It’s not even the dog days of August yet and the headlines have already gone to the doggie in the window.
Last week the papers were full of divorce, infidelity and castration — just the tip of the Beggin' Strips.
The Brinkley-Cooks have severed the knot. Thanks to Cook’s turbid fascinations with younger women — he’s lost in porn, she’s just an uptown girl — their marriage of ten years ended. During the three-ring circus, the court had Christie and Peter’s heads examined, which led the psychiatrist (and headlines) to declare that they both should seek professional help.
I say give the kids to ex-husband Billy Joel. They may be right, he may be crazy, but it just might be a lunatic they’re looking for.
Madonna (or should we say Esther) has taken Kabbala to new lows. The bleached-blonde’s blond ambition has led A-Rod, like a prayer, to Kabbala, a mystical form of Judaism, leaving his wife, C-Rod, on the borderline and at the wrong end of the bat. Poor Guy Ritchie, who thanked his lucky stars when he married the material girl, living on la Isla Bonita, is sadly, in the end, immaterial.
The Rev. Jesse Jackson threatened to un-bolt Obama’s nuts, (off the record of course) for talking down to African Americans. I’d like to geld him myself, just for talking. The Rev thought the mic was off. Gee — Rev. Jesse has a problem with his political correctness during interviews, don’t he? The last time he thought he was off the record he called New York Hymie Town. (It is one helluva town.) We ask ourselves — is the Rev. Jesse really able to cast his rolling stones when it comes to Barack’s? And what about the Rev. Al Sharpton? He’s been casting his own stones at the Rev. Jesse. When did he move out of his glass house?
Just a regular week in the USA. But on a high note (they must be, because you can’t make this stuff up), a Congressman from who-knows-where has just sponsored a bill that the House of Representatives (a.k.a. the house of the rising costs) passed, in which monies are to be appropriated to NASA so that the space agency can develop a plan. Get this: it's a plan to track a giant asteroid, “Apophis,” that could possibly crash into Earth in the year 2029, when we’re still all barely alive. Why, you may ask, track it and not destroy it? Paranoia is destroyer. So that NASA can give us a warning of its approach. What’s a warning gonna do? It’s not like we can pack up our troubles in our old kit bag and smile, smile, smile. I can just see it now: “Oh gee the asteroid is coming, let’s pack up the kids, hon, leave on a jet plane, and head on over to Antares until the dust clears.”
Besides, the gas would be too much — and nobody outside of a small circle of friends would be up for that long, strange trip.
Hey, here’s a thought: let’s sponsor a bill to appropriate monies to develop a way to drill for our own oil, in our own country to give jobs to our own people. Then we can have enough fuel to fly everyone to the moon to play among the stars, and see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars. In other words, let’s be free of the Middle East and their chokehold on our gas pumps.
Not for nuthin, but it’s still rock and roll to me.
Test your knowledge of pop in this homage to pop culture. How many references can you find? Here’s a hint: It’s over ten. The reader that gets the most gets a shout out in next week’s column
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