Commentary - Humor - Nonsense - Sarcasm - Satire - Whimsy
SPECIAL EDITION
The Best of: On the Road with DR. EVIL
From Vol. III, Nos. 1 - 12, 2001
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January 1, 2002
A Missive of Irregular Frequency and Questionable Worth
CRYOGENIC
TIPPY
This one comes from Dr. and Mrs. Evil's evil daughter. It seems that one of her husband's aunts from central Ohio had a dog named Tippy. Tippy was a smallish black and white short-haired farm dog. Her mistress had grown up on the farm and had, over the years, buried several family pets on the property. Tippy had traveled with her mistress to live her last years outside her home state, first in New York and Pennsylvania, then Illinois. As she aged, Tippy began to lose her steadiness of gate and, in accordance to her name, began to walk a little bit sideways. During the winter of 1998-99, at the ripe old age of 16, she passed away. Her mistress wanted to bury her with her predecessor pets on the family farm in Ohio, but there was no point in traveling there at that time since she could not easily be interred into the frozen ground. Therefore, she arranged Tippy "comfortably" curled up and froze her in the family food freezer, intending to give her an appropriate burial the following Spring. For one reason or another, the funereal mission was never accomplished and Tippy remains, to this day, blissfully and cryogenically sleeping at the bottom of that freezer. Perhaps we shouldn't feel too sorry for her, though. I'm sure there's not a single chunk of dehydrated, processed, reprocessed, and reconstituted chicken guts in the freezer with her. She's probably comfortably resting on a bed of ground beef patties. Maybe there's a 12 lb. rolled rib roast just off the end of her nose.
JOE
LOUIS VS MAX SCHMELING
The History Channel presented a fascinating and depressing program on Joe Louis during January. Here's the gist of the story.
On their first meeting in the boxing ring, Max Schmeling beat Joe Louis. This was in 1936. Adolf Hitler and the Nazi Party proudly touted Max as the epitome of Teutonic prowess. When he and Louis met a second time, in 1939, Louis returned the favor by thoroughly cleaning his plow in 124 seconds of the first round. The German press was not permitted to present an accurate account of the bout, but, instead, characterized American ring officials as gangsters, which, of course, they may well have been, and Louis as a dirty fighter. Schmeling went back to Germany in disgrace. Shortly after that, at age 33, no doubt as punishment, he was forced into the German army to become a paratrooper. Fortunately for him, he aggravated an old back injury on his first combat jump and was discharged.
In the meantime, the "Brown Bomber" went on to become the greatest heavyweight in history. He was the heavyweight champion for 11 years – 8 months, the longest of any boxer. He enlisted in the U.S. Army and spent a great deal of his time promoting the Army to attract more Blacks. When Joe witnessed an inequity, he called the War Department and it was taken care of. He did much to improve conditions for the black soldier. He held many fund raisers and exhibition bouts, donating the proceeds to patriotic and charitable causes. This, unfortunately, was the beginning of big time trouble. The proceeds from these events were typically presented to Louis in the form of checks, made out to him. Joe just signed them and turned it over to the cause. Having no sense of fairness, the IRS considered these checks as income and pursued Louis for income taxes due thereon. Over time, the combination of IRS persecution, the usual predatory hangers on, excessive generosity, and naive money management increased Louis' indebtedness to over $1M. By this time, he was an elder statesman of professional boxing. He retired in 1949, but because of his indebtedness, he returned unsuccessfully to the ring the next year. His last bout was in 1951, when the eager contender, Rocky Marciano, knocked him out of the ring. In a further attempt to pay off his indebtedness, he was reduced to exhibition wrestling. It was embarrassing for him and for his fight fans.
He and Schmeling maintained contact over the years and eventually became quite good friends. Schmeling had become a big time executive for Coca Cola-Germany. Joe had hit rock bottom. There was no relief. There was no one to stand up for him. No American stepped forward to clarify his record with the IRS - but there was Schmeling.
Upon hearing of Louis' financial situation and that he was in very bad health, Schmeling contacted a friend in the U.S. (which is another story) and, after Louis' death, an envelope was handed to his widow. It was money - hopefully enough to satisfy at least some of his creditors.
MIXED
SIGNALS?
One of the pieces shown on CBS' "Sunday Morning" telecast on 29 April featured a wild Italian photographer who gathered together 20 to 30 adult men and women of all sizes, shapes and ages in the town square, had them all strip down to their birthday suits and "lounge" together on the cobblestone pavement for a group portrait. They were all instructed to lie down and face away from the camera - and be "at ease." The television editor obviously made sure that all titillating material (pun intended) ended up on the cutting room floor or was masked out with those funny little blinking multicolored squares. The final scene was of the entire group, much as the still photographer saw them, but taken from about a quarter of a mile away. Would you believe it. Even at that great distance, from which the people looked like so many pink body pillows, they were still hidden behind a patch of those fuzzy little bleeping squares. I'm certain that, even on close inspection, one would not be able to say with certainty that they were people, let alone ID their sex.
Then we have the likes of Jennifer Lopez (and others) at the recent Academy Awards Ceremony, with her filmy see-through blouse. No little blinking squares here. ("Since I've seen so much of you, dear, I feel I know you quite well. May I call you Jenny?") There was neither an attempt to "cover" her nor any hesitation to "cover" her. Huh? (Oh, by the way, I think she is a little asymmetrical.)
And we reward Madonna. On a recent David Letterman show, she was irritated that he wanted to talk about some of her risqué music videos. She didn't want to do that. She's a mother now and that's all behind her. Then her latest was released, which turned out to so violent and suggestive that several TV stations refused to show it. Of course, it's selling like hotcakes. What a sweet Mum. By the way, did you see that they auctioned off her famous pointy bra for about $30,000. And to think she's Briteny Spears' idol. (I can't help it if she doesn't know how to spell her name.)
I guess I'm just getting old and cranky.
THE MASTER CRAPPER TESTERS
One of the funniest op ed pieces I have read in recent years appeared in the June 3rd (Sunday) edition of the Dayton Daily. The fact that I liked it so much is no doubt because I have yet to outgrow my childish appreciation for bathroom humor. The article is titled, "Toilet testers strive to come out No. 2," by Dave Barry. Mr. Barry precedes his article with "Do not read this column if you are eating, or plan to eat ever again." After that, how can one resist.
He reminds us that, in 1992, Congress passed a law limiting toilet flushes to 1.6 gallons of water each. They obviously didn't have anything more important to do. Ever since then our new wimpy toilettes have been pathologically flush challenged, that is, unable to dispose of a full load. They can handle No. 1 OK, but not No. 2. Because of the requirement that he be "tasteful," the author refers to No. 2 as "Geraldo." As you know, a really healthy Geraldo, composed of bountiful quantities of both floaters and sinkers, requires up to three flushes - a greater waste than Congress anticipated.
The National Association of Home Builders is trying to design a throne that can operate dependably using such a small amount of water. While visiting their testing facility, Dave was informed that the best test material was developed by the Toto Toilet Company, of where else but Japan. It is composed of fermented bean curd. (What better use could be made of bean curd?) It apparently looks just like real Geraldo.
As a demonstration for Mr. Barry, one of the test engineers grabbed handfuls of the stuff and formed "10 incredibly lifelike Puff Daddies" and clogged up the test commode.
I have obviously misspent my entire career - wasting my time and effort in aircraft cockpits. I could have been a great Master Crapper Tester.
SKILLS
REPORTED ON A RESUME
The White House interviewer peered over his glasses at the young man. "As Special Advisor to the President, you must have a broad range of expertise. I see by your resume that you have had military experience."
"Yes, Sir. F-14, Army Men Advance, Fortress, and F-Zero: Maximum Velocity."
"Hmmmm. Both the Army and the Navy. That's unusual. So, you were in both?"
"Yes Sir."
"I assume Fortress was Army."
"Yes Sir."
"I'm not familiar with the F-Zero."
"That's an advance Albanian/Japanese fighter."
"You also appear to have quite an interest in sports."
"Yes Sir. Super Dodge Ball Advance, Ready 2 Rumble 2, GT Advance Championship Racing, Krazy Racers, Fire Pro Wrestling, and Hot Potato."
"My goodness! All that? What's Hot Potato?"
"Sir, that's slang for hockey."
"Hockey? Hot Potato for hockey?"
"Yes Sir."
"I presume from some of your entries here that you must have been an astronaut - Pinobee: Wings of Adventure, Castlevania: Circle the Moon, Chu Chu Rocket?
"Yes Sir - and Iridium 3D."
"Iridium 3D? I'm not familiar with that one, either."
"That's intergalactic, Sir."
"Wow! Must be one of those new secret NASA programs . . . and you've traveled some."
"Yes Sir. Pitfall, The Mayan Adventure and Tweety and the Magic Gems."
"Tweety?"
"Yes Sir! Aloysius Tweety, curator of the Namco Museum."
"Namco Museum?"
"Czechoslovakia, Sir."
"Oh Yes . . . and all these Pokemon entries: Pokemon Stadium 2, Pokemon Gold, Pokemon Silver, Pokemon Red, and Pokemon Yellow Special Pikachu Edition. What are those?"
"Oh those! They're just Game Boys."
"Well, young man, it would appear that you are over qualified. Would you consider a higher level position?"
THE
FORGOTTEN GAME OF MARBLES
Kids don't play marbles anymore. At least not like I use to. When in grade school, we would scratch a circle about 9 feet in diameter in the cindered playing area of the school yard at McKinley School in my home town. That part of the school yard immediately around the building was all cinders - finely worn, dark gray cinders. The kind that you ground into the skin of your hands and knees if you had the misfortune to fall on it. I'm amazed that I don't still have some still ornamenting my skin like several messed up tattoos - but it was great for marbles.
Our two youngest grandchildren spent a month with us this summer - a boy and girl, ages 8 and 7. They, of course, know what marbles are, but not the game. So I introduced them to the sport as I played it some 60 years ago.
We always played "keepers," the really serious version. Each player would place 4 or 6 marbles into the center of the circle. He kept all marbles knocked out of the circle. The "shooter" was a special marble, slightly larger than the regular marble. It was of special color, with its surface well chipped from blasting others from the circle. Mine had miraculous powers - worth a hundred of the common variety - and it was a good "sticker," meaning that, if I hit another marble squarely, it would "stick" at or very close to the place occupied by the victimized marble. The order of shooting was determined by "lagging" to a line scratched in the cinders from a distance of about 12 feet. Whoever lagged closest to the line was first, and so on. The players shot their shooter from the edge of the circle at the marbles in the center, hoping to knock one or more out. My technique was to cradled my shooter-marble between the curve of my forefinger and the outside edge of the knuckle of my thumb. This would produce a lot of power and would give the shooter a spin, thereby, according to the experts of the sport, increasing the ability to stick. By the time marbles season ended I would have acquired a large callous on the knuckle of my right thumb.
Rules were simple but aggressively enforce. The player could not "hudge." That is, he was not permitted to lunge his shooting hand forward inside the circle when shooting. Once a player had knocked out his first marble, he could "lag" into the center. However, if another player knocked his shooter out of the circle, the first player was out of the game. So it was a dangerous practice. If one was successful in knocking a marble out of the circle, he kept on shooting. If the shooter marble stayed in the circle after knocking one out, the next attempt was made from that position. If a player was unsuccessful in knocking another marble out of the circle AND his shooter stayed inside, it could be curtains. When shooting from inside the circle, let's say, in a crowd of marbles, and you wanted to knock out a particularly desirable marble on the other side of the crowd, you could declare "uppers" and pick up your shooter, place the tips of your fingers of the other hand on the ground at the spot of the shooter marble and blast away from the height of the wrist, over the marbles and at the one you wanted.
We played a lot of marble this summer - and I almost got my callous back.
NOT
SO LADYLIKE LADY BUGS
It was a pleasant, cool and sunny October afternoon and, unable to think of a faster way to exhaust myself, I decided to start staining the house. After brushing the old, oxidized stain off the chosen wall, I mixed my contraband Cabot's Dark Bungalow Brown creosote stain and commenced the work. I immediately found myself in the middle of a swarm of ladybugs. They were all over me. In color, they were at least three shades of orange. I quickly learned to keep my mouth closed. One crawled into my right ear. Several more, as time went on, made their way down the neck of my tee shirt. Another one crawled across my glasses, then behind their lenses. I tried to shoo them off the part of the wall currently being stained, but I couldn't avoid turned some to a Dark Bungalow Brown. Then I discovered that ladybugs bite. In their own diabolical way, they seemed to particularly like to lay their jaws into me when I was at the top of the ladder. I saw that their bites weren't raising whelps, dislodging flesh or drawing blood, so I tried my best to ignore them. That turned out to be more difficult than I originally thought. But I was determined NOT to be deterred from my task. They bit me on my legs, which were readily available to them since I was wearing my designated house staining short pants, carrying multiple stains from their last use about 3 years ago - and similarly dedicated and stained shoes. They bit my arms and hands, my neck, my cheeks - they bit everywhere. One crawled up my pant leg and threatened to bit me on the . . . . .
"None of that," I says. "You ladybugs are no ladies."
Then I thought I noticed that those doing the biting were all a lighter shade of color - and wearing little tiny rags around their heads - AND on closer inspection, they all looked like, would you believe it, Osama bin Laden.
Nah!! Only kidding. I wouldn't lay that even on un-ladylike lady bugs.
MY
PERSONAL STUFF
I have a lot of little
personal treasures in my office as well as in a "jewelry" box on my
dresser. None of them are of any real value - that is, to anyone but me. Those
in my office include my little collection of toy cars, including a desert patrol
VW Beetle, a black and white police cruiser, a Ford Thunderbird stock car (No.
16), and a rescue ambulance. All are equipped with undying power supplies
driving sirens that sound off when the front wheels are depressed. They all
still work after about 8 years. Then there's the little red Radio Flyer wagon
with a gum paste rose made by Mrs. Evil inside. The still-life includes a small
stylized glass frog. The "Scare Bug," was also made by Mrs. Evil. The
MiCubano cigar was given to me on the occasion of some now-forgotten, but, I'm
certain, very significant event about 5 years ago. The little 2-inch trophy cup,
also given to me by Mrs. Evil, was in recognition of my remodeling efforts on
the house. The inscription reads "JOE - Carpenter/Craftsman of the Year
1990." Joe, of course, was that carpenter who filled in as Jesus'
sociological father. I picked up the small piece of fossil coral on a beach near
Corpus Christi, Texas. The "Wind Breaker" is not a light weight
jacket, but a gob of play-dough-like stuff in a plastic "glass."
Scrunching it around inside the glass produces a fantastic variety of very personal and
private sounds like those that guy behind you insists on making. Several warnings are
printed on its sides: "Do not take to church, Avoid classroom use and Keep
away from family gatherings." Homie Simpson is standing tall on one of the
upper shelves - right up there with "Charlie," my glass dunking canary
wearing a top hat. Mementos of no lesser significance can be found in the box on
my dresser. My shot record is the bearer of unrealized good news. It shows that
I was revaccinated for smallpox in 1968 and again in 1972. My freebie Lewis
Rukeyser watch stopped running about 2 weeks after receiving it. There are keys
to my long gone '88 Toyota Cressida and my old '77 Buick Skylark. A couple of
packages of foam ear plugs. Some great die (I prefer to say "dice")
that I picked up in Las Vegas. There's a clicker - like the ones used by British
Commandos to communicate with each other in the dark. But mine has a caricature
of a duck on it, so doubt that it is authentic. Several foreign coins - from The
Netherlands, UK, Spain and France. A chrome letter "K," from that same
old '77 Buick. A little tin of Cigarette Loads. You stick them into the end of a
cigarette and when the smoker lights up, the "butt" blows up in his
face. And finally a dog whistle. You know! One of those tiny little whistles
that only dogs are supposed to be able to hear. Really impressive stuff - 73
years of careful collecting. Smithsonian stuff?
Until the next time, have a happy New Year.
Dr. Evil
Why yes! I'm Evil.
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