From Tea Pot Dome Scandal to Pee Pot Bed

DATELINE:  Pot to Plant Flowers In

glow in dark pee potGlow in Dark Pee Pot

President Warren Harding gave us Teapot Dome Scandal, and President Softing Trump has given us Pee Pot Bed Scandal.

From Teapot Dome to Pee Pot Bed, you cannot embarrass Trump supporters. They’re deplorables all right.

The people who support President Trump are the kind of people who leave the bathroom door open when they go. That’s if they don’t wet the bed. It never Depends on them.

The Russians call it “Kompromat.”

In case you’re wondering, that’s when they compromise an American president with blackmail. No wonder Pee Pot Trump had to send his crooked attorney Lyin’Michael Cohen to Prague to try to get those tapes right before the election.

The Russians could publish them in a book called The Yellow Stream Down Trump’s Backside by I.P. Daily.

Gilbert Gottfried notes that Trump should have kept the tapes on Betamax, not his IPO.

I.P. Daily is a fake journalist who works for UP According to Strumpet Depress Secretary Sarah Suckapee Launders.

Now the crooked FBI must go over the tapes to find whether those damp spots are damp spots. Out, out, redacted, unmade bed.

And this weekend former FBI director James Comey will let us know whether Trump came up to see the Russians and actually has a little rocket after all.

60 Minutes wouldn’t allow Stormy Daniels to present her weather forecast on Trump’s hail and thunderous tiny pocket rocketman. The tape measure has more impact on your bedspread and spreadsheet.

Perhaps James Comey will offer us more insight into the Pee Pot. Stir, don’t shake.

 

 

Yawkey Way: One-Way Street in Boston

DATELINE:  The Way in Boston

Which way?

When you say the word “racism,” in Boston, you better smile, pardner.

Yes, the birds of a feather are in a snit over the name change on Jersey Street. It was once called Yawkey Way in honor of the Hall of Fame owner of the Boston Red Sox. He died in 1976, and the city of Boston, found it in its heart to name the little bypass in front of Fenway Park after its Southern gentleman, Tom, who tried to buy a World Series in the 1930s by hiring the best players. He failed.

The Colonel, as it were, in baseball, a game for white gentlemen, as it was once called.

Yes, right in Boston, you had an owner who was never truly part of Boston. He never showed up until after the season started and then sat in his high-above-field box like Nero.

He was instrumental in keeping the Red Sox lily white until Pumpsie Green showed up to sit on the bench for a few seasons. He was used as a pinch-runner most of the time. The Sox were the last team in the majors to sign a black man to play.

Race, if it was in the forefront of that Georgian peach, Yawkey’s mind, was never to advance civil rights of black people. He made Ty Cobb look progressive.

The Yawkey Way is not to be confused with the Patriot Way, under an owner who is the epitome of billionaires in Boston.

Uncle Tom Yawkey kept it white for as long as he could.

We have a memory of attending a Red Sox game in the early 1960s when the only black face we saw in the stands was Bill Russell of the champion Celtics. The Red Sox were never world champs under Yawkey.

When the game ended with another hideous Sox loss, I was behind Russell who was tall, silent, and dignified. Why was he there? Perhaps to see the second black Sox player,  pitcher Earl Wilson. That is lost to memory, but Russell was the tallest man leaving the box seats. No one spoke to him, and we walked out of the park—and he went in one direction and I, the other way on then Jersey Street.

Wilson was later traded several weeks after complaining about racism to the Boston media.

We saw Russell at several games over that year, while Yawkey sat high above, looking down. In those days, celebrities did not join Colonel Yawkey in his perch, certainly not a black man.

We think now Russell showed up to make a point: he loved baseball and hated racism. He was the only black face in the crowd.

Imagine: 30,000 seats filled with white fans, and one black man.

And now there is a hulla-baseballoo because Boston wants to dump Yawkey Way in a place where black players were jeered just last season by racial taunts. The present owners want to change the name of Yawkey Way back Jersey Street.

It’s still Yawkey Way, no matter what you call it.

 

Fill in the Blanks for “P***y”

 DATELINE:  Vocabulary Lesson for Jerry Jones & Media

3some

This week Jerry Jones has tested our ability to play both Scrabble and do crossword puzzles. The owner of the Dallas Cowboys, mired deeply in a feud with Roger Goodell, reportedly called fellow owner Robert Kraft a mysterious name in regard to the Patriots owner’s inability to stand up to Goodell on Deflategate.

The media has given us a maddening clue by leaving out key letters of the word.

The media has also plastered the word over the airwaves, cable wires, and water-cooler discussions for men who live dangerously around women nowadays.  For those who are fans of President Trump, the word may ring familiar, as he used the epithet (if that’s what it is) during his campaign against women.

In case you are wondering what the cryptic word is, we have gone to our cryptologist’s handbook to discern “P—y.”

In some more colorful stories the spelling is “p***y.”  We always opt for the asterisk over the hyphen as part of our training as a literary critic.

We didn’t have to run to our crossword puzzle dictionary for the Sunday New York Times to be able to figure out what Jerry Jones and President Trump have said.  The options are clear.

It is likely that Mr. Jones called Kraft “pasty.” This is ironical, if only because Jones is even more sun-deprived than Kraft, playing as it were mostly indoors at his stadium. We think Kraft is fairly pasty on his own too.

Another option is “puffy.”  We have heard Sean Combs has discarded this sobriquet lately—and it is available to be put on Kraft who takes a paternal interest in his players, hence “Puffy Daddy.”

However, we realize soon enough that the best likelihood is another word: “Putty.”  Yes, Kraft was putty in the hands of Goodell, and is pliable to the whims of the fans.

You say tomato, and we say “tomahto.” You say “P***y” and we say, “Putty.”  Let’s call the whole thing off before our vocabulary descends into the tone-deaf style of NFL fans in general.

Celtics Send Cousin IT Packing to LeBronWorld

DATELINE:  $$ Talks to Celtics

 Thomas & Tom In Happier Days

Wowie Zowie, the Celtics are not letting the Patriots run for another championship without a Boston competition. We may have to renew our season tickets to the Celtics this year.

It now appears that Isaiah Thomas, Cousin IT himself, who has worked assiduously to improve the team and lure free agents to Boston, now is being sent to the glue factory in Cleveland. He became a folkhero for playing a day after his sister died–and his just reward has come in payback form.

Yes, Cleveland’s the place where both Kyrie Irving and LeBron James want to escape from more than ever.  It is tantamount to Napoleon’s exile island.

Thomas reportedly has a bad hip. As any senior citizen can tell you, a bad hip is the first indication that a nursing home in Cleveland may be on your itinerary.

Kyrie Irving will come to Green-land where Brad Stevens is the coach of choice for superstars who want to be appreciated.

Together with Gordon Hayward, we may have quite new 2007 dream team when Ray Allen and Kevin Garnett showed up and chewed up the league.

Now we understand why Danny Ainge held off on bringing Hayward to Boston for a dog and pony show. He had another big star in the wings to join in the fun. Whether another big star may be in the offing seems unlikely, but this is now the year of unexpected Trumps, and not always in bridge.

We still wonder where the big men are, as Danny keeps dispatching them to Westworld, or some other limbo.

If Kevin McHale is not coming out of retirement, perhaps we will yet see Kevin Durant in green. In the meantime, the Boston Celtics ask, “What have you done for us lately?”

 

 

 

Sleepless: The Big Snooze

DATELINE:  Foxx Fones in Performance

Foxx Fones in Performance

Noise, car chases, unremitting violence, do not make this film distinctive from a plethora of faint-hearted copies. It too wants to be a franchise “cops in Las Vegas” series with Jamie Foxx. It’s optimistically called Sleepless. Not to be confused with Sleeper.

Foxx has worked hard to achieve a status as a solid actor of intelligent films, but like so many other stars, he must pay the rent. This film is a lease on his new, multi-million-dollar penthouse condo in Vegas.

How bad is this movie? Well, Foxx is stabbed in the gut early on in the film, bleeds profusely, but can still fight, run, and lift heavy bags of drugs with nary a squint in his demeanor.

When his clothes are blood-soaked, he finds a hotel casino laundry where he can immediately locate a tailored suit with white shirt (all the better for blood, you know) with henchmen hot on his trail.

His entire family becomes involved with the mob family. There is no joke hidden here—as the mob kidnaps his son, thinking Foxx is a bad guy who stole their drugs, when he is of course merely undercover, trying to find the mule, or jackass, in the police who is the real culprit.

Oh, is that a spoiler? Well, try this: he steals a show car in the casino and drives around inside, knocking over civilians and bad guys alike. You’d almost think this was a terrorist attack, but no—it is merely criminal enterprise at work. Viva Las Vegas.

The movie would be over in 45 minutes if not for a complication in which an overeager Internal Affairs officer steals the drugs, creating another endless chase.

When the big shoot-out occurs in the underground parking garage of the casino, Foxx’s wife happens to drive through with her gun in the glove box. (She’s a nurse, what did you expect? A first aid kit?)

If you have confused this movie mess with The Big Sleep, you don’t have narcolepsy, a habit of liking narcs, or need a sleep aid. Yes, this is Sleepless. Almost as funny as Sleepless in Seattle.

Super Bowl L Compromised

DATELINE: Wafting Emanations

What the ‘L’ is going on, NFL?Featured image

You want to put Deflategate behind you, like Satan, but you don’t accomplish that by scheduling your appeal court date three days before the half-time show.

In case you were wondering, the NFL does not believe Tom Brady will appear in Super Bowl 50.  As we have all noticed, the NFL has abandoned their traditional Roman numeral for the next Super Bowl, thinking its fans would not understand the meaning of L.

They also have agreed to have the appeal of Deflategate during the week of the Super Bowl in February of 2016. So much for their claims they did not want Deflategate to distract fans.

So, there will be two super events leading up to kickoff.  Media Day will compete with Court Day.

A few legal experts claim Tom will not have to travel back to court with an entourage of lawyers and media in tow.

Yet, we cannot help but think the notion of a Super Bowl quarterback facing the ultimate distraction is a guarantee to try to make the Patriots lose the game.

Integrity, where is thy sting?

Ask that old Bumblebee Goodell.  We aren’t sure if Roger is a stinger or a stinker.

The idea that the NFL will try to compromise who wins the game is only slightly less appalling than the idea that the entire enterprise is fixed, a long held suspicion among the cognoscenti.