The Crown Prince of Jerkdom

It's me, the crown prince of jerkdom!

Finally, I'm royalty!

Not too long ago, my wife was sleeping in incredibly late.

I went to roust her and she said--very groggily--"I keep waking up to a jerk."

Doh!

I said, "Well, I know I'm not Mr. Wonderful 24-7, but I generally am 23-7. Hmmph. You keep waking up to a jerk, indeed."

As she stared at me, waiting for wakefulness to spark, she finally said, "No, that's not what I said!"

(It's not the first time I've been called a jerk before.) "Well, what did you say?"

"I said, 'I keep waking up with a jerk.'"

Sooooo many crickets. Finally, I asked, "How is that any better?"

"You know...restlessness. I kept jerking my leg." Seeing as how I still didn't get it, she demonstrated a leg jerk.

"Ooooooooooohhhhhhh," I said.

Later the same day, she requested my aid in lifting a printer out of a box. With the job completed, she said, "I'm done with you now."

Stunned, I asked, "Is it because I'm a jerk?"

I tell you I get no respect.

Bada-boom!

While we're on the topic of really dumb comedy, nobody's dumber at comedy than lackluster stand-up comedian, Charlie Broadmoor (well, except for maybe me since I created him). Things go from crappy to sucktacular in a very quick and splatacular manner for poor Charlie when he accidentally heckles a demon during one of his routines. It's Demon with a Comb-Over available here!

 

Chevy Chase Owes Me

The way I see it Chevy Chase owes me. In fact, he probably owes a lotta people. I mean he's never hurt me, not personally.

No, scratch that! He has hurt me personally and cost me financially.

Let's go ahead and jump into the Way-Back Machine for some perspective and background, shall we?

Our first stop is October 11, 1975, a Saturday night. Being unpopular as a kid meant I spent a LOT of time visiting with my one true faithful friend, the TV. I just left the TV on the NBC affiliate and let it ride (remember, this is back in the days of three--count 'em--three(!) TV stations, possibly four if the weather cooperated). Suddenly, a show came on that was unlike anything I'd ever witnessed before. There was a whole new and fresh vibe, a young person's comedy full of sarcasm and underlying anger. They showed commercials that had me stumped whether they were real or not. No canned laughter (which I'm still stunned that several shows still use today; Hello, CBS!). And best of all, they sometimes broke through the fourth wall to address that they were in a skit, something Green Acres would never attempt.

Hello, comedy that spoke to me; Goodbye, Hee-Haw and all the old fogey comedy it represented! I worshiped at the altar of Saturday Night Live.

And anchoring it all was a strangely smart alecky, deadpan, lanky comedian named Chevy Chase.

I was all in.

Well, Chase didn't last long on Saturday Night Live. At the beginning of the second season, he bolted for Ginormous-Mega-Movie-Super-Stardom, aka, "Big Head Syndrome." The writing was on the wall. If only my young naive self had been aware enough to read it and pay heed.

I championed Chase. No matter where he went, I followed. I'd brag to family and school acquaintances that he was the funniest guy working in entertainment and to catch his newest vehicle. Without seeing it first, that's how much I believed in him.

In 1977, he spat up a TV special. It guest-starred Tim Conway and Dr. Joyce Brothers. I thought, "Wait a minute...what happened to the new-fangled cutting edge satire? These are...my grandma's guest stars!" Chevy made "funny faces" while wearing mime make-up and sticking his tongue out. Ha ha. It took him all of a year to sell out to The Man. Mortified, the next day I made the rounds apologizing to everyone to whom I recommended this epic disaster.

But I thought it was a one off! A bad day for Chevy! Undeterred, I continued to follow his career.

First we had Foul Play, a "rom com" with Goldie Hawn. While this is considered to be one of his "better" movies, I felt ripped off and left with a feeling of "meh-ness." Chase wasn't even acting, just coasting at best.

A year or so later, I found out he was starring in Oh, Heavenly Dog. Alongside "Benji (Now, again, for you whippersnappers, Benji was a dog that starred in several family films. Don't ask me why.)" But I thought, surely he'll make it into a subversive satire. Again, I dragged a buddy off to the theater. It was a short-lived friendship.

Now I hear some of you shouting, "Hey, what about National Lampoon's Vacation, Caddyshack, and Fletch?" Well...Vacation has some good stuff in it, but is uneven; Caddyshack was woefully stupid and childish (my date liked it if that tells you anything about her), and Fletch was...insufferable. Kinda like how I was beginning to feel about Chevy Chase.

I mean, really, can one base a movie career on smirking, shameless mugging and smarminess?

Yet, call me a half-glass full kinda guy, I followed Chevy through Under the Rainbow (Fun fact! The diminutive co-stars in this rotten comedy about the making of Wizard of Oz had a non-stop Bacchanalian orgy going on behind the scenes! The more you know!), Modern Problems (Not a single laugh to be grasped), Deal of the Century (No, God, why me?), European Vacation (Wake me when it's over!), Spies Like Us (THIS is a movie?), and the list goes on and on.

I drew the line at Follow That Bird, the heartwarming tale of a giant, intellectually-challenged, baby-man-bird getting lost far from home.

Enough was enough. I'd thrown down a small fortune banking on Chase's "talents" at the box office, lost many friends over the cinematic atrocities I'd dragged them to, and had many, many one-date-onlies due to his crimes against moviedom.

He owes me. Big time.

But it doesn't stop with me. Apparently, Chase is quite the jackass, alienating coworkers left and right. That's why they killed him off on the TV show, Community. He'd publicly bashed the show, saying he didn't think it was funny. This coming from the man who thinks mugging and buck teeth are a laugh riot.

In a recent interview, Chase said "I don't give a crap about how I've acted on shows. I am who I am."

There you have it in a nutshell. As I grew up suffering through Chase's "output," it slowly dawned on me that he didn't "give a crap" about what he churned out, thinking so little of his audience that he'd put out anything for a buck. 

I guess there's kinda a happy ending. Because of his jackass reputation, Chase went into straight-to-video pablum (the "Eric Roberts of Comedy") to hardly finding any work.

He still owes me. Anyone else? How about a class action suit?

While we're on the topic of "comedy" and substandard practitioners of the genre, have you heard the one about middling (at best) stand-up comic, Charlie Broadmoor, and how he displayed the poor judgement to heckle a demon in his audience? No? Well, here's your chance! Demon With a Comb-Over available here!

 

The Legend of the Orange Krampus

We've all read the folklore tales of Europe's anti-Santa Claus, Krampus, right? Okay, okay, we've all seen the movie. Krampus is the legendary, terrifying demon-looking guy who used to collect naughty children and throw them into his sack around the holidays.

Well, for your reading pleasure (or nightmares), I've uncovered a true Krampus residing in the United States! And not only does he operate year round, he tortures predominantly good children, kissing them into dreadful nightmares! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you...Trumpus.

Just look at him. Brrrrrr. I'm so glad my daughter's fully grown and won't be subject to the terrifying grab and mangle, shock 'n awe tactics it reserves for small children. I mean, Trumpus would never think of grabbing, mauling or assaulting grown women, right?

Here, let's gander at some of the photographic evidence I've found:

Trumpus scared this poor child so much, her hair stood on end.

Here he can be seen slobbering all over another frightened victim. I don't blame her. Witness Trumpus' bizarre kissing method. It's like two cartoon fish or those stupid Precious Moments children figurines where they're bent at the waste, lips extended. Which is all the more strange as I've read that Trumpus is a germaphobe. And there's something called a pandemic going on right now. Maybe you've heard. Regardless, I pity the child as who knows where Trumpus' lips have been (something about a porn star...)

But Trumpus is NOT a sexist! Here he's shown ready to throw a little boy into his sack. For you see, Trumpus is a one hundred percent heterosexual demon, damn skippy! No kisses for that late, little guy, no sir!

Trumpus had a particularly bad time with twins, not his idea of a walk in the park. While he tried to eat one, the other fought back. He's more used to mauling one-on-one.

Another victim being led to the frying pan. Is there no end to Trumpus' foul reign of terror? Is there a way we can put a stop to this vile creature of orange? Yes, says I! I've read he's particularly vulnerable this upcoming November.

Speaking of demons with comb-overs, on a completely unrelated topic, have you read my book, um, entitled...Demon with a Comb-Over? No. Plenty of reading time until November. 

 
 

Brownies: The Gateway Food To Destruction

Everyone knows that one puff of a marijuana reefer leads directly to heroin addiction. (I think Trump said that, so, of course, I believe it.)

 

But what about that confectionery catastrophe, that most dangerous of desserts, the sultan of sugar, the brownie? The truth about this devious dessert, sadly, is swept under the rugs like a deep dark family secret everyone is too afraid to shine a light on.

Until now. In my ongoing quest for journalistic judiciousness, I'm knocking down the doors, and exposing the hidden dangers of...the brownie.

First things first, let's ponder the name: the brownie. Hmmm. Wikipedia sheds some very interesting facts about the brownie. It's widely known to be a supernatural entity, a nocturnal spirit creature who pretends to do good things at night, such as clean your house, only to pull ghastly pranks when least expected. I know I'm not alone in receiving a mysterious "Wet Willie" in the middle of the night. This smacks of satanism.

Furthermore, these hideous, foul creatures have insinuated themselves into an insidious cult that goes by the name, "Brownies." On the outside, the members look like clean-cut, wholesome, sweet and innocent young girl scouts (grades 2-3), but don't be fooled by their appearance.

Because something smells fishy. What is the "Brownies'" primary function? Why to spread sugar and diabetes and disease throughout the lands, the goal being the fattening of America, making us ripe for the forthcoming, inevitable Satanic slaughter.

Think I'm kidding?  I have first-hand knowledge of the dangers of The Brownie.

During the (un)Great Quarantine of 2020, the brownie took hold of our lives here in Kansas. I'd like to blame my wife, I'll settle for a mutual blaming, but honestly? It's the Brownie's fault and the powers that lie in it's kitchen of killing grounds.

Early on in our quarantine, my wife said all she felt like doing is baking. I pondered that while she went upstairs to work. I pondered some more until I was salivating. Slowly--as if in a trance--I made my way downstairs to the food pantry, where I knew a brownie mix awaited. My fingers inched closer to the door. I hesitated, then pulled it open with a creak. As if being pushed toward me, the brownie mix box plopped to the floor. With trembling hands, I picked it up. Then raised it over my head just as Simba had done in The Lion King. And somewhere--far away, yet everywhere at once--I heard a deep, Barry-White-deep, voice laughing.

Now, I've never made brownies. Never had a desire to. Didn't even think they were that good. But I baked. I baked until sweat broke across my brow. I went upstairs to share the news with my wife.

She said, "I don't know whether to be pissed off at you or to kiss you."

The vile nature of the brownie.

Sure, the pecans I found and put in the batch were rancid, but it didn't stop us. On the contrary. Brownies became nearly an every day occurrence in our household.

It took its toll. My clothes started shrinking (the work of supernatural brownie pranksters, no doubt). My gut grew to kangaroo-pouch proportions (birthing Eeeevilllll). And we didn't stop. We couldn't stop.

Until, one night when I awoke from a nightmare. I had started eating entire fried chickens, bricks of pre-fab cheese, and watermelons. And that was just a snack!

Things had to change.

Now, we're on a diet. It's hard. The temptation's there. But...I've already lost 15 pounds, so it's working. But I still think of those sweet, sweet bricks of sugary goodness and melty deliciousness...and...and... NO! Satan, get behind me with those brownies!

This is a cautionary tale, folks. Please heed it. And remember, the next time you go to a grocery store and see "Brownies" pandering their demonic delights, whip out your crucifixes and lay some goodness smack on them. People will applaud you. Trust me.

Speaking of Satan, why not give my book, Demon with a Comb-Over a shot? It, too, is a manifesto of goodness versus evil. Who wins? I'm not telling, you'll have to read the book. It's a delightful romp about a crappy stand-up comedian who accidentally pisses off a demon in the audience. Clean-cut fun for the entire family!

Energy-Devouring, Soul-Sucking Convenience Store Employee

Demons are everywhere, it's a known fact.

During a recent weekend, my daughter and I desperately needed caffeine.

"Let's go to Casey's," I said. "It's closest."

"No! We can't go there, Dad! We can't! Don't make me!" My daughter looked horrified, wringing her hands in ghastly anticipation.

"Why not?"

"Because, Chelsea will be working there! Ugh! She's the worst!"

I started thinking about it. Just how bad can a convenience store employee be? What, pray tell, could she have possibly done to my daughter to make her react in such a violent manner? Did they get in a tussle over by the mocha machine?

"Whatever, Sarah," I said. "She can't be that bad."

"Noooo! She is! UGH! She's...she's a soul-sucking demon who'll try and start a long and boring conversation with you and keep you there forever! Every time I go in there, she just feeds off my energy and drains me! Chelsea's the worst! UGH!"

Laughing my arse off, I really, really had to go see what a convenience store, soul-sucking, energy-devouring demon looked like. Sadly, Chelsea wasn't working. But my demon-hunting days aren't over until I finally track down the satanic Chelsea. And my daughter still refuses to set foot into the shop even though it could save her a five minute drive to the next caffeine depot.

Demons are everywhere, it seems, even in comedy clubs. Don't believe me? Check out Demon with a Comb-Over (and no, I'm not talking about Donald Trump, although, actually I do kinda wonder if he's a demon, too).