All dressed up like a well-kept grave

Alcohol never seems funnier than when you are having absolutely nothing to do with it. (Yes, this is one of those posts.)

In our weekly bout of thrifting we found a hilarious book of scenes and lines from W.C. Fields movies. Now, we've never even seen a W.C. Fields movie, although we hear the Bank Dick is a roarer. But cultural syntax can tell us basically what they are all about. W.C. is an unrepentant and drunken fool with a big, red nose who gets into adventures with damsels (who he loves), children (who he loathes) and money (which he can't keep). For the next few posts, the titles will probably be lines from W.C. Fields flicks, in honor of this amazing book. You know, not to be all next level bragging like Kanye, but our post titles are almost always song lyrics, and they are almost always some kind of secret meta-code as to what is going on in our life. We could point to examples of our lyric/real-life synchronicity genius, but that would void out all the fun.

We might have a contest, though, in the future, where if you can guess the song and artist the lyric is from before anyone else, we might give you a prize. Like our good luck yellow rubber bouncy ball, or a CD by Sabalon Glitz or a Don Mattingly baseball card or an Early Man jet-black condom courtesy of our friends at Matador Records. You know, something tacky and very OGFP. Does this prospect interest you?

So, it's Friday night, trad. going out time. What are you up to? Why don't you give us a holler every now and again, assfact? Obviously we aren't doing a whole lot ourselves, sitting here pecking away about W.C. and jet-black man sheaths. Do you know how pathetic it feels to ask your blog friends to call you to hang out because your social skills have atrophied to the point where picking up the phone is like trying to earn the President's Physical Fitness Challenge patch? We need to get off the reservation. Maybe we'll go to the Bottle for Psychedelic Steve's Plastic Crimewave or check Beau spinning at Tumans. We know he'll play some Italo-horror movie soundtrack music that will make our little square buttocks twitch. Bye.




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