Tuesday, April 22, 2003

Whut was up with Lenny & Squiggy? Just thinking about it now, they were a definite precursor to Kramer. Think about it, they both walked right in without knocking, (right? I’m getting hazy on my Laverne & Shirley knowledge) and they were both wacky. Well there you have it, proof positive. So what ever happened to Squiggy? He seemed like the one destined for stardom, but actually Lenny went on to some modest fame & fortune, i.e. Spinal Tap, Best in Show, and that new movie something blowing in the wind or whatever, you know, he’s down with that waiting for Guffman crew, meanwhile Squiggy is straight chilling next to a tree waiting for Godot up in this bitch. And Squiggy, not to break your heart, but Godot ain’t just late, he is straight on a one way train to Palookaville, a full three & a half districts over from your sector, Long Beach, nkotb.

Why did they even try to have Laverne and Shirley without Shirley? There was that one season and it was like “Laverne & Company.” Laverne & Company? Whut the fuck are you on crack? Was there like one episode of that, where Laverne goes to jail by mistake, and it was just a blatant bite anyway of the classic episode WITH Shirley, you know, the smith & jones episode? Am I the only one that knows this? Or are they the same episode? Someone help me here. And was Carmine a homo? (not that there’s anything wrong with that, really) but was he? I mean, how many cold showers can you take before you’re like, FUCK this shit. Listen Shirley, strip your ass down cuz the Big Ragu ain’t taking this shit no more! But no really, it’s cool, Carmine was down, but shit, how he would hang from his legs from the top floor when they moved to Hollywood, and the whole “Big Ragu” thing, highly suspicious of homogeneity, I’m just saying, I’m gonna call a ragu a ragu. How many fukn cold showers did Carmine have to take anyway? It was like every episode, meanwhile Laverne is banging every hobo that looks at her cross-eyed.

My fish wacko looked at me cross-eyed this morning, and normally that would entail a beating, but this morning he looked so happy that I though, no more imaginary beatings, because just the fact that all you kind people even think that I might beat up Wacko the Talking goldfish was just too much to take. In fact this morning I could have sworn, just for a minute, that Wacko was possessed of the ghost of Randy Rhoads. Juuuust for a minute, mind you, in fact more like 30 seconds, he was like strumming an air-guitar with his right little flipper or fin or whatever the crap you call it, and I could have SWORN his mouth was doing the words to Crazy train. Yes maybe I’m on crack, or maybe wacko is, because yes I know, Randy never sang, he strictly spoke with his axe, na mean, yes, I know, but still, he wrote that shit with Ozzy, right? RIGHt? Yes. Yes indeed.

Where the fuck is Randy Rhoads’ ghost anyway? How long do I have to put up with this? Imagine, if you will, a man, named Alfred Pennyworth, more than just the Batman butler, the secret scribe of an ancient scroll, suddenly taken unto sacred responsibility of sole communication rights with the greatest guitar player ever to grace this earth. Imagine him having in depth conversations with said interplanetary (inter-dimensionary?) visitor on an ongoing & regular basis on a range of topics from peace in the middle east to the proper proportions of peanut butter and jelly in said sandwich, and different amount per certain breads, (ie rye at a 3/1 ration, wheat at a 3.5/1, and so on)…

Where was I? Oh yeah, Randy. Imagine really getting into discussions on life, love, madness, death and the nature of the afterlife with the OG metal rock god, a man of mythical talent & fame, born in the same hospital as you ferchrissake, and then suddenly, out of nowhere, mofo is gone, like a wisp of smoke, something that never was never to be seen again. Unprovable to anyone that he ever existed except as something more than a lunatic’s sick imagination? Imagine that if you will. What would you do?

And the answer to that my friends, is I do all that I can do. I hope for his return and pray that he’s ok, that he hasn’t somehow fallen into the clutches of Beelzebub, playing solo jams for Satan while being pummeled by jackals and flayed by rogue trollocks. Cuz fuck that, I can’t be seein’ that, I might have to bust a move and go to Charlotte the local witch doctor and have her send me to hell in a hand basket for the search party, cuz Randy, you belong in heaven loc, you belong up there with the angels, main. And moreso (ok, less-so) in some small way, I like to think that you belong here with me, kicking it, at least on Tuesdays and maybe Thursdays, helping me through life and strife, and maybe bustin out a free style on your custom Jackson.