Drinkin’ scotch is like drinkin’ a leather couch. That’s on fire.
I would say that of all the books I read as a child, the one which most contributed to my confusing adolescence and current self-hatred would have to be NOBODY POOPS BUT YOU by Terri Friendlyn.
Excuse me! Excuse me, Mr. Schwarzenegger, can I ask you a question? Thank you. Are you hoping for just a partial recall? Is that the kind of recall you’re hoping for? Just a partial one, right? No? Then what kind of a recall are you — no dude, not a “complete recall”. C’MON! THINK! “Get your ass to Mars, dude!” You want a what-kind-of-recall? Yes, I know. A “100% recall”. Fine. What ELSE means 100%? No. No, not “utter”. Not “full” either. DUDE! When you had the fat lady suit on and the head split open, it was in…NO! Not “Terminator”, that’s…huh? Arnie, no, “Terminator Recall” was NOT the name of one of your…no, not “Running Man Recall” either. You lantern-jawed idiot.
There’s not a wasted inch of space. Top, sides and front. Switches, toggle switches and dials. Sony technology has mastered the portable radio. Here’s a list of things this radio can do. First, and most important, it makes a tremendous sound. Only 8″ high, the speaker is an oversized 4.75″. Also, there’s a “Squelch Switch” to suppress interfering noise.* So what you end up with are the rich, velvety tones that normally come out of radios too big to carry around. There are three bands, FM, AM, and Public Service (Police car transmissions, for instance.) A “moving film” style tuning dial. And a 60-minute timer that turns the radio on and off. Why not stop in at a Sony dealer and get checked out. Then find a lonely stretch of road, and open her up.
*not on AM.
The above copy is lifted directly from a Sony advertisement in the March 1975 issue of Playboy. I’m looking at the ad right now, and the amount of space all of those words take up is roughly equal in size to the photo of the radio itself. And the entirety of the half-page ad is still SMALLER than the actual radio in question! It must have been like carrying around a small suitcase, just so you could tune into the Burt Reynolds Disco Orange And Brown Cold War Hour or whatever the hell people listened to on their radios back then.
This post sucks. Might as well throw up this rough rough crappy draft of a sketch that will eventually be much different when it’s finally staged. Please enjoy…
very rough draft – 09/14/03
by Andrés du Bouchet
And now, another exciting episode of…Zeppelin Pilots! Tonight, Episode Thirty-One: The Crash! Part Four.
The sputtering, faltering hum of a propellor underscores the whole scene. The captain clutches the steering column (wheel?) of the zeppelin with white-knuckle intensity. He looks crazed. He leans forward at a slight angle to indicate that the zeppelin is slowly…gradually…going down. His co-pilot approaches.
We’re going to crash!
Oh calamitous day!
Curse the bitch named Fate!
Captain, we’ve been “crashing” for over four hours now.
This is it! Brace yourselves!
The Captain closes his eyes and “braces himself” as the co-pilot stands by awkwardly and even a bit bored. After a brief pause-
Um. Some of the other crew members and myself have been discussing possible strategies for surviving the crash, and considering how incredibly slowly we’re crashing, we really think there are a surprisingly high number of tactics that might-
Any second now!
I really doubt that.
The ground swiftly approaches!
The co-pilot looks out the side window and gazes down.
Sir, we are still several hundred feet in the air, and like I said, we’re descending at a very, very, very slow rate.
Enter Doc, the zeppelin’s medical officer. He is wearing a lobster bib and is wiping his face and hands with a moist towelette.
Are we still crashing?
Apparently. Where have you been, Doc?
Well, since we started crashing I’ve had time to parachute down to the ground, walk over to the nearest seafood restaurant, have myself a nice lobster dinner, walk over to the nearest handglider rental facility, and glide back over to the zeppelin. I suppose I should check on the Captain, huh?
He absolutely insists that we’re -
Going to crash any second now!
Captain, remember me? It’s Doc, your chief medical officer.
Crash time now!
Captain, I need you to pull back on your steering column there, just a bit.
Another crew member in brave denial! It’s too late!
Look out behind you!
The Captain turns around.
Doc calmly pulls back a bit on the steering column.
That should buy us some more time.
How much more?
I don’t know. Five. Maybe six hours. In addition to the three we already had. So maybe a total of anywhere from eight to nine hours.
Two more crew members burst onto the deck.
CREW MEMBER #1
CREW MEMBER #2
Did we just level off?
No sir, we’re actually still crashing, but -
We’re doomed! Oh why must we suck on the teat of misfortune!
Alright everyone, we’ve only got eight or maybe nine more hours before we crash. But if we stay calm and stick to this plan, we should all make it through this alive. Here’s what we’re going to do. When the zeppelin has descended to about one foot off the ground, we are going to form a single file line, and then one by one, we are going to step out of the zeppelin and onto the ground. Then we are going to calmly walk away from the zeppelin as it continues to crash.
Every man for himself! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaigh!
The captain leaps overboard and falls to his death. Pause.
I still can’t believe they called that thing a “portable” radio! HAHAHA!
BAFFLED BY EGG CREAMS MAN
What the hell is in an egg cream?!?! I’m baffled!
Check it out: Time Out New York was kind enough to put the comedy listing for my show on their cover this week, blotting out Uma Thurman’s entire midsection! Can you believe it?!?!?! Some of you may skeptically theorize that some photoshop-type wrangling was involved in the creation of this image. Sure. And Santa Claus doesn’t control the NBA from his aquatic antarctic base with the aid of sentient sulfur-scented particulate matter:
“Tell the Sixers they must lose to the Nuggets tonight! Make them know my will! Fly my loyal intellifarts, fly! Bubble to the surface of this frigid sea and do my bidding! FLY! Oh thank goodness I could barely breathe. Rudolph! Beacon-face! Get in here and refresh my Mojito!”
My point is, the summer is over. The winds of comedy can once again be felt carressing this concrete land. To the stage we are called, my comedians! TO THE STAGE!
September 9th we’re back for good!
GIANT TUESDAY NIGHT OF AMAZING INVENTIONS AND ALSO THERE IS A GAME!!!
Tuesdays at 8pm
UNDER St. Marks
94 St. Marks Place (between First Ave. and Ave. A)
tickets are $5 – avail. at the door, on smarttix.com, or by calling 212-868-4444
September 9th is our season premiere – Francisco Guglioni (yours truly) welcomes the comedic talents of:
PLUS, the regulars. If you still aren’t familiar with the talented cast of misfits that make me look good every week:
Jonny Fido as stage manager Tad Hamsmith!
Jamie Greenberg as gameshow host Hosty Hosterson!
and Michael Reisman as himself! But with a cool invention!
AND music from The Spicy Meat Brothers! Who are:
and Randy Soare!
Yep, it’s a freakin’ all-star lineup folks. Seeya there! HEY BEACON-FACE! MY MOJITOHOHOHOHOHOHO!!!!!!!!!!