Mount Crapatoa

For the last 30 years, Geraldo Rivera’s career has been marked by one spectacularly lucrative failure after another.   His incompetence is legendary. His lack of good judgment is astonishing.   His ability to remain employed is miraculous.   If failure was an Olympic event, Geraldo would probably find a way to lose that, too.   The man is a veritable crap factory, producing journalistic excrement with the regularity of a malevolent metronome.   Let us take a moment to reflect. 1986 – Al Capone’s Vault During the renovation of a Chicago hotel that Al Capone had once inhabited, a system of secret tunnels was discovered that led straight to Geraldo Rivera’s ego.   A two-hour live special was constructed around the opening of a secret room in one of the secret tunnels, a room dubbed Al Capone’s vault .   The hype leading up to this show was extraordinary.   It was suggested that the opening of the vault might reveal anything from masses of money to bunches of bodies.   I

I long ago stopped being bothered by spam, which is proof that humans can get used to anything.  In fact, I've become something of a  connoisseur of the form.  We've been automatically filtering and deleting these things for so long that I fear we might have lost sight of their literary merit.  Over the last couple of months, I've collected my favorite examples in order to post them here.  For you.  You're welcome.  Again.   My overriding thought as I read these is "Jesus rambling Christ, someone actually wrote this".  It's true. Somewhere out there, a human being sat down and wrote these things.  They thought they were being clever.  They thought they were being manipulative.  They thought they spoke English.    Her friends call her “Lucky” I am Mrs Kim Abbott ,I am 51 years old,i am deaf and suffering from a long time cancer of the lungs which also affected my brain,from all indication my conditions is really deteriorating and it is quite obvious

     This is a story about a simple man with a simple message and the simple filmmaker who helped him spread it.  The simple man was Estus Pirkle, leader of Locust Grove Baptist Church in New Albany, Mississippi.  The simple message was an attempt to rouse the patriotism of Americans by proclaiming that most of us are pure evil.  The simple filmmaker was Ron Ormond, who got his big break collaborating with Lash La Rue in the 40s and spent the next 30 years working his way to the bottom.         These two simpletons made three movies together in the 70s. The first, and most famous, is inscrutably entitled If Footmen Tire You, What Will Horses Do?   It focuses on the insidious communist menace that is always threatening to crawl up our sacred American buttholes and drag us all to that hot gulag in the ground.  To say that Estus demonizes communists and American culture is to make an understatement of Pinteresque proportions.  Here  are Mr. Pirkle’s  thoughts on a number of important

Spiking The Pillow I don’t often praise the lobotomized jackals that run our television networks, but they do deserve credit for one great service.   They really know how to facilitate a nap.   This is especially evident when it comes to televised sports, many of which seem to exist merely to put the audience to sleep.   How can insomnia hope to triumph when faced with the following forms of athletic Ambien? Golf Next to competitive accounting and synchronized typing, golf is the most boring spectator sport in existence.   It seems odd that an activity invented by men for the sole purpose of escaping from their wives for an entire day should become a televised event, but here it is.   There is little about golf that isn’t conducive to swift sleep.   The limp ping of the ball as it’s struck.   The funereal silence of the crowd.   The gentle whisper of the announcer.   I’ve been hopped up on an afternoon of speed and fear, only to find Morphean solace by the second hole.  Th

I saw Night of the Comet in the theater during its initial release. Twice. I'm not sure how many people can make that claim. I'm not sure how many people want to make that claim. The movie was released upon an unsuspecting populace in November of 1984, a wonderfully weird year in the world of cinema. The preceding months had already borne witness to questionable classics like C.H.U.D., The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the Eighth Dimension, Red Dawn and Friday the 13 th : The Final Chapter (sic). The hair was big. The spandex was tight. The girls were from the valley. It was a totally tubular time to be alive. Night of the Comet revolves around two sisters named Regina and Samantha. Regina is a video game queen (partial to Tempest) who likes to make it in theater projection rooms and kick post-apocalyptic zombie ass. Samantha is a refugee from a Jane Fonda workout video who longs to make it with anyone and can't even kick the scrawny ass of her wicked stepmothe

There are many things in this mean old world of ours that I don't understand.  I don't understand why people want vampires that send them FTD bouquets.  I don't understand why people like music without melodies.  I don't understand Mandarin Chinese.  I could fill a book with all the things I don't understand.  And I think I'd have to dedicate a chapter of that book to the subject of alcohol snobs and their expensive follies. Those of us who drink professionally understand that the goal of the entire imbibication process is inebriation, not another extraneous culinary experience.   Anything that gets in the way of that inebriation is the enemy, and there are several things that can get in the way.  Sugary, fruity, girly drinks, for example.  You can't drink very much of that stuff without losing your ethnic cuisine in the nearest alley, and puking is enough to dampen any sensible person's fun.  Some people never learn that lesson.  Those peopl