When I was embarking on my teenage years, I watched an episode of 'Happy Days' and it featured an eccentric alien named Mork from Ork. That alien earned his own television show, so well was the character received, and at one stage crossed back to Happy Days, and when Ritchie Cunningham asked who was the US president, Mork asked, 'Do you like peanuts?' Ritchie nodded in that goofy all-American Gee-Whiz-Mom-And-Apple-Pie patented look of his and confirmed that yes, he did rather like peanuts. 'Oh,' smiled Mork, 'then you'll love our Jimmy.'
One of my all time favourite movies in 'The World According To Garp', which despite Robin Williams' frenetic comedic reputation, shows his ability to play understated as a serious actor in a character juxtaposed to Glen Close's nonconformist mother Jenny Fields, and John Lithgow as the former tight end for the Philadelphia Eagles who underwent a sex change, Roberta Muldoon. I love this movie so much. I cry for Garp's young son (sorry about the spoiler), and wince at the notorious blowjob scene.
And like so many others, I am deeply saddened that the vile monster that is depression has claimed another victim. Fuck you so much, Depression. You do nothing good. You're menacing. You hang around like a bad smell. You hover. You block out the sun and the warmth. You've claimed another scalp for your lugubrious belt. Fuck off, why don't you? If you had to get another notch, could you have not gone after a complete arsewipe rather than somebody who brought laughter and joy?
How ironic that a man who brought so much happiness, had such little of his own.
And of course this morning I learned about the passing of Lauren Bacall. I can justify this; she was, after all, 89 years old. But what a beautiful dame she was, and with a speaking voice that could melt a polar cap. I had the enjoyment years ago of reading a letter Bogart had written to her in their earl courtship, when as a 45 year old man he had fallen in love with the 19 year old model. For all his tough guy persona, he had a beautifully poetic way with words. Or maybe it was just the love speaking. One of the irritating things of learning of Bacall's death, is having the syrupy Bertie Higgins song 'Key Largo' stuck in my head. Stewardess, barf bag, please!
Proud Mum Alert: last week my 10 year old complained about a kid, who although younger, is very menacing and put his hands around my son's throat last week. I told my son a rapier sharp wit will always be better than thuggery. Today he showed me a picture he drew. It's of one ugly muhfuh, let's put it that way. My son can draw. He took his sketch to this turd of a kid, and said, 'Hey, look in the mirror!', and held up the diabolic looking caricature, leaving one flabbergasted little bastard of a kid in his wake.
Before I sign off, did anyone else hear of the woman who complained of getting asked to leave a pizza restaurant in Texas because she - are you sitting down? Are you ready for this? - CHANGED A SHITTY NAPPY AT THE TABLE!!!! Truly, you idiot, what did you expect? It's a fucking restaurant. They have to adhere to hygiene obligations. And not having faecal matter and particles circulating in the air is one of those obligations. And dunno about you, but when I'm tucking into my vegorama on thin-and-crispy, the last thing I want to be exposed to is an unfolding, shit-filled nappy at the next table. Call me unadventurous, but it's just not my bag, okay?
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