Fred does the very rare Trip Kick Soaring Eagle of Death dance move.

What kind of sickly little nellies are they allowing to compete on Dancing with the Stars this year? The past two weeks has been filled with bitching and moaning about oh, my flu. I’m filled with the flu. The flu has be down and I need to go home to sleep. BOO HOO! I’m sorry I’m a failure at life.

Back when I was on Dancing with the Stars, we didn’t cry about having the flu. We didn’t let our professionals take days off so they could sniffle under the covers while everyone else Two-Stepped their way to victory. When I was on Dancing with the Stars, we danced long and hard and until our feet were worn to the nubs and all we had left were bloody ankle stumps and then we taped them up and danced some more. I danced the jive with two broken femurs. I broke them dancing the jitterbug on the freeway at 3am while hopped up on speed pills and orange flavored Fanta. The cops tried to get me but I waltzed myself into the dark cloak of nightfall and hid in a tree until dawn, snacking on tree mites and larvae.

In my day, Dancing with the Stars was hardcore. There were no glitzy costumes tailored for us every week. Instead, we each shared a pair of extra small black trousers, size eight dancing shoes and 3/4 of a t-shirt, ripped in the great dance-off of such-and-such-a-year I can’t remember on account of all my dancing related concussions. That’s right, dancing concussions, most of which are from the Tango, but a few of which are the result of some non-sanctioned dance-ninja hybrid moves my pals Frankie, Nibs and I had been working on bringing out to the main stream. We coulda made some good names for ourselves until Nibs severed his windpipe when, after 17 straight hours of practice and total delirium, he thought we were doing gain access to the castle by befriending the enemy when we were supposed to be executing a regular Pat and Chris for the same-sex rhumba semi-finals in Manitoba. He thought I was getting frisky and he started a dance-karate slap fight that really got under my skin. In the heat of the moment, when he tried to get me with the hand claws from our angry tiger routine, I backed off and he whacked his own neck and blew out the old esophagus. He took some weeks to heal and eventually got back on the dance floor, but he was never the same and we all eventually realized that our moves were too forward-thinking for this type of dancesport.

Years ago, when I was dancing, there were no handsome and well-dressed judges and hosts, no Bruno, Len and CarrieAnne. It was just us and three retired mafioso from Soviet Russia who didn’t speak English or know what entertainment was aside from strippers, vodka and cabbage. I didn’t take long before my dance partner, Adele, decided to quit the floor and hang up her shoes for good. That’s about when I was at my lowest, performing dance-for-hire gigs in the red light district of Peoria just to pay my rent.

It would be many years before the stars of Hollywood would shine on this face, but shine they did and old Ginger and I danced the shit out of that place.  We could have tapped the hell out of every one of those Dancing with the Stars professionals, including that Derrick Hough who thinks he’s sexy with his smooth hairless chest, but let me tell you something.  If you’re going to dance, there is no time for waxing and shaving and sneezing and pussyfooting around.  That wouldn’t have cut it on the studio lot when we were filming for 36 straight hours a day.  There were no bathroom breaks or lunch breaks or dinner breaks.  The only breaks we got were leg fractures from tapping the living daylights out of Puttin’ on the Ritz.  You think that I did that healthy and in my prime, Derrick Hough?  You think I was a spring chicken with my whole life ahead of me and no ailments to hold me back?  THINK AGAIN!  I had shingles, the trots and a burst appendix.  I was half dead.  They had to shoot me up with liquid cocaine for the last half of that number.  It was all they could do to keep me on my feet and that’s how things went back in the day, when I was on Dancing with the Stars.  And you know what?  I was so fucking good that the only star was me, Mr. Fred God Damn Astaire.  I could top spin and fish tail and kick ball change before you knew what hit you, motherfucker.  That’s what happened back in my day.

All I see now are nothing but a bunch of whining, overpaid crybabies who got it so good, they can’t even manage to keep their shit together for three months at a time.  And don’t even get me started on those “celebrities” they’ve got trotting around that dog and pony show.  You coulda taken the stars of my day and put them on a dance floor and worked them so hard they’d pee the floor and keep on dancing, because they all learn after the first time they fuck up on the syncopated separation and get the caning of their life.  Yeah, you heard me.  That cane wasn’t a prop, it was a gentle reminder of what awaited if they missed that fallaway rock and swivel even one more time, Joan Crawford!  Don’t you do it!  Celebrities are like race horses if you train them right.  They’ll run their little hearts out if you show them what’s coming.  Look at Barbaro.  He knew how a champion is made.  Sure, he’s dead, but we all know his name.  That’s how it should be.

That’s how it was back in my day.

Do you remember the days when ballots and test forms were filled out with your old pal, #2? Don’t be gross, I’m talking pencils here! Well, that time has come and gone and most election offices around the nation have people filling their choices in with ballpoint pens, checking their candidates off through a touch-screen or punching chads like a motherfucker. Well, times certainly have changed and technology has passed by your old pal, #2. But I don’t want you to think I’ve gone and disappeared completely. On no! I’m here, in your junk drawer, way in the back with some paperclips and a dried up blueberry, ready to give you some tips for those of you heading off to the polls tomorrow.

First off, I commend you for waiting, for experiencing a very democratic day in all it’s glory, instead of sending in those absentee ballots or participating in “early voting.” I’m old fashioned, as we all know, and I don’t think a vote counts unless it was made at the polls on November 4th. Unless that vote is for Barack Obama, in which case it counts whenever and sometimes maybe twice because if batshitcrazy McCain wins we’re all fucked.

As you may or may not know, I am America’s #1 pencil! Just like Barack Obama is America’s #1 candidate. But don’t let the fact that I am America’s #1 pencil confuse you because I’m also a #2! A #2 is a #1 when it comes to pencils, but a #2 isn’t a #1 when it comes to candidates. You know what I’m trying to say – VOTE FOR BARACK OBAMA, MOTHERFUCKERS! JOHN MCCAIN WILL EAT YOUR FAMILY AND POOP THEM OUT ON YOUR CAR SEAT! #2 WILL #2 IN YOUR CAR AND THAT’S NOT THE KIND OF CHANGE AMERICA NEEDS!

Much like John McCain, I was first introduced in 1913. ‘The Joseph Dixon Crucible Company wanted a name that represented “a fine American name for a fine American pencil.” They named the pencil Ticonderoga after Fort Ticonderoga, a military post in New York.’ Well, as America’s leading pencil, as your pencil, I strongly encourage you to choose a fine American name for a fine American president, Barack Obama. Because John McCain? That sounds like he was made in China and I’m not picking on Chinese manufacturing, but I once got a pencil sharpener that was made in China and I’ll be damned if it didn’t break after the first day. John McCain is old, older than that sharpener I had that broke after a day and if he breaks, well, I don’t think I have to tell you what an uncomfortable disaster an unexpected #3 is. Especially when you’re stuck in a car wash.

Vote the shit out of November 4th!

Sincerely,

America’s #1 #2 Pencil, Dixon Ticonderoga

]]> http://uncouthheathen.com/2008/11/03/tips-on-voting/feed/ 3 http://uncouthheathen.com/2008/10/08/thoughts-second-debate/ http://uncouthheathen.com/2008/10/08/thoughts-second-debate/#comments Wed, 08 Oct 2008 21:56:15 +0000 heathen http://uncouthheathen.com/?p=1055 by a Casio Keyboard

Last night I watched the second presidential debate between Barack Obama and John McCain. I know I’m not alone when I tell you that it was a bit of a snoozer. There were the same old canned responses and jabs as we’ve seen in the preceding months, only with slightly more hate-fueled ranting by Senator McCain.

I’m thinking that John McCain needs to lighten his stumping and vociferation with the soft touch of my classical rhythm. He can set the mood with the press of a button and every time he wants to take a swipe at Senator Obama, he can drive it home with a few taps of the keys using the deep and disappointing tuba tone.

Senator Obama, on the other hand, could really benefit from some of my funny options  For example, he could have used the cheer tone for every underhanded attack, like when he said “I’ve got to correct a little bit of McCain’s history. Not surprisingly.” *CHEER* It would really have added to the drama, considering the bite-sized town hall crowd assembled was banned form making any sound or signs of protest. I’d have really liked to see Obama make good use of my keys when he hit a home run (like they do at baseball games) – “Senator McCain, I think the Straight Talk Express lost a wheel on that one…” CHARGE!

At some point during the town hall styled debate, for which my hands-fee microphone would have come in handy, John McCain walked in the background while Barack Obama was speaking and he made some sort of gesture. To the untrained eye, it looked like a gang sign and I just want John McCain to know that if he’s going to throw up gang signs in a debate (West Side!) he should consider my hip hop rhythm to accompany it. It’s an attention grabber. He could also use it while he raps his responses because nothing will go along with referring to your running mate as “that one” as well as the phat beats of a Casio mini keyboards beat box. Senator Obama might, too, like my hip hop rhythm while fist-bumping his lovely wife Michelle, though they may also want to consider funk, because that has a broader appeal.

As the debate wore on and I became more weary and inebriated from that John McCain drinking game – a shot for every utterance of “my friends” or “maverick” – I turned on my carnival rhythm and let it ride as McCain aimlessly wandered around the stage during his pitch. When his age started to settle in and his talking points became slightly more unbalanced and incomplete, McCain would have appreciated the smooth sounds of this Casio keyboard. He could have covered up his unfinished sentences – “I have fought against excessive spending and outrageous.” – with his own rendition of Ain’t Misbehavin’.

For the next debate, sure to be another opportunity for these two to bore us with their opinions on why the other is a dirt bag, I suggest you pick up a Casio of your very own to highlight the stiff handshakes and talking points. If things get nasty and they actually start to brawl, you’ll want to have handy access to my Song Bank for an up-tempo rendition of Skaters Waltz.

P.S. The Republican VP candidate Sarah Palin will be happy to note that my features include both a church organ and flute tone, so even when she’s traveling from city to city telling her base that Obama’s a terrorist, she can practice her talent or summon her witch doctor.

Oakland Raider’s leather-faced, septuagenarian owner Al Davis fired second-year coach Lane Kiffin, the youngest head coach in NFL history, after only four games.  A year’s worth of rumors were confirmed in a press conference held by Davis, who read a three-page statement under the bright light of a desk lamp.

What Davis did not say during the press conference was that my design features a “powerful motor…and non-tip heel rests to help you achieve the most professional results.”  My accessories are dishwasher safe, allowing quick and easy cleanup after use.

Lane Kiffin, now that he has some free time on his hands, can whip up a cake in no time with my powerful turbo button, allowing extra air to lighten the batter for a springy and moist bundt or layer cake.  I come in a variety of colors, but Kiffin might want to lay off the Raiders black until the situation cools off.  How about a nice pink or clementine colored mixer, Mr. Kiffin?

During his press conference, Al Davis shared his thoughts about Coach Kiffin, repeatedly calling him a liar, once referring to him as a “professional liar.”  In the last several years, Raider Nation has witnessed the arrival and departure of a number of coaches as the team struggled and Davis became increasingly more insane.  Davis has been unable to use his micromanaging influence to build a better team and his ego will not allow him to let go enough for a coach to do the job he is there to do.  Maybe Al Davis needs to grab hold of my comfort-designed handles to make a nice souffle or meringue for a pie as a way to let go and let God for the sake of his players and remaining coaches.  He’ll be happy to know that I come with a one-year warranty, so if he’s unsatisfied with my performance, he can return me for a new one, no questions asked.  You can’t do that with a NFL coaching contract Al, can you?

The Raiders interim coach is offensive-coordinator Tom Cable.  Kiffin might be in line for a coaching position at Syracuse.  Al Davis will still be tearing the guts out of Raider Nation with his batchitcrazy decision-making.  I can be found at your local Macy’s or other fine retail establishments.

[inspired by]

]]> http://uncouthheathen.com/2008/09/30/a-guest-column-raiders-coach/feed/ 2 http://uncouthheathen.com/2008/08/17/i-too-was-a-member-of-the-oss/ http://uncouthheathen.com/2008/08/17/i-too-was-a-member-of-the-oss/#comments Mon, 18 Aug 2008 04:47:33 +0000 heathen http://uncouthheathen.com/?p=602 I was a member of the OSS alongside Julia Child. I don’t know why she’s getting all the glory while I’m left here to rot with nary a mention. All Julia ever did was type up a few letters and bring in scones and muffins twice a week. This was before she hooked up with Jaques Pepin and became a big shot chef. Back then she was just Julie McWilliams, the secretary from Pasadena who made those shitty muffins in the break room.

I thought that the OSS was a sacred privilege. I assumed that’s why it was all such a big secret, but now that the list is out and I see who’s on it, I realize it wasn’t special at all. It’s like when your mom tells you that you’re her favorite but then says not to tell your siblings. You think you’re really something, and when your brother knocks your front teeth out with that hockey stick you let him have it; you break out all the big guns to put him in his place. He’s ugly, he throws like a girl, you said you liked his haircut but you were really just being nice, he was a mistake and mom always love you best, not him, she said so herself. Then he really gets you back when he says that she tells that to every one of her kids, all thirteen of them had that same heartfelt talk and left feeling special and now you know, you’re just like all the rest. Well, here comes the OSS and they’re telling me I’m like all the rest. The secrecy wasn’t for protection, it was because anyone who asked got to join. Motherfucker shit whore.

There are over 20,000 names on that list. One of them is a guy I went to high school with. He was your typical pervert whose athletic prowess and big blue eyes gave him the idea that anyone’s lady was fair game. Well, long story short, he took my Mertyl one night while I was finishing up a science project. She dumped me the next day and started smoking and swearing like a common whore. I’d like to know who thought that man would make a good spy. I bet that while I was over in Russia during Operation RedHot Vodka he was snuggled under the sheets with Julie McWilliams, your Julia Child, and every other skirt this side of the Iron Curtain. He probably slept his way through the OSS interview and training camps until every broad and dandy was smoking a Lucky Strike while he pulled his pants back on.

I gave two full weeks of my youth to the OSS. I spent 48 straight hours drinking vodka with some brutish Communists until they figured out who I was and held me prisoner. Yeah, sure, maybe it was little Julie McWilliams who got me out by poisoning their Borscht and giving them the shits long enough to hump my badly beaten body out of the mountains, but did she deserve more attention than I do? I was a prisoner of war. I spent ten minutes of one evening in 1944 being given a very painful wedgie by some Russian soldiers and there is nary a mention of my time serving this country as a member of the OSS. I gave up my dignity, for what? Well, fuck Julie McWilliams and fuck her bullshit muffins. I demand my just desserts. Somebody dig her up so she can make me a god damn pie.