brutalised faces only a Mother could love. Cruise storms around with a tortured look of a man who has a broom wedged in his backside. He speaks in sharp machine gun bursts, has an unruly mop of dark curly hair and wears a patch to cover the loss of an eye during a blistering air raid. He also lost a bit of his arm during the same raid and we see it later with a hilarious "heil" salute. Stauffenberg is dedicated to the Third Reich but has lost faith in Hitler. He becomes a martyr to the cause and a glass eye he carries around in his pocket becomes the object of his martyrdom. He plays with it obsessively (the glass eye that is), and constantly pops it in and out like a fiddlers elbow. In fact it had me wondering from scene to scene which one – eye patch or glass eye - he’d be sporting next.

Hitler portraits hang everywhere, and we see quite a few close ups which is quite funny as the bloke who plays Hitler looks nothing like them! It's obviously very difficult to make a suspenseful movie where you already know the ending (or you should know the ending), however, it sounds like an indie film from Norway that is currently setting the horror websites alight has done the trick!

The zombie movie genre has been in a slump recently but this new film called Dod Sno “Dead Snow” looks pretty damn exciting and about to correct the slide. The story follows a group of friends, who drive to a cabin in Norway where German troops were slaughtered by locals in 1945. Now something has disturbed the undead zombie Nazi battalion and they are coming alive to feast and it’s not going to be on salmon. Chuck in a bit of snowmobiling, dark cabins, eerie caves, tons of suspense, typically hot Nordic babes and

a few more zombies, and you’ve got me hooked!

Who cares about watching a foreign film and the language barrier? Norwegian, German or English, I guarantee this bloke isn’t speaking any of them. Can’t wait!

"Have any moisturizer by chance?"

Perhaps there could be a sequel to Valkyrie where Tom Cruise comes back as a zombie. I mean that wouldn’t be much of a stretch for someone who follows such a whacko religion.

Credit Crunch Hits Vultures!

Like storm troopers rampaging through the streets of 1938 Berlin, the nation runs for cover from the financial firestorm. Nothing it appears is immune from the withering recession that threatens to engulf us, not even it seems, the poor old vulture.

Running for just the second weekend since I mangled my left ankle into something a leper would be proud of, I noticed groups of dejected vultures just standing around idle. No foraging, no angry stand offs with other beady eyed opponents, no talon ripping at a foul smelling carcass of Daisy the Cocker Spaniel or the ferret that fortunately escaped the clutches of that strange man across the street. Nothing! Just bunches of vultures lazily kicking back looking like they’ve just had amazing sex and about to light up a Camel.

Their appearance puzzled me. This is not normal behavior, I pondered, easing into the third mile. What are they waiting for? This can be a busy road, and I suppose, a decent supply of a buzzard’s epicurean delights can normally be had strewn down the center or along the edges near the golf course. Then I froze “perhaps these crafty bastards are loping around looking nonchalant knowing full well a partly wounded fool was gamely making his way across the Savannah Plains trying to get home before nightfall. Keenly observing, like good boxing coaches, their opponents early signs of trouble; wheezing, hunched shoulders and left leg dragging pathetically behind.

I felt for my mace, CRAP! I’d left it at home. Quickly I reasoned, at least I have my Road ID. Suddenly I froze “What friggin use is a road ID if these shifty eyed ravenous beasts feel like gorging on my flesh, you IDIOT!!” “Where the hell is animal control or a Uzi nine millimeter when you need one!” I visualise mowing them down with a swift burst of grapeshot “a-a-a-a-a, take that you miserable bastards!” and then defiantly telling the World Wildlife Fund to kiss my ass.

So I quickened my pace, cautiously eyeing my tormentors. Suddenly it came to me. Banks are broke, real estate has gone down the tubes and construction has dried up. No vast tracts of land are being cleared, and therefore, small rodents are not being chased out of their natural habitat to be nailed by a passing semi. No ROADKILL!! The poor old buzzards are feeling the pinch!

Well there’s still hope for them. Today I heard some French bloke in New York who became ensnared in the Maduff ponzi nightmare and lost $1.4B of his clients money has done himself in. Now I hate to lose money – my money that is - but he lost somebody else’s. Why somebody hasn’t hunted this Maduff character down, hung him by his toenails and nailed his head to the floor is beyond me. And to heap further misfortune on this tragic character in New York, he was despised by his parents, or it appears so, because who else names their child Reny-Thierry Magon De La Villehuchet unless they hate them?

It’s a wonder, that carrying the shameful burden of being French with such a ridiculous name for so long he never lobbed himself off a cliff years ago.

Did you know a group of vultures is called a venue, and when circling in the air, a kettle (no neither did I).

Dead Man Eating

Has the nation grown to fat to die? According to undertakers, the regular size of a coffin is no good for your average corpse, so they’ve been forced to build new supersize hi-fat extra fries caskets in which to shovel our bulging cadavers once we have wheezed our last. And then, presumably, dig graves the size of septic tanks and lower us in by giant crane. They even have a name for these coffins – Goliath. And what if the monster can’t get in a narrow-doored church or funeral home? Then it has to be in a park, sports field or perhaps for the especially rotund an aircraft hanger.

In an even more bizarre twist it appears death row fatties have hit upon a scheme to try and cheat the grim reaper. Recently a death row inmate scheduled for execution startled everyone saying he’s too fat to be put to death by lethal injection, claiming executioners would have trouble finding his veins and that his weight could diminish the effectiveness of the lethal injection drugs. Two years ago another death row inmate, convicted killer Jeffrey Lundgren was put to death after a federal appeals court rejected his bizarre claim that he was at greater risk of experiencing pain and suffering because he was overweight and diabetic.

Now I don’t know about you but if lethal injection (which seems to be the least painful way to go) is suspect then treat these smug load of parrot droppings to something guaranteed to cure their fight the flab malady: a scything guillotine blow, a swift clout with an axe, “sorry pal third time lucky, by the way you parting is now on the left” Or something to liven up any dull party, the trusty iron garrote. Certain to create lots of mirth as victim family members bet on how many crushing screw turns will be needed to shoot the inmate’s eyeballs into a basket across the room. Add a baying mob, a grinning idiot of a personal trainer screaming and goading the inmate with “I know you can do it!!” and bingo you’ve just created the biggest loser reality show on the planet. Prisons can compete for the title of who can clear out their death row the fastest.

And can someone explain to me just how these goons become so hefty? It’s not from
being chained to a wall in a moldy rat infested dungeon chowing down bread and water that’s for sure. What is going on here?

Slim Chance

An embarrassed Oprah Winfrey says she's "fallen off the wagon" of healthy living and is tipping (over) the scales at 200 pounds. She says she's gained 40 pounds since 2006, when she weighed 160. Winfrey's weight and height put her body mass index at 31.8, which is obese, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. The CDC says people who are obese are at higher risk for chronic conditions such as high blood pressure, diabetes and high cholesterol.

I suspect this confession has nothing to do with Winfrey and her inability to stop eating, but more with readying us for her Pluto with legs appearance tottering around the inauguration looking for an invite to “the big house”. As with all obese lumps of lard, Winfrey has an excuse. It’s has nothing to do with shoveling wheelbarrow loads of tripe down her gullet and not bothering to get off her (ample) rear end (key: mooooooooo sound effect), it’s because of her nasty thyroid. This wicked gland has a terrorized Winfrey firmly in its grip, (and get this) she’s developed a “fear of working out!” And why does she claim she’s only 40 LBS overweight? Come on! 160 LBS is not exactly svelte on such a short woman. She goes onto say she used food the same way a drug addict uses drugs: to comfort, to soothe, to ease stress. What a lot of rot! I expect next she’ll claim, while asleep, little men came out of the cupboard and shoved whole cow pies down her gob.

This woman, media mogul, darling of fat women everywhere, has just delivered a massive disservice by validating it’s okay to be fat, “it’s not our fault ladies, our bodies are out of control, keep stuffing yourselves!” And her braying flock nod in gleeful abandon. What about putting down the brisket! Get up off that rump! Take responsibility!

Oprah has the services of personal chefs, personal trainers, personal yes maa’m lacky’s! After a long day at work she never has to scramble home and whip something up from whatever is left in the fridge for her and the kids, or if pressed for time stop off at the local Wendys for some heart attack sludge. Personally I feel sorry for her Chef. The poor bloke probably spends hours lovingly crafting nifty low fat wholesome dishes sourced from lush organic Swiss farms or the exotic Spice Islands, but as soon as he turns his head “whoosh!” it’s in the plant pot. Can you imagine what her midnight feasts must look like? I’ve no doubt she has a secret stash stored in a bank of freezers stealthily smuggled in by her enablers.

Winfrey says she has yet to choose a gown for President-elect Barack Obama's inaugural ball next month. “I had a dress on the vision board, but I'm not sure that's gonna fit," Winfrey said. "So I have to work on something else."

Sounds like her living room is going to lose a set of curtains.