Brain Wreck

The millions of you who faithfully follow this blog, (ahem), should by now be familiar with my neighbor, Madame Tammy Dawn. She is the person who conducts all the seances that put me in touch with famous deceased people who wish to be guest bloggers. Tammy Dawn is also the neighborhood taste-tester for various brands of scotch, bourbon, gin, and other adult beverages. To her credit, not one person in this neighborhood has died from poisoned alcohol, although a few have died from alcohol poisoning. Yes, Virginia, there is a difference as well as a bit of irony there. I believe that the main causes of death around here are mostly cirrhosis, serial STDs, and domestic murder. The domestic murder stat is usually closely associated with cirrhosis and/or serial STDs. The Dalai Lama does point out that all things in this world are related. ¹

Anyway, Tammy Dawn has been repeatedly visited by some guy from Hoboken, New Jersey, requesting to write something or other on this blog. Well, at first, he politely requested. After a while he just got downright nasty about the whole thing. This guy’s name is Sinatra. He claims that he used to be a big deal singer, movie star, and famous Casanova. Well, I know about Giacomo Girolamo Casanova, and my crack research team, (Floyd the Barber and Otis Campbell), has discovered that Mr. Sinatra’s excessive intake of alcohol and cigarettes probably rendered him impotent by age 40 or thereabouts, so the whole Casanova thing is disputed if not totally disproved by us. Of course, some of the team’s conclusions are more-or-less based on personal experience. Discretion prohibits me from pointing any fingers, but you know who. As for the singing and movie star stuff, who knows? A lot of dead people make outrageous claims like this. Tammy Dawn has heard from a lot of folks over the years who claim that they were big shots in their earthly life. I mean who the hell are these guys? She has spoken to people with names like Cleopatra, Millard Fillmore, Peter the Great and Alexander the Great (who are either porn stars or twins), Rodney Dangerfield, Attila the Hun (must have been a sweet guy), Siddhartha Gautama, Charo, Xavier Cougat, Cab Calloway, John Holmes, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Elmo Lincoln, Hunter S. Thompson, Ivana Trump and a whole bunch of others. Has anybody ever heard of any of these people? You see what I’m saying. Anyway, this guy Frank, whose name I first made out to be Franken Snotler, claims to be all mobbed up, and he threatened to have my legs broken if I didn’t let him write his Christmas story. All I can say about that is, as a life-long devoutly practicing coward, I immediately caved and agreed to all terms. So, here is his heart-warming and wonderful Christmas story.

Egrets-I’ve Had A Few by F.A. Sinatra

Yeah, I used to keep a whole flock of ’em, Egrets I’m talking’ about, out at the Palm Springs pad. Ava Gardner talked me into it. That broad could talk anybody into doing anything. Well, it wasn’t just talking. She did have certain other powers of persuasion, if you get my drift. I mean, like, every year we used to have a cool swinging Christmas bash, and every year the Rat Pack and Brando and Cary Grant and Zsa Zsa and the Kennedy clan and Marilyn Monroe and Sophia Loren and everybody who was anybody showed up if they knew what was good for them. I guess the most famous of all the cats who showed up every year was Pope Pius XII. Just between you and me I think he just showed up because he really liked broads and booze, and he also liked to watch Bing Crosby on TV doing that White Christmas crap they showed every year. The funny thing is that Pius thought he was a better singer than Crosby, and I thought it wouldn’t take much effort to be better than Crosby. So, every year after the White Christmas crap Ava would talk him into singing his own original Christmas song and, believe me, it didn’t take much persuasion. Anyway, the song went like this.

Santa did a drive-by on my poor neighbor Bob
All the elves were carrying Uzis and they wasted that poor slob
Then all of the Reindeer left some presents on Bob’s lawn
Oh, it was a stinking mess come early Christmas morn
Then Santa ate the strudel I left under the Christmas tree
And then he slapped my mom around and busted our TV.

And then he would break down and start bawling like a baby. Holy Geez!! Like from Looney Tunes world, know what I mean? In the first place he was born about the same time as the War of 1812. Where was the TV? What Kind of crap is that? Also, the song had no pizzazz. Like, the ring-a-ding factor was missing in action. Hey, I know it’s the Pope. I’m not expecting Ella Fitzgerald, but you’d think that the Pope would give a little bit better performance. I mean he didn’t have enough rhythm to pleasure himself, and he couldn’t carry a tune in a moving van. Anyway, Ava would always come up after the song and give him a little smooch and the old man would get such a Papal Boner, which we called a Christmas visit from Mr. Stiffy, that he couldn’t stand up for the rest of the night. That’s why when we all retired to the dining room for roasted Egrets, the Pope would just stay right in his easy chair watching Bing Crosby on the tube and smiling like he just cut a 5-pound block of cheese. Dean Martin thought the old guy was horny as a goat, but hey, nobody talks about His Holiness like that around me. Just ask that cueball from Saturday Night Live. You remember her? Snothead O’Connor. I could have had her legs busted…with the blessing of the church. Oh well. When opportunity knocks…

Egrets…I’ve had a few…. but then again…. too few to mention
With beans….and a couple of beers….
Then some Egret farts….with lots of stenchin’
I hike….my leg and blow….
A nice high cheek…. not in a shy way
Oh no! I’ve crapped my pants…
Right by the Steinway.
Then by the stairway
And out on the driveway.

I Left My Harp in Sam Frank’s Disco—Archangel Leon

I Left My Part in a Can of Crisco—Tony Bennett

I Left a Fart in Tony’s Can of Crisco—Frank Sinatra

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO MOST OF YOU! HAPPY SATURNALIA TO THE REST OF YOU!

On behalf of Francis Albert Sinatra, I wish to apologize to all those of the Catholic faith who may have been offended by Mr. Sinatra’s comments about Pope Pius XII. By most accounts, Pius XII was a pretty decent guy who happened to own complete collections of the recordings of Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Slim Whitman, Spike Jones, and Yodelin’ Joe Sockolove. Happy New Year!

¹ Lama, Dalai, The Art of Crappiness-Seven Steps to Stupidity. (Tibetan Titillating Tumescence Publishing and Fried Chicken, 1954)