* * * * *
Dr. Strangelove: The Notorious Laura Schlessinger
by Xanadu Xero
Of course I had to see Dr. Laura’s naked pictures the micro-trice they hit the Net.
I tore over to my friend Master Geek Zack’s sty, I mean apartment. Zack’s appetite for poor taste exceeds mine, a fair feat. I was still recovering from our last playdate, a mind-meld over an Icelandic website starring elderly nuns, a crucifix, vegetables and farm fauna.
I remember kicking through take-out remains as I surged to Zack’s computer. Some porn was already on there, its caliber matching his housekeeping skills. An aging cheerleader type was aerating the pink on a white shag carpet by an unmade bed.
“Ugh,” I said. “You’ve got problems, dude. Where’s Dr. Laura?”
“That is Dr. Laura.”
Zack clicked through the whole, um, spread, guffawing along the way. I was, truly, nonplussed. I had expected a midnight cable kind of thing — chiaroscuro silhouettes by gauzy curtains, come-hither smiles, legs coyly draped.
Instead, I saw Hoochie Mama in gruesome prison yard light, flaming the goods. If she wasn’t loaded, I run Baptist bake sales.
And, on a personal note, I hope that somewhere in the subsequent years, Dr. Schlessinger, half Italian, has embraced the bikini wax.
My relationship with Laura has been complex. In days of old I had to drive a lot, and I’d flip between her show and Dr. Toni Grant’s. Dr. Toni was another radio shrink who had a sexy voice and did cool stuff like suggest bored couples take up tantra. Grant is actually a clinical psychologist, while Schlessinger’s PhD is in… physiology.
That means frick-all in/of itself as some of the world’s most thorough dopes have big degrees in their ‘field’ — and Laura’s no dope. In point of fact, it is her brave, incisive mind, coupled with its weirdo turns, its bait-and-switch, that intrigues me.
No one is better than Dr. Laura at swatting mosquitoes of self-indulgence, our country’s scourge. I feel the thrill of hockey fans at a brawl when she says things like, “You don’t have a drinking problem… you have a character problem.” I love to hear her dismember deadbeat dads, ‘Christians’ sliming in the name of God, whiners playing ‘victim.’ When she booms, “Its none of your business,” to snooty numbnuts, happy chills trill down my spine.
Yet, like another doctor — Hannibal Lecter — she can turn on a dime.
“No. DON’T get your nose fixed.” I remember her browbeating a sad girl who clearly had a mega-honker. “God gave you that nose. Wear it with pride.” Gosh, did God turn Laura’s hair blonde? Powder her lids with Fawn Taupe? Does He fly her to work? Did He tie her tubes so that she could enjoy, pregnancy free, her vast knowledge of physiology? Did he then untie them so that she could make The Kid who’s Mom she so fervently is?
Sometimes, when Dr. Laura is in what I call ‘Mood Disorder Mode,’ I crave a Vicodin. I’ve got to station-bail, anywhere, even into the flabby arms of NPR. She can get like a tweaked-out gang banger mid-binge. Even though Dr. L ‘devotes her life’ to the ‘welfare of children,’ woe betide the kid who gets on her air in this head space.
“My mommy and daddy got divorced and my mommy moved away and now I don’t see her anymore and I miss her,” says some small, scared child. I’ve heard this, in myriad variations, a zillion times.
“Well, that’s what happens when people don’t honor the covenant of marriage” Dr. Laura will bark. Now there’s a helpful comment. “Call your mom and tell her how you feel.” Why of course! Something easy for an eight year old to do, and sure to bring results!
Another five star M.D.M. fave is The Meek Broad Sex Call. A young matron, audibly trembling, stammers something like, “I… I just never want to have sex with my husband...”
Something snaps in Dr. L. She amps up to Feral. Her voice dilates slowly, eventually choking the stratosphere.
“Well, dear, he doesn’t want to take out the garbage, but he does it, right?? You have a WIFELY DUTY! DON’T YOU LIKE TO HAVE AN ORGASM???
Earth to Dr. Laura: If a woman never wants to have sex, she can’t have an orgasm. And no doubt she’s married to #1 Coors fan, Minute Man Mike.
When Dr. L called gay people “a biological mistake,” I didn’t have a cow. She’s as entitled (under our battered first amendment) to spout her creed just like Howard Stern. One, allegedly, can use one’s brain to consider the source. It’s the death of independent thought that’s the problem, not what one highly strung Piece of Work says.
More witless is what that Piece of Work does.
Laura gets all unctuous when she talks about (trumpets, please) the Dr. Laura Foundation. The Foundation’s purpose is to provide what she calls ‘My Stuff’ bags, with teddy bears, blankies, etc. for ‘abused and neglected children’ who have been taken from bad homes, to be put into worse, by Child Protective Services.
A nice cause. Not on par with finding loving parents for all the abused, neglected and abandoned children from women she insists made the “right moral choice” not to abort… but nice.
The maggoty truth, however, is that despite the grandiose name, the Dr. Laura Foundation is not funded by Dr. Laura. Ms. On High pickpockets the dough from her badgered listeners — mostly exhausted underdogs who slave to stay middle class.
Schlessinger is worth at least a hundred million. She laments that while the Foundation provided 50,000 bags in 2003, “I’m sad to tell you that we’ve only begun to scratch the surface of need… 300,000 children must be rescued from their homes each year.”
Well Jesus H., lady, sell those planet size diamonds you wear — thanks to your fortune built from others’ pain — and you can ‘My Stuff’ all twelve fucking dimensions!
Laura hates ‘feminism’ but by 99 percent of its varied definitions she’s the Grand Lodge Poobah, for better and worse. She is independent and unstoppable. She lives life on her own high testosterone terms. While she was out slaying dragons and dragging them home, her milder hubby watched The Kid, who has her last name, not his.
She imposes a quirky, despotic, agenda-laden template on others’ minds, while accusing ‘feminists’ of doing the same.
When Dr. Laura became an Orthodox Jew, listeners had to endure perpetual ‘kosher’ homilies, oft times with Catskills accent. Since she abandoned Hebedom (I’m Hebeish; relax) for sailboat racing we must now sustain the slaps of life/boat metaphors. Oy vey.
Which reminds me: Someone might mention to Laura that her fans, scrambling to pay rent, don’t all appreciate the sailboat racing updates. Most don’t get down to their yachts that often.
In the end, however, I must belaud Dr. Laura Schlessinger. Her greatest job, motherhood, has been a raving success.
Deryk Schlessinger, by all accounts a lovely guy, just dropped out of college and is opening a hookah bar in Hillsdale, Michigan, far away from L.A., its darkness, and Mom.
* * * * *
Addendum: Alas, young Deryk never opened that bar but, infected with a virulent strain of Stockholm Syndrome, doubled back into the reedy coils of Mama's clutch to be pitched, at warp speed, into the Army. He now 'serves his country', and her ego, as a Special Forces target - I mean 'paratrooper' in Iraq.
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Friday, March 21, 2008
Monday, December 3, 2007
Funny Strange, Or Funny 'Ha-Ha?' One Stand-Up Comedy Class
* * * * *
Funny Strange, Or Funny 'Ha-Ha?' One Stand-Up Comedy Class
By Xanadu Xero
It looked like an AA meeting, but without the Higher Power. It was a swamp of white men with poor hygiene and me, as I had so sagely divined.
A hirsute butt crack, long as the Nile, squinted my way through a folding chair. Third-billed sitcom ‘guest star’ types bragged about their 8x10s up at a carwash. A bony old rooster in an ascot trilled “Aye ham Bel-jeen, nut French!” An egg shaped goon sporting head-to-toe orange babbled like a talking traffic cone. A Jack Black doppelganger sang ‘Hey Ya’ while Afro-picking his weed-like toupee. A fallen Bar Mitzvah boy nattered, spitting, “I drive a limo and WHOOO-boy I’ve seen a lot of blow-jobs!”
I was, needless to say, at a Stand-Up Comedy seminar. I’ll bet a lot of Unemployment checks were gouged to pay this tab.
The general ADHD deportment of these larval superstars was amped by the entrance of our two instructors, Dan and Dan. This was depressing because the Dans were titanically younger than most of the crowd who pranced to impress them.
They informed us, chop-chop, that they had Big Managers cookin’ Big Deals and were, as we speak, skidding on oil to the Big Time. Actually, just one Dan did; we’ll call him
Demonic Dan. I’m not sure that he’s actually demonic, but what he represented, to me, is. Decent Dan, a darling geek, just sputtered info when asked.
Demonic Dan is blandly good-looking with a snaky smile. He’d be top ten in a Masonic draft — what might be called a ‘Winner’. You just know he’s going to Make It — no matter what. He wields entitlement like Kung Fu nunchucks, as if ‘tis heaven’s will. The ‘my dad’s in corporate law’ vibe spurts from his pores. He can simultaneously command and patronize a crowd, cocksure he’s a champ. He tours. He’ll be hosting a show for MTV. He has a big balla web$ite with streaming video. He has everything but… talent.
Au contraire — like an old movie plot — shy, nerdy Decent Dan really is funny. Smart funny. His website is just a dorky photo. Demonic D. says that they often perform together “because we play off each other well, we’re such opposites.” The real reason, I submit, is that Demonic D. wants to hitch to Decent D.’s star, in case he gets famous first. I don’t think he needs to fret, though — as I said, Decent Dan is smart.
We learned (for fifty bucks) that clubs like The Comedy Store and the Ha Ha (Ugh) Café have open mic nights. That you will endure two years of silence and boos before you “destroy ‘em!” and “kill ‘em!” which, relatively speaking, might mean that some drunks in the audience cough.
At that point you invite your Mom and best friend from first grade to “give their opinion.” Gosh, I wonder what they’ll say.
Also, when you’re on the road, you have to stay in bad hotels. And Carrot Top makes ten million a year, which reminded me, with anguish, that our culture’s in a toilet that’s already been flushed.
“Phyllis Dill-eer and Rod-nee Dangerfield — they are not very young, yes?” the old Belgian guy chimed out. “You see, there iss no age limit to have fun!” The guy beside me hissed and clicked his pen.
“I know how college works,” added the orange traffic cone. “I know all the new majors, like Afro Studies and that woman shit. Does that compensate for being old?”
“Will bodybuilding negatively affect your career?” asked Herr Butt Crack who, at this point, should feel free to dwell on other things. “I mean, did it hurt Joe Piscopo?”
After a break, the Dans performed a bit of their routines. Demonic Dan’s ventured bravely into the uncharted waters of horniness and masturbation.
The bulk of Part Two was a ‘workshop.’ Everyone but me had a prepared joke to perform. As I told Demonic Dan that I’d be sitting this out, he looked past my shoulder in true Hollywood style.
Hello, ladies and germs! My name is Xanadu Xero — how y’all doing tonight? Anyone here from Chicago? I just flew in from Chicago and boy, are my arms tired! Hear about the new corduroy pillows? They’re making headlines! I now have the honor of presenting to you the comedy stylings of the cream of the seminar ‘workshop,’ those inimitable Tinsel Townies - the Pouting White Men!
Hissing Pen Clicker: “What are steroids for fags called? Assteroids.”
Butt Crack: “I called my brother and said, ‘I’ve got some good news and some bad news. The good news is that my cock is huge, but the bad news is that Mom died.”
Traffic Cone: “Anyone here from the INS? Oh, that’s okay, I’m legal.”
Old Belgian Guy: “I do not like a woman with breasts smaller than my nuts.”
Weedy Toupee: “Confucius say if you drop watch in toilet you have shitty time.”
Bar Mitzvah Boy: “I was driving cross-country recently and I felt the urge so I pulled out my dick and got caught by the toll booth collector. She said it wasn’t a good thing. Thank you.”
Did anyone, uh, get that last one?
“Whenever I see stand-up, I feel like ‘The King Who Couldn’t Laugh’” said my boyfriend, Aap. “There used to be five good comics, now there are five million who suck. The bar’s gotten so low it’s subterranean.”
Aap is flammable on this subject. He stood up and started to pace. “People go to these clubs because they don’t have a damn thing to say to each other. Americans will laugh at anything. They’re like pissing dogs. They’re unable to wait for anything, they cannot tolerate suspense.”
My confrere Silver threw her quarter into the well. “The best comedy comes from a dark place and is supposed to fuck with your perceptions.” Her eyes went all steely, contrasting with her fluffy hair. “Institutionalized dullness has choked the life from what is supposed to be a subversive art form. Give me ‘American Chopper’ any day if the alternative is some asexual ‘regular guy’ acting all befuddled’n’hostile in the presence of women and groceries.”
“Girls all say that they want guys with a sense of humor,” responded Aap. “And that’s what they get with these ‘comedians’ — a sense of humor. At best they can sense it. Perhaps.”
Silver continued, spirit seized: “The entertainment business is owned by corporations. If the check signers don’t want the boat rocked, the boat rockers won’t get onboard, so we wind up with some jackass blathering about appliances, or his wiener. And people pay to hear this, and yuck it up, as civilization is crumbling around them.”
She paused. “Now that… is kind of funny.”
Funny Strange, Or Funny 'Ha-Ha?' One Stand-Up Comedy Class
By Xanadu Xero
It looked like an AA meeting, but without the Higher Power. It was a swamp of white men with poor hygiene and me, as I had so sagely divined.
A hirsute butt crack, long as the Nile, squinted my way through a folding chair. Third-billed sitcom ‘guest star’ types bragged about their 8x10s up at a carwash. A bony old rooster in an ascot trilled “Aye ham Bel-jeen, nut French!” An egg shaped goon sporting head-to-toe orange babbled like a talking traffic cone. A Jack Black doppelganger sang ‘Hey Ya’ while Afro-picking his weed-like toupee. A fallen Bar Mitzvah boy nattered, spitting, “I drive a limo and WHOOO-boy I’ve seen a lot of blow-jobs!”
I was, needless to say, at a Stand-Up Comedy seminar. I’ll bet a lot of Unemployment checks were gouged to pay this tab.
The general ADHD deportment of these larval superstars was amped by the entrance of our two instructors, Dan and Dan. This was depressing because the Dans were titanically younger than most of the crowd who pranced to impress them.
They informed us, chop-chop, that they had Big Managers cookin’ Big Deals and were, as we speak, skidding on oil to the Big Time. Actually, just one Dan did; we’ll call him
Demonic Dan. I’m not sure that he’s actually demonic, but what he represented, to me, is. Decent Dan, a darling geek, just sputtered info when asked.
Demonic Dan is blandly good-looking with a snaky smile. He’d be top ten in a Masonic draft — what might be called a ‘Winner’. You just know he’s going to Make It — no matter what. He wields entitlement like Kung Fu nunchucks, as if ‘tis heaven’s will. The ‘my dad’s in corporate law’ vibe spurts from his pores. He can simultaneously command and patronize a crowd, cocksure he’s a champ. He tours. He’ll be hosting a show for MTV. He has a big balla web$ite with streaming video. He has everything but… talent.
Au contraire — like an old movie plot — shy, nerdy Decent Dan really is funny. Smart funny. His website is just a dorky photo. Demonic D. says that they often perform together “because we play off each other well, we’re such opposites.” The real reason, I submit, is that Demonic D. wants to hitch to Decent D.’s star, in case he gets famous first. I don’t think he needs to fret, though — as I said, Decent Dan is smart.
We learned (for fifty bucks) that clubs like The Comedy Store and the Ha Ha (Ugh) Café have open mic nights. That you will endure two years of silence and boos before you “destroy ‘em!” and “kill ‘em!” which, relatively speaking, might mean that some drunks in the audience cough.
At that point you invite your Mom and best friend from first grade to “give their opinion.” Gosh, I wonder what they’ll say.
Also, when you’re on the road, you have to stay in bad hotels. And Carrot Top makes ten million a year, which reminded me, with anguish, that our culture’s in a toilet that’s already been flushed.
“Phyllis Dill-eer and Rod-nee Dangerfield — they are not very young, yes?” the old Belgian guy chimed out. “You see, there iss no age limit to have fun!” The guy beside me hissed and clicked his pen.
“I know how college works,” added the orange traffic cone. “I know all the new majors, like Afro Studies and that woman shit. Does that compensate for being old?”
“Will bodybuilding negatively affect your career?” asked Herr Butt Crack who, at this point, should feel free to dwell on other things. “I mean, did it hurt Joe Piscopo?”
After a break, the Dans performed a bit of their routines. Demonic Dan’s ventured bravely into the uncharted waters of horniness and masturbation.
The bulk of Part Two was a ‘workshop.’ Everyone but me had a prepared joke to perform. As I told Demonic Dan that I’d be sitting this out, he looked past my shoulder in true Hollywood style.
Hello, ladies and germs! My name is Xanadu Xero — how y’all doing tonight? Anyone here from Chicago? I just flew in from Chicago and boy, are my arms tired! Hear about the new corduroy pillows? They’re making headlines! I now have the honor of presenting to you the comedy stylings of the cream of the seminar ‘workshop,’ those inimitable Tinsel Townies - the Pouting White Men!
Hissing Pen Clicker: “What are steroids for fags called? Assteroids.”
Butt Crack: “I called my brother and said, ‘I’ve got some good news and some bad news. The good news is that my cock is huge, but the bad news is that Mom died.”
Traffic Cone: “Anyone here from the INS? Oh, that’s okay, I’m legal.”
Old Belgian Guy: “I do not like a woman with breasts smaller than my nuts.”
Weedy Toupee: “Confucius say if you drop watch in toilet you have shitty time.”
Bar Mitzvah Boy: “I was driving cross-country recently and I felt the urge so I pulled out my dick and got caught by the toll booth collector. She said it wasn’t a good thing. Thank you.”
Did anyone, uh, get that last one?
“Whenever I see stand-up, I feel like ‘The King Who Couldn’t Laugh’” said my boyfriend, Aap. “There used to be five good comics, now there are five million who suck. The bar’s gotten so low it’s subterranean.”
Aap is flammable on this subject. He stood up and started to pace. “People go to these clubs because they don’t have a damn thing to say to each other. Americans will laugh at anything. They’re like pissing dogs. They’re unable to wait for anything, they cannot tolerate suspense.”
My confrere Silver threw her quarter into the well. “The best comedy comes from a dark place and is supposed to fuck with your perceptions.” Her eyes went all steely, contrasting with her fluffy hair. “Institutionalized dullness has choked the life from what is supposed to be a subversive art form. Give me ‘American Chopper’ any day if the alternative is some asexual ‘regular guy’ acting all befuddled’n’hostile in the presence of women and groceries.”
“Girls all say that they want guys with a sense of humor,” responded Aap. “And that’s what they get with these ‘comedians’ — a sense of humor. At best they can sense it. Perhaps.”
Silver continued, spirit seized: “The entertainment business is owned by corporations. If the check signers don’t want the boat rocked, the boat rockers won’t get onboard, so we wind up with some jackass blathering about appliances, or his wiener. And people pay to hear this, and yuck it up, as civilization is crumbling around them.”
She paused. “Now that… is kind of funny.”
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