Happy Birthday, Mark Farner

Grand Funk Railroad - The Locomotion

No no no no no no no

No more posts or news items or web blurbs or wax cylinders or cave paintings -- nothing in any medium, anywhere, ever -- about the goddamn Dustin "Screech" Diamond sex tape. Please!

Bad Internet! Bad!

It's Liza with a "z," not Lisa with an "s," cuz Lisa with an "s" goes ... sssmash your weird little face, mutherfuckerrrr!!!

From the world of pathetic and demented celebrity gossip:

NY judge throws out suit against Liza Minnelli

NEW YORK (Reuters) - A New York judge on Monday dismissed a $10 million spousal abuse suit against Liza Minnelli filed by her estranged husband David Gest, who claimed the entertainer assaulted him in a drunken rage.

...

Gest sued for $10 million, saying in the suit that Minnelli's assault caused him "throbbing pain, severe headaches, vertigo, nausea, hypertension, scalp tenderness and insomnia."

(Emphasis added.)

And that was just on their honeymoon!

But seriously, folks, I'm pretty sure that dudes are spending good moneys to obtain tender scalps at the newest "SoFo" attraction, Sir Spa ("Where Men Get their Go"* -- fine purveyors of "Bumps Be Gone" and other awkwardly named products and/or services). And I have a feeling that they'd pay at least double to get them tenderized by Liza. For a little extra, she'll sing a medley of her mom's hits while she renders that bad boy tender. If that's what you're into, you sick little well-groomed monkey.

*(unregistered, but asserted to be common-law service mark)

Touch & Go 25 - Big Black - Racer X

This is probably my favorite of the several YouTube vids from the Touch & Go fest from about a million years ago that has been posted yet ... in terms of quality of sound, selection of material, and the fact that it was pretty close to my vantage vis a veeee the live event.

The name of the band was Bongwater

I said a few days ago that I was gonna redesign the site and write all sorts of shit worth reading and crap like that, but it turns out that I am trapped in some kind of cosmic phenomenon that is causing time to move too fast to get anything done. Like, by the time I get up, shower, get dressed, and drink some coffee, it's 10 p.m. So, blog redesign and the rest of Operation Stop Sucking is cancelled for now, due to twisted physics. And, OK, general lack of interest on my part. Hell, the only reason this blog still exists is that a rogue gravitational field traveling through the galaxy has prevented me from hitting the "delete" button. For now, here's a cheap YouTube post.

(Video: Bongwater - The Drum)

Not Quite a Sonnet

The Pale Hose doth break my heart
with errant bat and faulty throw
Still's better to have soared so much
that solar rays do melt one's wings
than crawl around like Cub or such
and dine on soil with lowly things
We flew so high that none can ken
how bittersweet the landing's splay
But when snows transfix The Cell athwart
and Farmio plays golf all day
we'll wait for spring's warm winds to blow
to start again this futile art
this game for boys played by rich men
who poot perfume each time they fart

Are you dready of some feets balls?

Sigh. Baseball season is all but over, and college and professional "foot" ball is already dominating the cable sports channels. Unfortunately, try as I might, I find football to be almost unwatchable. The only thing that makes it even slightly entertaining is the increasing similarity I've noticed over the years between professional football and a combination of a fruity Broadway musical and a weepy soap opera. Every Sunday, the Jets and the Sharks get together for a good cry about some stuff their dead fathers said to them back in Gigantic Freak Of Nature Camp, when they were 9 years old and weighed a mere 785 lbs. And then they dance!

Yes, NFL football is, by far, the gayest of all sports. And that includes Beach Felching (catch it on Cumcast Spurts Net). The fact that the Bears have just been penalized 15 yards for "celebrating in an unfair way" confirms this fact.

(Tweeet!) "Unnecessary use of confetti by number 83, offense! Excessive cake decoration by number 42, defense! Illegal surprise party! Ten yards! Of silk chiffon!"

Local Media History Geek Alert:Vintage 1982 Keyfax Nite Owl Vids from Channel 32 on YouTube Now

Wow ... total nostalgia trip. Just crazy. Y'see, Theo, way way back in 1982, WFLD-TV 32 experimented for a while with running this blocky computerized news burgoo, with music backing it. As its name suggests, "Nite Owl" ran in the wee hours, and for some reason, I and a few other insane kids found it captivating -- at least for a few days. And now some knucklehead Channel 32 enthusiast has posted several Nite Owl vids to YouTube.com -- click here to get a convenient menu if you wanna see more Nite Owl, and you can delve into his or her (yeah, right, "her" -- hah!) full list of videos, if you're into seeing some ancient local Chicago TV commercials and stuff like that.

Today in Self Google Stalking Today:Dirty Filthy Edition

It's true when they say "the Internet is forever." Still floating around from the early days of Teh Series of Tubes is the following, a short chapter from the defunct unfinished novel "Cole Stoma" that your humble blogger posted a brief decade ago to the usenet group alt.sex.stories and that was chosen as one of the month's "best of" by mysterious porn-fiction reviewer "Celeste" and archived for all eternity at this very not-safe-for-work site. Here it is, for your adults-only enjoyment. The real name of the guilty has been redacted, but an old pseudonym has been retained in the interest of history. In addition, the strong urge to edit has been resisted. Get your Kleenex ready. You have been warned.

The following is Copyright 1996 by Tomb Lung all rights reversed marca registrada patent pending ad hominem corpus delicti cogito ergo cum.

Parsley Garnish and the Prostate Tooth
or, Little Open Big Pinch Plays Dentist

"War or peace, hate or love. What difference does it make? It's the same God, same Satan; they're just fucking us up different dentrifices."
-- Noam Crosby

Little pinch here, little pinch here, little pinch here. Open big, open big, open big. Little pinch. Open big. Open. So John Kitchener calls to make an appointment with the heterodontist; been having trouble with this prostate tooth he used to pimp for.

I tell him forget it, come on over here. We'll fix him up. Comes in with three feet of unwaxed floss up his can and a water pick on full blast.

"You holdin' out on me? You fuckin' holdin' out on me?"

Pathetic orgone bag. Tension so thin you need a soup spoon. No tension, no release.

Half-inch-thick layer of tartar on his perineum. I sigh and start scraping.

Open big. Little pinch now.

John kisses me hard on the lips without warning or warmup, screws his wet mouth onto mine righty tighty crossing the threads as the torque and the heat and the friction welds our lips together. He injects his tongue like molten plastic into a mold, sneaks it in there, lolls it in, without force or ambition. I don't fight, and wonder why, like Larry Tate wondering why he just gave Darrin a raise after the schmuck fucked up the Macmillan account.

He kisses me again under the big lamp hanging from the ceiling like a robotic scrotum, incandescent brimstone glare shining into his eyeballs and his red retinas staring deep into not only my third eye, but my third soul. Hot enough to melt amalgam, I grope him out of the chair and we fall to the floor in a clench. My hygienist, Dinah, straps on a big black vascular dildo--a perfect match to her Abyssinian skin--and fucks me in the ass while I massage John's ailing prostate with the blunt end of my dental pick. He moans as I tickle his aching gland and tease him to erection.

I rub his glans against my pussy lips in a figure eight pattern to moisten the purple head; I grab his cock at the base and stroke his septum with my burning clit. I force him inside me and begin to gyrate, sweating and moaning. I reach up to the spit sink, grab the suction hose, and press its mouth against my clit. My nub to distends grotesquely into the plastic orifice, sucks a good inch into the tube like a billion frayed nerve endings being slurped from the bottom of a cup through a krazy straw; my shrieks drown out the brapping raspberry noise of it.

Everything on earth is swollen and red. "You're gonna have to gas me," John whispers.

"No need. I've got it piped in through the ventilation system."

"Oh yeah. Ohhh yeeaahhh . . ."

Dinah emits a frustrated whimper, scowls. She points at her dripping cunt in mock distress.

"Anita," she moans (her pet name for me). "Who has put this pubic hair on my crack?"

"Professor Thrill," I coo (my pet name for her). "Are you a scorned woman?"

"Ooh, Anita . . . Aneeeeeeeeeta . . ."

I ball up a soft wad of impression material, jab the putty-like goop onto the bit of my drill, and jelly it up. About thirty thousand rpm applied to that bitch's clit, her puckering vulva; she jerks spasmodically from the excess stimulus, cums in shimmering white waves. We collapse into fetal mounds of exhausted joy.

John stands over us, towering and surging with orgasmic power, jerking off with both hands, spraying a constant arc of tapiocal jismic mucilage over us, cascading us with sizzling hot cum, drenching our naked, writhing bodies, droplet by droplet, spurt by spurt. Dinah passes out, three fingers buried in her cunt, and then everything fades away from me, too . . .

I don't know when Kitchener leaves, but he's still cumming when he does; leaves a slug's slime trail of it down the hallway and into the parking lot.

"Make no small blog plans"

That's what Daniel Burnham said on his blog, "Teh Blog T4at W0rx0rz," about 100 years ago. "They have no magic to stir men's Site Meter stats."

In view of this dictum, Colicky Baby Records and Tapes is going to undergo a revamp imminently. I was going to wait until the baseball season ended, but, frankly, the CBRAT staff has pretty much overdosed on America's Pastime for this year already. The White Sox are still in the hunt, but we never have much of a stomach for a close pennant race. Especially one that "we" seem to be losing. And we -- that is, I -- have some free time coming up in a few days, so the time is ripe for change.

I don't know what I want to do with the look and feel yet, but it will likely remain pretty basic. Any changes along those lines will mainly be aimed at improving readability. The main initiative under consideration is into improve the blog's multimedia capacities by spending a few bucks on opening an account with one of the web's many file hosting services (first step: choosing which one). So, in the near future, look for more mp3s, with much more convenient download options, as well as the capability to play tracks right in the blog (probably using those little del.icio.us java dealies you've probably seen around the web) to see if you're interested before bothering with a download. I have plenty of odd and interesting audio on hand to parcel out webbially.

So if things work out the way I envision, Colicky Baby Records and Tapes will finally live up to the second half of its name. And you can bet that it will remain just as colicky.

The Rumor Bong

... we join this transcript of the 9-12-2006 episode of The Cross-Country Super Knucklehead Political Pundit Funtime Show, Starring Dez Desmond and Stronger Than Dirt Pete Moss, already in progrefs:

STDPM: ... but then there is nothing particularly radical about any of those prognostications.

DEZ: Okay, then, here is a radical prognostication: I say that, when you total up the votes for all Democratic House candidates and all Republican House candidates, it'll turn out that more votes were cast nationally for Democrats than Republicans, but thanks to the magic of gerrymandering and low level vote fraud, the Repubs keep control of the House.

Or Bin Laden is killed on October 4. Mark your calendar. (That's a 10-4, dead buddy).

STDPM: If Bin Laden is killed on 10/4, the Republicans get at least 60% of the popular vote, easy. Whether he is or not, I'm still predicting that the GOP will be GAINING seats in both chambres (that's pronounced "Schaumburg," Frenchy!), as well as somehow managing to pick up three Supreme Court seats (possible scenario: Stevens and Ginsburg trip over Kennedy's new heart stent and they all die in a fiery explosion). PLUUUSSSSS, if that's not pessimistic enough for you, a fourth branch of government will be formed (the "Exelaturiary") to replace the media (the "Fourth Estate"), and it will consist entirely of a papier mache (pronouced: "Downers Grove") bust of William Randolph Hearst made out of back issues of the Wall Street Journal editorial page from Q4 2001.

We are pleased to report that David Yow kept his pants on

It has been a long time since the last post of any substance, but it will have to wait a little longer. The CBRAT staff is recovering from attending two-thirds of this weekend's Touch & Go Records 25th anniversary fest at the Hideout Block party, over by there. Give us a break; we're old. And we're guessing the vast majority of the 7,000-odd other people in the audience (median age: 38 going on a hundred and twenty-three) feel the same way. Next time they should set up a Ben Gay® tent next to the Goose Island® vendor. I'll be the one riding the Rascal Scooter® with the Blatant Dissent bumper sticker on it. Rocking like my life Depends® on it.

Oh, the humanity!

When I started making this cheap little jpeg collage, Jose Contreras had allowed the first two Red Sox batters to reach base, and it was looking like it was going to be another long dreary night for the White Sox. By the time I was done Photoshopping and returned to following the game, Contreras had gotten out of the inning unscathed, and the White Sox had scored four runs. The Pale Hose went on to win 8 to 1.

Oh, and the Tigers and Twins both lost.

Originally I intended this to be another colicky graphical whine, but I'm posting it anyway tonight, because it seems to have magical talismanic powers.

Never underestimate the power of colicky thinking.

Yeah, you cuchi all night long

It must have been post-Thon dementia (with maybe a little touch of post-Steve Irwin stingray impalement thrown in), but last night I dreamed that I was watching a movie on late-night cable called "Bon Scott's Charo" -- kind of a twisted biopic featuring everyone's favorite Love Boat guest star as a member of everyone's favorite Australian wrrrrock band.

And, yes, I know that "You Shook Me All Night Long" was a Brian Johnson song, dammit, but I couldn't think of another AC/DC tune that "cuchi" would fit into off the top of my head. And with the White Sox malaise infecting the CBRAT staff with severe depression of the affect en la cabeza lately, halfassed efforts are the most we can muster.

New White Sox drinking game: Every time Paulie Konerko hits into a double play, smash a bottle of booze over your head. Better lay into a few cases, and about 1,000 yards of gauze.

Don't worry ... it's only SEPTEMBER

Yeah yeah yeah, there's a lot of baseball left, and it's a marathon, not a sprint, blah blah blah, but can the White Sox please stop sucking now? They're running out of time to go on that promised hot streak ... you know, the one that they haven't had for the entire second half of the season.

WILDLY IRRESPONSIBLE PREDICTION: If the White Sox don't make the playoffs, I predict that Ozzie Guillen will not return as manager for the '07 season. You heard it here first! So when I turn out to be wrong, at least you'll know I was early.

In other news of baseball misfortune, Cubs catcher Michael "The Bayonne Bleeder" Barrett is on the DL after creatively using his nads to block a foul tip the other day, sustaining an intrascrotal hematoma that required surgery.

Hoyven Glaven! It's Telethon Weekend!

Frank reunites Jerry and Dean on the 1976 Telethon. Nothing remotely this memorable or interesting will happen this year.

Tomorrow's happenings will be dominated by about the 9 thousandth iteration of the Jerry Lewis Patronization of the Crippleds Fest, aka the MDA Telethon. "The Thon," as aficianados sometimes call it, is a pale fraction of a shadow of a nubbin of a frail remnant of its former glory uhh colossal weirdness and showbiz effrontery (ebbackery and eboth essideseries notwithstanding), but it seems that most of the surviving regulars will be there. If nothing else, it provides an opportunity every year to say, "Wow, Pat McCormick's still alive?" ... and then go to IMDB to remind yourself who Pat McCormick is.

Just kidding. I know damn well who Pat "Smokey and the Bandit and many other fine films and television shows" McCormick is. Except ... uh oh. IMDB says he died in July 2005 of a stroke. Damn damn damn!!!

Anyway, this year could be interesting -- well, probably not -- but what I'm driving at is that this year Jer's basing it in Vegas, so maybe there will be added celebrity hijinks as a result.

Why Vegas instead of Hollywood, where it's originated from for the last 750 millennia? Well, AP quoted Der Jermeister as saying,

"There's something about Los Angeles that subjugates it."

Upon hearing this, longtime Thon rat and ersatz funnyman Norm Crosby was heard to exclaim, "Subjugates! I didn't even know Jerry was a grammarian. Remember, to subjugate the blurb you must always reactivate the unnatural infections, not to mensa the erections to the rule."

Happily, IMDB confirms that Norm Crosby remains living.

More Thon blogging as the weekend regresses. This year for sure, we find a cure, dammit!