Imitation is the Sincerest Form of Heartlessness

DATELINE: Tin Pan Alley

Ted Cruz is showing up on our look-a-like, separated at birth photos in the form of a question more than any presidential candidate deserves to be.

If he only had a heart, we feel compelled to intone upon the latest similarity between Cruz and pop culture. If this scares you, it’s probably because the Tin Woodman and Ted Cruz are not in parallel universes. Ted has no heart and no ethics, a double void that no wizard can fill.

Yes, we have been told Cruz resembles Joe McCarthy, sharing so much in common with politics, and we heard that he bears an uncanny appearance to Mr. Haney, from Green Acres. However, it is the shocking Doppleganger as the Tin Woodman in the Wizard of Oz that has set our squeaky wheel to turn in need of some oil, Texas Tea seed money.

Ted Cruz may be iconic in a frightening way because he is so cartoon-like in real life. Cruz sees people as brainless scarecrows.

At first we thought he needed a brain. But clearly that never stopped anyone from becoming president. We also thought he needed less courage, not more, to be lionized by the Emerald City billionaire club.

If Cruz ever becomes caught in downpour, he could freeze up on us at the moist inopportune time. Rusted stiff, only big oil money can loosen him up.

Jack Haley probably never expected to become immortalized by a presidential candidate 75 years after he hit the Yellow Brick Road as a replacement for Buddy Ebsen who had an allergic reaction to the extreme makeup that seems to make Ted Cruz almost look human.

The stove pipe hat would occasionally toot for the Tin Woodman, but Cruz toots all the time without a hat. Toto recognizes an empty suit every time.

Take Two Aspirin and Play NFL Football in the Morning

DATELINE: Brainless NFL Owners

The risk of taking a baby aspirin is as dangerous as owning an NFL franchise. Scientists ought to spend billions to learn what owner Jim Irsay of the Indy Colts already knows.

Yes, it appears that being a member of the billionaire bozo club is not quite as brain damaging as attending monthly meetings with other billionaires. You may feel a headache coming on.

We won’t know how brain concussed Jim Irsay is until after he is dead, but he is giving all the signs of being a maroon in life.

Medical experts should recommend that their patients go out and throw themselves in front of 300 pound linemen every week and see if it feels the same as taking one aspirin per day, according to Irsay.

Taking a daily aspirin may cause a little bleeding in the brain if Dr. Irsay is correct, but that is much worse than being at the bottom of a scrum of five NFL crash dummies.

After years of living off his father’s money, Jim Irsay has achieved the wisdom of a Tibetan high lama without the benefit of aspirin.

We have come to conclude that Irsay is the kind of NFL owner that believes his sport gives headaches, but not never concussions.

How many Jim Irsays will it take before you need an aspirin?

Irsay said the NFL is such a popular and healthy activity that every nutcase in the world accuses it of being unhealthy to play. You’d think Irsay would need an aspirin, but he’d rather take his chances watching football every week from his luxury owner’s box.

If you ever needed evidence that idiots rule the NFL, you no longer have Roger Goodell as Exhibit A. You have Jim Irsay as the poster child of aspirin induced medical dangers.


Goodell Going Down With Ship

DATELINE: Goofy Goodell Really Mickey Mouse

Roger Goodell answered the Kraft family request that he return the draft picks he pickpocketed from them. It was a resounding and mysterious NO!

This is Deflategate the Zombie walking the earth again.

With the appeal of Tom Brady’s suspension under advisement with a three judge appeal panel, the timing may not be quite right—but Robert Kraft is a man who never catches the bus on time.

Citing science again, Kraft sent a letter to Goofy Goodell and pointed out the error of his way. “No soap,” the Commissioner stated to the press, but never formally answered the letter or gave any coherent explanation.

There cannot be a logical response because the entire belligerence of Goofy Goodell stands in the doorway of rational behavior. Why did the moron throw the clock out the window? Because Goodell uses a sun dial.

Goodell’s refusal to face the reality of science and real life makes him a perfect candidate for commissioner of a fantasy sport like football. In this world, players are superheroes who cannot die from repeated concussions—and are cartoon-like in their sexual prowess and moral lassitude.

No doubt, Goofy Goodell sees his life as Batman versus Superman. Unfortunately for him, he is Lex Luthor.

By the time he orders women and children into the lifeboats, the entire NFL will be going down without hope. And, he will order his henchmen to shoot any male who tries to escape his tyrannical world.

History is a repeatable offense.

Easter Bunny Takes a Shot to the Head, Thanks to Tom Brady!


Keeping in the Easter spirit, Tom Brady invited the Easter Bunny to his home again. Last year ended up being a rather pleasant experience for the big white rabbit, and he gladiy returned to the house of seven gables Tom built in Brookline, Mass.

CBS Sports has the ugly rabbit’s footage.

After this year’s visit, under a seemingly bad star, we doubt that Mr. Bunny shall want again to darken the door of Brady’s mansion. EMTs provided an icebag and sympathy to the unfortunate rabbit.

When you go one on one with Tom, you end up the turkey, no matter what holiday it seems.

If Brady continues to knock off holiday icons, he will be the last icon standing in the Fountain of Youth.

Santa Claus came during the season to enjoy cookies with Tom, but with delightful spring weather in Tom’s neck of the woods, it’s a time that he grabs those extra footballs and goes out into the yard to play a little catch.

Alas, bunnies have paws and not great hands.

The big white rabbit, whose nickname is Harvey, went deep for one of those patented Brady passes.

Peripheral vision may be clouded by too much egg nog for the rabbit, and the deflated ball went squarely between Mr. Bunny’s eyes, knocking him senseless.

It almost looked like an outtake from the movie Concussion.

Roger Goodell is investigating and may charge Brady with wanton disregard for the safety of fans—and hurting the image of a game that should be safe for bunnies.

Harvey Rabbit look stunned in the replay. A few insiders are insisting that the Easter Bunny was a fraud, actually played by Julian Edelman in an ecumenical spirit.

Kevin Durant Conquers Boston’s Fans

DATELINE:  Boston’s Newest Crush

What’s with these guys named Kevin?

In the NBA, they all come to Boston and fall in love with the basketball franchise. Well, Kevin Love came to Boston and met Rajon Rondo, which is as close to a cure for a love potion as you might find.

Kevin McHale came here to live in fame. So did Kevin Garnett.

And, now the Thunderous Kevin Durant came, saw, and conquered the fans. They didn’t care if he beat the home town team. They loved his stuff.

Celtics fans were squealing under the notion he is a free agent—and they gave him love not usually bestowed so freely on those not in green, especially around St. Patrick’s Day.

Durant will be a free agent, but there will be nothing free about him, but after his lovefest interview with the media, singing praises of Boston, its history, and its young coach, there is a sense that he may not be free, but he may be willing to dicker.

The idea of Kevin Durant in Celtics lore sends chills up the ying-yang of Bill Russell and Larry Bird. As a legitimate superstar, and well-spoken, intelligent, and demure, he would be a hit in Boston where sassy and crassy usually reign.

We may be losing David Ortiz this season with the Red Sox—and Chandler Jones has headed off to play for the “New England Cardinals” (his gaffe, not ours), but KD may be the new KG.

If this is summer love, then give us a long duration Durant.


Hillary Clinton’s Running Mate?

DATELINE:  Hot Tickets


Our dear friend and Home Health Aide is not an American citizen, but rather has been granted asylum and is legally living in the United States.

He has a strong belief in the American Dream—and, like many, wants America to be strong and to succeed. He follows politics in the U.S. with the keen eye of someone who loves the country.

He cannot vote until he achieves citizenship, but he takes a great interest in learning from debates and primaries. He disagrees with our choice to make America great again. He thinks Mr. Trump is “too fresh” to be POTUS, and we don’t think he is referring to vegetables in the fridge.

His choice is Hillary Clinton, which makes us smile in disagreement.

Today he came up with an idea he wishes he could tell Hillary about. He thinks she needs an equally “fresh” running mate to counter Donald Trump.

To that end, he has suggested something surprising and without historical precedent. Garry Matador, lately of the United States, but a homegrown product of Haiti, wants Secretary Clinton to choose Joe Biden to be her vice president.

In some ways, it makes sense and is downright brilliant. We have heard Hillary bark (indeed Trump is using it in his latest commercials). She needs a hound of the Baskervilles. There is no one more qualified than Joe Biden to be vice president. He has learned on the job during two administrations.

Fresh ideas often come from people new the country—and we promised him to pass this along to others who may find it equally compelling.

What a hot ticket my friend is.

Another Shot at James Dean Sixty Years Later

DATELINE:  James Dean as Backseat Driver

LIFE is unfair. Not life in general, but the 1950s magazine. It is the title of the latest attempt to depict James Dean, based on a couple of icon photos.

When you have a couple of offbeat artists like James Dean and Dennis Stock, played by Dane DeHaan and Robert Pattinson, it’s hard to tell where life begins and the movie ends.

If you were expected the fictionalized tale of Dennis Stock’s friendship with Jimmy Dean, you will be about as blindsided as Jack Warner’s friendship with James Dean. Warner is truly unlikeable in this movie—and so Ben Kingsley shines here.

There is no friendship between the photographer and the movie star. Each had mercenary and power trip reasons to team up for a few pictures at the Indiana farm and in the noir of Times Square.

The film is a calculated slice of 1950s Americana, and for that reason it is not likely to appeal to people interested in sex scandals (the latest involve Dean and Brando). This movie is surprisingly heterosexual in its chasteness.

It likely is not a movie to win devotees and repeat viewers. It is well done, but lacks a certain element to make it special as art. Depicting two alienated and calculating artists (Dean and Stock) does not make them likeable.

Director Anton Corbijn provides us with verisimilitude in a manner of speaking. DeHaan does not look much like Dean, being too soft and too doughy. Dean was wiry, but DeHaan has caught the slouching and mumbling better than anyone else, except Dean himself.

Pattinson again gives himself a thankless role as an ambitious man. But the two actors might as well be in separate movies. Therein is the the secret of the movie.  Dean was always in his own world, and so is this film. Yes, we recommend this for being unlike all the other Dean biographical movies.


Gronk’s La Dolce Vita?

Gronk Doubles His Pleasure

Over at our country club on the bay, we all know the importance of having a motorboat in excellent condition for summer cruising.

To our surprise, a rather busty woman (on the order of Anita Ekberg or Jayne Mansfield) who apparently was on the Mal de Merry cruise with Gronk has sent out a curious tweet.

She said, in exact nautical terminology: “Rob Gronkowski motor boated me today. All is well in the world.”

Being more of an officious sort, we were puzzled that she tweeted that Gronk “motorboated” her.  We did not suspect that Gronk was a mariner; nor do we think he can recite the rhyme of the ancient mariners.

The poem has something to do with a girl in every port, as we recall from graduate English courses.

So, Gronk is now operating a motorboat in the off-season. We would certainly caution him to be on the lookout for rogue waves, and we don’t mean women in the Navy.

In our estimation, the size of the portholes on this young lady would render her more in the Tugboat Annie division of nautical sport. She would– in the parlance of World War II — seem to be wearing a Mae West life preserver—or likely would turn into one if a sailor found himself drowning.

We cannot find it in our imagination to think Gronk would be interested in such baggage, or two bags to be specific. It seems to require heavy lifting, but this acquired taste does entail making noises like a motorboat while deep sea diving. We are holding our breath over this.


Atlanta Falcons Want to Know if You Like Men

 DATELINE: Any Port in a Storm?

We aren’t sure of the motives, but a coach from the Atlanta Falcons asked a young player at the Combine if he liked men.

This has set off a firestorm. Yes, it’s raining men in Atlanta.

Considering how many women are battered by football players in the NFL, the smarter question would be: do you dislike women?

The problem is likely that the average football player, looking at a career worth millions of dollars, thinks he is God’s gift to women—and men.

Now if they are trying to find out who’s gay and who’s undecided, you might as well as the direct question: have you ever kissed a man? You have to like a man to kiss him. Just ask Tom Brady who kisses owner Robert Kraft all the time.

Back to our complex issue, is it a complex that causes you to like men?

We would much rather know if your young athletic Neanderthal likes press and media guys. Now that might elicit our relief.

In the old days, media and sports players were like bread and butter. Now they are more like bread and the tax collector.

We hope every player likes men. Otherwise, he will resist giving a high five, a low five, a rump bump, or other physical examples of affection between the bruh and his bro.

Women are not exactly the people a battering player respects. But, if their preference is for men, we know that the worst that can happen is that your star punches your equipment manager in the nose, like Blake Griffin who truly liked the man he slugged.

The Atlanta front office went ballistic on the question of whether a young man likes men. We think we deserve to know so we can place our attention where it is appreciated.



Marcus Smart’s Crotch Problem

DATELINE: Crotchety Smart

Marcus Smart of the Celtics was fined $15,000 for an obscene gesture aimed at the referees. Please, don’t shoot with the itchy trigger finger.

In a world of endless and myriad ways to convey an obscene gesture, we are usually left with a startling image in the highlight reel. However, no NBA videotape has been allowed to surface.

And, the reason is that Smart did something stupid. He grabbed his crotch. If there is a word seldom heard in the NBA, it is scrotum.

For the most part, everyone refers to balls. The bigger the better.

Now that seems miniscule in the scheme of big boys playing.

For all we know, poor Marcus Smart suffers daily from jock itch. It is entirely possible the ball passed to him was not properly dusted with Gold Bond Powder in the pregame rituals. Hence, he grabbed the offending part of his body.

He got game, and maybe he got crabs.

We hate to think of the heartbreak of psoriasis being at the root of Smart’s groin problem. Perhaps it is far worse than crabs. Maybe Marcus has scabies. There is an alarming crisis among scabies—and that pompadour ‘do with the golden tips is a sort of motel for those pesky pests.

In a world of mighty mites, the smaller men are known for ball handling—and perhaps he had a fistful of cooties in his flowing and airy pantaloons.

We can only think of the old adage about the crotch was full of fleas.

Is there no sympathy in the NBA for a young man suffering from overly active rash? Powder or liquid, Smart’s pubic requirement is Tinactin.

Unfinished Business at Downton Abbey

DATELINE: Off to the Ascot Reruns

Yes, the ending was swift after a considerable amount of lolly-gagging all season. Characters who were moving at glacier speed (as Lady Edith pointed out) were now out-pacing the writer and creator Julian Fellowes.

We are sure someone will point out this exemplified the metaphoric thrust of the modern age speeding up.

Yet, we were left high and dry when it came to matters suddenly ignored.

We thought under-butler Barrows tried to kill himself because he was gay and could find no companionship, tea, or sympathy at Downton. Instead, it appears he simply was disappointed he couldn’t be head butler.

Branson, the one-time chauffeur who hated all members of the House of Lords, opened his own house of used cars. He would sell them to the only people in town who could afford them—members of the House of Lords.

We thought the show ended on Valentine’s Day, not New Year’s Day, based on all the romances (or quasi-romances) that suddenly were ending up at the altar. We suspect that  future TV movies we have been promised will all be about divorce.

Important past characters sent their regrets for not showing up at the big finale. Where was the American grandmother played by Shirley MacLaine?  She allegedly was on a sea voyage and couldn’t make it back for weddings and holiday cheer.

The long simmering financial crisis at Downton, overspending their budgets, vanished as free houses were doled out to members of the downstairs at Downton. Apparently the warning signs of the Great Depression and the Great London Labour Strike of 1926 never occurred to the high ranking, high living hangers-on at Downton.

The wedding of Lady Edith featured an open bar (apparently paid for by the hostile mother-in-law who awoke one morning to see Edith’s virtues).

With the shuttering of Downton Abbey for now, we will be sent packing with our questions and curmudgeon attitude shared with retiring butler Carson.

This series ending was unlike the grand Upstairs/Downstairs that ended with the main character blowing out his brains after losing the fortune in the stock market crash. Well, that’s progress for you.


Red Sox Marital Separation & Extra-Marital Flings

DATELINE: An Affair to Remember?


As you likely know, what goes on between a manager and his fourth estate interviewer is privileged information. Reporters take an oath of sanctity, and managers are always close-mouthed.

Dudley Do-Right, aka John Farrell, manager of the Red Sox has now officially refused to answer the question that he and a female reporter for the Sox network have had a long-standing affair.

Jessica Moran, sometime redheaded sports reporter and beat cover for the game on CSCNN, resigned her job on the day that it was announced that Farrell was divorcing his wife of 30 years.

Mrs. Farrell did not stand by him during his cancer treatments last season. Jessica Moran covered it every day.

Moran has always shown a flair for insider knowledge, like the last female who married her former Red Sox boyfriend on Valentine’s Day last month.

Jenny Dell was run out of her job in Boston for openly living with third baseman Will Middlebrooks a few years back when both worked for the Sox.

History seems to repeat itself with another media spotlight team.

The Sox replaced Jenny Dell with a known gay man, presuming that would end their media-player affairs. The shot over the bow did little to impress Ms. Moran.

Whether nuptials will precede playoffs is anyone’s guess. The first Mrs. Farrell has to be formally divorced before the next one steps down the matrimonial altar.

We love romance, especially illicit romance between parties that live by a non-fraternization rule. That’s one thing you can say for gay affairs with celebrity athletes. They never talk about it.

We always lived by the old adage: there’s nothing worse than to be caught with a dead girl in your bed—or a live boy.

Law Learned from Bad TV Shows?

DATELINE: Dumb and Dumber

It only seems like fiction when your police are dumb and our political leaders are dumber.

On the Trump legal front, we watched as the Attorney General of New York on CNN today discussed the “facts” of the Trump University case.

For years the media has suffered legal folks begging off that they cannot discuss a case while active in the process. The people of New York have elected an imbecile to head their legal protection. By talking about a case in litigation, he has broken the First Commandment of law.

All Trump has to do to get rid of that case is now subpoena the New York AG himself as he has NOW made himself a witness as he has spoken about contested matters of material fact.

That will kill the entire case as the AG of NY will not want to be disbarred for inserting himself as a witness into the case….well, nobody’s perfect, but this maroon is sitting on his law degree.

And, your police continue to be vigilant—to a point. With the OJ Simpson case back on TV in a miniseries, some retired officer in Los Angeles revealed he had the murder weapon, heretofore lost evidence.

The cop should go to jail for withholding evidence from the defense. Is this at the time OJ’s civil case was going on? This Knife could if fact show someone else did it. Whether this cop was off duty or not he was in fact a member of the force at the time, LAPD has a big problem here. This actually supports the OJ dream team tag line that the LAPD withheld and planted evidence.

Whether it actually is, or not, OJ has beaten that rap. If the knife is genuine and does not have his DNA or fingerprints, then he was truly innocent. It’s only taken 22 years and bad judgment on the behalf of police.

So, we have our problems being compounded by the forces of law and order. They have learned their legalese from watching bad TV shows, or they slept through the coursework to earn a bogus degree.

It was never this bad for Jerry Orbach when he took down the bad guys every week on Law and Order.


Murder in Baseball?

DATELINE: Watch That Beanball

Dead St. Louis Cardinal Stuffed into His Locker

They don’t make’em like this anymore.

Death on the Diamond is a murder mystery movie based on Cortland Fitzsimmons’s novel. Set in the early 1930s, it tells the story of the St. Louis Cardinals—yes, the old Gashouse Gang with Dizzy Dean where and when a murder plot could be believed. The film was made in 1934.

You better believe MLB would never approve this script today.

Robert Young (before he knew best as Father and Dr. Marcus Welby) is hotshot pitcher Larry Kelly, one of many suspicious characters. When players start to be murdered during the pennant drive, no one cancels a game. You can lose a bunch from your starting lineup—but winning is contagious.

The show must go on—and so must the baseball game. They don’t even have a moment of silence. We loved those old days. A player may be strangled in the locker room between innings, but batter up!

If this high gloss production from MGM were not enough in glorious black and white, you have Mickey Rooney as the bat boy and Walter Brennan making hot dogs as a vendor. We recommend you don’t put any extra mustard on that dog.

The film is utterly ridiculous and the perfect way to start spring training. You have a greedy, hostile takeover owner ready to bounce the manager by wanting him to lose. You have a couple of players thrown out of the game for gambling. And, don’t forget the Mob that tempts your favorite athlete with women and drink, as well as bribes. And, the local newspaper reporter is no saint.

Uncovering the homicidal maniac is only half the fun, making the tune “Take Me out to the Ball Game” utterly sinister when it plays.

Trump Takes on Alternative History

DATELINE: Crypto-History

Donald Trump’s campaign for president of the United States is teetering closer and closer to the crypto-alternative history TV shows on History Channel.

Yep, if he loses the Republican nomination, he can become a semi-regular on shows like Ancient Aliens and America’s Book of Secrets. Crypto-history may prove to be Trump’s Kryptonite.

The Donald is tapping into some truly alternative history. It is dangerous ground to expose space aliens and gold reserves. There is no word on whether Trump is a Freemason.

With his recent call to audit the Federal Reserve about the gold stored in Fort Knox, he may have unleashed the defenders of the ancient gods in American politics. Mitt Romney now stands as a staunch defender of Planet X.

Alternative secret keepers know that the aliens have been raiding Fort Knox for years—depleting America’s gold reserves. Gold is the only metal in the universe that does not deteriorate and makes for great radiation protection.

Some believe that Planet X, outside the orbit of Pluto, is returning here soon to reclaim more gold. They first starting mining gold on this Earth thousands of years ago.

The notion that there is no gold to back up the US economy could topple the world order—if you listen to the alternative theories of America’s Book of Secrets, or the lost and missing stuff of history.

Donald Trump is a shaker and mover all right, but his moving and shaking Earth has made him a target of the powerbrokers of the world economy. They are in terror of Trump’s election.