Kinky Puss’n Boots

DATELINE:  A Really Big Shoe

 kinky boots Kinky-Dinky!

Kinky Boots may kindly be called an old-fashioned character drama. The difference is that it’s about drama queens in men’s shoes. It was later turned into a smash stage show, but the 2006 version is one of those working class British angry young man movies (except the young man dresses like a woman).

The two characters in juxtaposition are, first, the son of a shoe factory heir facing bankruptcy for making traditional footwear for men when disposable sneakers are the rage.

The second young man likes to wear high-heels and becomes a cabaret star in drag shows.

Under normal circumstance, you almost would expect the two men to slip into each other’s loafers at some point. Thank heavens, Kinky Boots keeps us in our own lanes and avoids any moments with glass slippers.

Joel Edgerton is the scion of shoemakers who learns that market niche for men’s boots with stilettos is high end. He meets Chiwetel Ejiofor in a career-busting role as Lola, the giant man in glitter. They kick up the story. Chiwetel also sings us a torrid version of “Whatever Lola Wants.”

Unfortunately, to walk a mile in one man’s shoes, or high-heels, may be a stretch too far. The movie makes its points early and often but keeps on giving us more. The climax on the runways of Milan for shoe biz is too much glitz for our own good. Hero and audience fall flat.

Lessons in what defines masculinity and manhood are made a few times too many. It’s always hard to figure out British men anyhow since, to American eyes, they all look ready to put on a feathery boa and dancing shoes.

See You in Court, Mr. Commissioner!

 DATELINE: HUMOR on the PIGSKIN

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With Roger Goodell promising a verdict this week, the NFLPA is firing a shot over the Commissioner’s bow when it comes to Tom Brady.

They have let it be known that, unless the four game suspension is totally vacated, there will be a federal court date for the Commissioner.

And, just about everyone who has seen an episode of Perry Mason or Law and Order knows what that means. Goodell is hanging by a thread. He will be on the hot seat, if not the witness stand. It’s no place for the witless.

If intimidation is a factor, the NFLPA has made its point. Tom Brady made his over the weekend, releasing a photo of himself lying on a golf course, before the Grand Teton Mountains. His small daughter was at his side. A large smile was on his face.

Goodell spent his time at the Billionaire Boys Club in Sun Valley, hobnobbing with friends he hopes will give him a job when he is fired as NFL commissioner.

A rabid mob still insists that Tom is equally guilty of crime as Greg Hardy because he would not give up his cell phone for study by the Commissioner. Yes, a fishing expedition into one’s privacy is the first thing football fans are prepared to surrender.

Until someone wants to look at their phone.

Carrying off team loyalty in a losing city becomes onerous after the Patriots beat the tar out of your main street. Hence, so many sore losers are typing out venom on comment sections of various articles on Tom.

We never allow comments on this blog. We have the final word.

Masters of Suspension: Hitch a Wagon to Goodell

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Yes, The Noose Hangs High for Abbot and Costello was great cinema. So was Clint Eastwood’s High’em High. Hanging Tom Brady in effigy cannot hold a candle in comparison.

If you are waiting like Madame Defarge with your knitting needles before the guillotine, you could be knitting your brow before you knit an Afghan comforter. In a world of tit for tat, Tom Brady won’t be climbing those steps to his own execution.

The NFL wants to hand out suspensions in cold blood.

Suspension madness, as practiced by Goodell, is nothing short of a Death Wish. But Roger is no Charles Bronson, and his victims are about to wish upon a star like Tom.

Roger Goodell is likely to be waiting at the top of the Empire State Building in the rain, hoping for an end to this Affair to Remember.

Roger Goodell may be standing up there atop the altar, like one of those Mayan heart throb chisellers, but Tom’s heart will keep pumping up those NFL fans. It will be Apocalypto for Goodell.

Death May Come for the Archbishop, but Tom Brady will not fall off the Bridge of San Luis Rey, no matter how Wilder it becomes in Our Town.

After presiding over his own version of the Monkey Trial, Goodell is ready to Inherit the Wind.

When it comes to executing a four game suspension for Tom, Death Takes a Holiday. We are listening for the uplift of Copeland’s Appalachian Spring to sound its clarion call.

If it takes until the First Monday in October to find a court injunction, Tom will stop the Star Chamber from filling with noxious gas.

 

 

 

 

Celtics Look Smart and Go Young

DATELINE: HUMOR

RondoLaughs

Rondo Under Cone of Silence

When the Boston Celtics draft Maxwell Smart, you know he must have gone higher than 86.

We wait for the day that Smart tells Danny Ainge, “Sorry about that, Chief!”

Did anyone pull the Cone of Silence down upon the Boston Celtics before the media went wild? Yes, the media had predicted Embiid and Exum as the Boston best choices. No one had the Smarts to know how Young the Celtics would go.

Whether Marcus turns out to be a Smart-aleck or another dumbbell, only the first season will tell. In the meantime, the Celtics may be looking to see if Love will be exchanged for Smart Young players.

Marcus Smart is from Oklahoma where the corn grows as high as an elephant’s eye. Of course, someone with Smarts will point out that corn does not grow in Oklahoma, despite what Rogers and Hammerstein told us.

You don’t have to be a Smarty-pants to wonder what jersey Max will wear next season. Will the Smart money be enough to sign this outstanding young agent of change?

Smart earlier this year looked more like Metta World Peace than Cedric Maxwell. He went into the stands to go after a fan he deemed overly critical, making us wonder whether the Cone of Silence will fall on anyone in Smart’s circle if free speech is an issue.

The Smart money is on Avery Bradley having lost his job this night. A few think it means Rajon Rondo may be heading to any club where Carmelo Anthony plays next season.

If anyone thought the fireworks were over, they aren’t Smart enough to know the Fourth of July is next week.

Funny Stuff Detected for a Price

 Dumb Americaprimordialsoup

We always knew the U.S. government had no sense of humor, and now it is confirmed.

Just in case you think we are funny, we are providing a link to the serious articles on this stuff.

Your tax dollars will buy sarcasm-detecting software to help the Secret Service and Homeland Security find out if you really mean it when you say you own a drone.

How much a humor detector will cost may prohibit everyday citizens keeping one on their laptop. The price of joking has skyrocketed since Guantanamo opened the stand-up comic section.

Making someone laugh may now become the purview of only the rich among us. We have known for a long time that Ph.D.s have no funny bone.

Humor is a tricky art at best, and now we discover the people who can put you in jail have discovered they have no sense of humor. Thank heavens for that.

Sarcasm is the last refuge of scoundrels and humorists. So, there is no way of knowing if the Secret Service will be able to tell folly, irony, and whimsy, from the usual gamut of funny one-liners.

Perhaps we can cite this as progress in an age when humor about movies and sports can get you thrown out of a game and shunned by Netflix.

Political humor is the worst offender, mainly because your loyal opposition laughs as you are carted away in cuffs.

Of course, all this expense will limit humor-detection to the Internet. You may still be able to win a smile, cause a chuckle, simply by working street-corners with jokes.

Laughing Cavalier

Hals’ Laughing Cavalier

Secret Service wants a meter to detect how funny you are being in that tweet. It will be similar to the old applause meter your grandmother saw on Queen for a Day. If they aren’t laughing, you will be read your Miranda Rights.

How to Write a Failed Blog

DATELINE: HUMOR!

 

What’s a humorist to do? After posting the blog under its heading, “DATELINE: HUMOR,” we had the normal expectation that readers will see the attached piece as the drivel of a dribbling writer.

 

Alas, like the proverbial “Beware of the Dog,” signage, the readers scoff and ignore it.

 

We must confess that in our youth, the term ‘humorist’ was a dead tipoff that the individual was not funny. As we recall, funny people were comics or comedians and made movies.

 

The other type stood up on a stage and told bad jokes to laughing hyenas.

 

Now in our dotage we are part of the unfunny group called humorists.

 

Worst is the humorist who tells whimsical tales. We learned that hard lesson when we titled several books with the denotation of “Whimsy.” You’d think we had put up the sign “Quarantine.”

 

Humorists of a whimsical nature ought to be consigned to leper colonies—but last we looked those had been disbanded, driven away by the whimsical humor that ran like a virus throughout the colony.

 

Humorists know that whatever they post, it will never go viral. In light of pandemics (or make light of epidemics), we think this is reasonable, like safe sex.

 

Our greatest failure was to put humor into sports. This pleased no one. One website consigned our writings to the dustbin of online writing: “And the rest,” after finding no home for the useless verbiage.

 

Though we made an attempt at satire, we found the breed totally despicable and shunned by good folk everywhere.

 

So, our latest writing is a sign we posted in the front yard, “Honk if you think the end is near.”

 

The peepers and crickets are driving us mad.