ONE MAN'S OPINION
I don't think of myself as just another writer. I see myself more as an Instrument of Destiny with a clear moral imperative to set the world straight on a few things. Don't misunderstand me. I'm not claiming that I'm right and that everyone else is wrong. All I'm saying is when the Angel of the Lord appeared to me and allowed me to read certain key passages from The Book of Life, it gave me an "overview" that others may not have. Call it "Wisdom" or "Truth" or a " Mandate from God," I don't care. I prefer to consider it "one man's opinion" and let it go at that. With this in mind, I'd like to share with you my views on a range of topics because I feel that you, the reader, have a right to know where I stand on the Big Issues:
Watch how a random mortar shell peps up this lackluster scene from I'll Fly Away:
"Are colored folks different from white folks, Lilly?""Of course not, John Morgan. Only the color of our skin is different. But we share the same hopes, the same dreams, that all people do. And one of those dreams is of a day when Americans will judge a man not by the color of his skin but by--"KA-BLAAAM!"OH MY GOD I'M ON FIRE OH JESUS HELP ME OH CHRIST AAAAAGGHHHHH HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!"
In fact, I don't think television will ever be perfected until the viewer can press a button and cause whoever is on the screen's head to explode. I have to stop now. Scamp wants to go for a walk. "What's that, boy?" He's trying to tell me something. "We should pay a visit to...? Steve who?" Well, evidently Scamp wants me to go see Steve Guttenberg and take along my Heckler & Koch MP5 9-millimeter semi-automatic with a 30-round clip and some piano wire. I have no idea why but I'm sure he'll tell me when we get there.
MAN I am important. Would you be interested in having sex with me?
WOMAN Perhaps. Is your penis large or small?
MAN Small but it is thick.
WOMAN Call me next week. I'm in the book.
SIX HIT MOVIES
1. Okay, how's this for a plot?--10,000 deranged Sikh extremists rape Steven Seagal's wife and kill his kids and torch his house and strangle his pets and now it's payback time! Pretty good, huh? I mean these guys are so militant they burn their own flag, and Seagal has to fuck 'em up! Call it Blood Bunnies Beneath the Wheat (to cash in on that whole Children of the Corn thing). John Woo to direct. Plenty of action and no dialogue except those droll wisecracks Seagal makes, like when he shanks some raghead in the heart and says, "Have a knife day!" or he says, "I sent you a letter last week, but I forgot to stamp it and kick it and shoot it the face!" or he says, "Sikh extremists and you find extremists!" grabs his wogchopper, and opens up. BRAK-AK-AK-AK-AK-AK-AK-AK! VIP! T-ZING! BRAK-AK-AK-AK-AK-AK! Heavy on the red gravy. KA-VLAM! V-LOOOM!
2. Here's another one for you, and all I can say is, "Hand me the green ink, Izzy, we just got a license to print money!" because if you liked Schindler's List, you'll love The Dairy of Anne Frank. You heard me--"Dairy." Anne and a herd of cows are hiding up in the attic from Nazis while downstairs, Jewish sympathizers--the so-called "good Germans"--are trying to trick the thick-witted Gestapo: "Moooooooooooo!" "Vas ist los? I heard a cow!" "A cow? Oh, that was me, Oberkommander. I just said 'Moooooooooo the couch.' You see, when you dropped by, we were in the middle of...ah...ah...ah... rearranging the furniture." "Rearranging the furniture, you say. Very well. Zer gut. But if you should happen to see any Jews around, I want you to report them immediately to--" "Moooooooooooo!" "A cow!" "No, that was me again. I said, 'Mooooooooooove the lamp a little closer to the table.' " It's got everything--comedy, suspense, cows, and above all, a profound and enduring message that can never be said too many times as far as I'm concerned: "This must never happen again."
3. Or lose the cows. Anne, still hiding up in the attic from the Nazis, discovers an old trunk forgotten in a corner. Brushing away the cobwebs, she pries open the lock and finds a strange book inside--a scientific journal kept by her great-grandfather describing certain questionable experiments through which he claims to have unlocked the secret of creating human life. Welcome to The Diary of Anne Frank... ENSTEIN!!! Yes, Anne is a descendant of the infamous Victor Frankenstein, and of course, she's unable to resist duplicating his mad experiment. Sneaking out at night, she collects the body parts of butchered bankers and assembles a huge nine-foot Jew fueled by a single thought--a desire to kick Kraut ass! At last, a role model for the young Hassidim. No more of that whiny, "Oh please let me keep my baby, Mr. Himmler." Now it's, "Suck on this, Adolf!" as Hollywood's first kosher monster ("Smoke good, pork bad!") hurls Hitler off the roof of the Reichstag. Splat!
4. Wrong Lane. Amped on crank, a stock car driver bets he can drive a blood-red '70 Mercury Cyclone Spoiler from Times Square to L.A. in 36 hours. But here's the gaff: He has to drive it on the wrong side of the road! Of course, he has the usual adventures--picking up a curvy young runaway; duking it out with rednecks at truck stops; outsmarting Colombian dope dealers who try to whack him every step of the way--but what elevates this from the typical car chase fare is narrowly avoiding a head-on collision every 10 or 20 seconds. Makes Cannonball Run look like Babette's Feast.
5. Screw the premises. Let's cut straight to how we get the rubes in the tent--namely, the ad: 7 women 6 bullets 1 judge The Beauty Contest
6. And lastly, an epic western--"A movie so big it barely fits on the screen!" OPEN ON: A wagon train of real dumb Swedes heading west. Even the wagon master, Larph Olson, is a towheaded dope. When they're attacked by Apaches, he shouts, "Pull the wagons into a rhomboid!" They just don't have a clue. We overhear that they plan to get rich by smuggling something illegal to the Indians--possibly some sort of repeating rifle--but we don't find out what it is exactly, just that it's heavy and the wagons are filled with the stuff. So for two hours, we watch these dumb Swedes haul massive Conestoga wagons up mountains and down mountains and through raging rivers and across burning deserts. Finally, ragged and starving, they reach California, contact the local Indian chief, and show him what they have in the wagons--18-inch logs. Every wagon is piled high with 18-inch logs. In fact, the reason they're half-dead is because they left vital supplies--food, blankets, guns--back east so they could squeeze in a couple more 18-inch logs. Why? The answer is as simple as it is sad. Being incredibly stupid and not speaking English all that well, the Swedes got the idea that firewood drives Indians "loco" and they'll do anything to get it. The chief sets them straight: "No, it's not the firewood that drives us loco, you blond morons. It's firewater. Fire-water! You know--whiskey. I mean, we Indians are lacking a lot of things but, frankly, firewood isn't one of them." Disheartened, they start back to Sweden only to be attacked again by the Apaches. Larph shouts, "Pull the wagons into a septilateral polygon!" and they're all slaughtered. The title?--Drunks Along the Mohawk.
NEXT MONTH: Training Your Dog to Blow You
LIZA WITH AN "F"
"She hates California, It's warm and it's big-- That's why the lady is a pig."
Let's talk about Liza Minnelli for a moment. I wouldn't fuck her with Hitler's dick. Hey, just kidding, Liza! I think you're "one dynamite lady," and I was just pulling your leg the way "put-down artist" Don Rickles used to "zing" you Vegas superstars with a lot of "That's one for the Jew" while pretending to keep score and "Look at Frank--is he laughing?" and then after the show they would all hug and kiss and shout "How's your bird?" and down a few more 7&7s and talk about how their wives play golf together and slap the bellboy and eat bacon and eggs off some hooker's triple-D tits. What a gas! Flippy, baby! Very flippy, indeed! Which reminds me of a joke. What's this?--OCEAN'S 10, OCEAN'S 9, OCEAN'S 8, OCEAN'S 7, OCEAN'S 6,... Answer--the Rat Pack dying! Clutching their chests, their hearts exploding, crashing to the floor, dentures splintering on the parquet, vein-splitting shrieks, blood pours out every hole, the entourage pressing close to catch the last words: "Oh God oh shit wait a minute don't uh-oh fuck." Later, the paramedic pockets the Rolex. Look at Frank--is he laughing?
See, underneath all the insults, Don Rickles was--wouldn't you know it--a "pussycat." And that's me all over. I get a kick out of ribbing these big celebrities but, like Don, I have a teddy bear for a heart. It's all in good fun. An affectionate send-up. A good-natured spoof. Say I make a joke about nailing Geraldo Rivera's tongue to the wall--wishing out loud that I could take a hammer and 200 roofing nails and WHAP-WHAP--better make that 300 just to be on the safe side--WHAP-WHAP-WHAP-WHAP-WHAP-WHAP-WHAP-OW! Jesus, I hit my thumb! WHAP-WHAP-WHAP-WHAP--actually pounding those two-inch steel roofing nails with big, round heads into Geraldo's saucy, pink tongue when he's on some tear about Gay Fathers Who Seduce Their Daughter's Husbands or Nuns With Tourette's Syndrome or Crossdressing Navajos Who've Been Sexually Abused by Medicine Men or whatever desperate and miserable wretches he can drag in front of a camera and say, "Gosh, aren't we glad we're not them." But as for nailing his tongue to a wall, it's just a joke, for Pete's sake. It doesn't mean I really want to take a hammer and...well, okay, maybe that was a bad example but take Oprah. Please. Do you know, incidentally, the key to Oprah's success? ABC figured out what Phil Donahue secretly wishes he was--namely a fat black woman--and then scheduled one against him. See, life is so easy when you understand it.
OCEAN'S 5, OCEAN'S 4,...So Peter Lawford pours another dry martini and says, "Excuse me while I slip into something more comfortable...like a coma!"...OCEAN'S 3, OCEAN'S 2,...Then the untimely loss of Sammy Davis, Jr. Sammy with the single peeper. Sammy with more chains around his neck than Kunte Kinte. Sammy who thought that Black Pride was a furniture polish for Negroes. Here's a useful rule of thumb: The more gold a man wears around his neck, the more worthless he thinks himself to be. Obviously, Hammer's self-esteem is down there with the sea slugs....OCEAN'S 1... Followed by Joey Bishop killed in a condo fire, identified only by his medic alert bracelet. Dean passed out in a hot tub and paraboiled. Steve and Edie hacked to death in a dispute over grazing rights. Shirley MacLaine fatally mauled by pit bulls. Henry Silva brained by Skylab debris. Richard Conte buried in a lava flow. Buddy Hackett shot while resisting arrest. And, of course, Rickles, who passed away when a routine operation for a penile implant went terribly wrong. Look at Frank--is he laughing? Frank or the "Chairman of the Board," as I like to call him, although "Chairman of the Morgue" might be more like it. "King of the Worm World."
Who's left? Liza. Freaky, mawkish Liza with those waif-found-stuffed-in-a-drainpipe looks and that paperback version of Judy's voice. Liza, not so much a human being as a walking collection of show business tics. Liza, whose career is based on the belief that you can't overuse the words "special" and "magic." Liza with an "F."
Obviously, on a sane planet, she would be kept in a cage and people would pay a small amount--no more than a quarter--to poke her with a stick. Yet here on Earth, she's a big star. Why, you ask, and rightly so? I'll tell you why. Because her mother, who always looked like she was two seconds from jumping off a high ledge, knew an incredible secret--a secret so dark and twisted that it has never been spoken aloud--a secret any Rosicrucian would give his left nut to possess--forbidden knowledge older than the pyramids unveiled here for the first time--a secret guarded by the rich and powerful for centuries yet I reveal it to you for the price of a rock'n'roll magazine--a dreadful secret that Judy, lying on her death bed, with seconds to live, leaned over and whispered into her daughter's ear:
"The person in the most pain wins."
This simple truth is the basis of all daytime chat shows--"Notice me, Phil. I'm a woman and my husband beats me." "Notice me, Sally. I'm a woman and I'm black and my husband beats me and my father sexually abused me." "Notice me, Ricki. I'm blind--so blind that I don't even know if I'm black or a woman--and somebody--it's so dark it's hard to tell--beats and rapes me and I weigh 850 pounds." "Notice me, Montel. I'm a woman, I'm handicapped, I'm fat, everybody from the mailman to the parish priest beats and rapes me, my son has Gay Bowel Disease, my daughter was born with pot holders for hands and I'm on fire right now.""Notice me, world. I'm Liza."
What does it all mean? I don't have a clue. I just write these things. It's not necessary that I understand them. I think Frank Sinatra or "Old Blue Eyes," as I like to call him, said it best just after he was struck by a speeding cement truck: "Oh God oh shit wait a minute don't uh-oh fuck."
And that's the name of that tune, Clyde.