Archive for December, 2008

New Year’s Hoochie Coochie Man?

December 27, 2008

     Once again The Reluctant Bombthrower finds himself in a pickle. With not quite the noblest intentions, he offered his services to what he thought was an internet charity that helped the poor. Bombie figured he could do good and get some free publicity at the same time. Instead, a raffle to win an evening with The Bombthrower (why any sane woman would pay for a chance to go out with a guy called The Bombthrower is beyond us), turned out to be an internet scam cooked up by Nigerian con artists. So, now our hero finds himself fleeing from 148 angry females chasing him up the Empire State Building, and unless King Kong happens to show up, this may be the last we hear of The Reluctant Bombthrower—Can you help me! I’m the security guard here on the observation deck, what’s the problem, mister? I’ve got 148 angry women that thought they had won a New Year’s Eve date with Brad Pitt chasing me! Glad to meet you, Mr. Pitt. You sure look a lot different in your movies. I’m not Brad Pitt! It seems to me if you stuck to one woman at a time you wouldn’t have a problem. What’s a matter, Angelina Jolie not good enough for you now? You lucky bastard. I’m not Brad Pitt! You’re some kind of a hoochie coochie man, aren’t you? Maybe you should have stayed with Jennifer Aniston, then you wouldn’t be tomcatting around. I’m not Brad Pitt! I got involved with an internet charity that turned out to be a scam. I was supposed to be meeting the winner of a contest tonight, not an angry mob! I get it now, Mr. Pitt, you’re going incognito, eh? It still seems to me you shouldn’t be trifling with your fans’ affections. Grrrrr. I’m not trifling with anybody, bub. I’ve got 148 women that were conned out of considerable amounts of money for what they thought was a chance of a lifetime with the sexiest man alive… Quite an ego you got there, Mr. Pitt. Grrrrr. To continue, that’s 148 women that shelled out dough for a trip to New York, hotel rooms, new outfits, makeovers and crash diets… Don’t like ’em chubby, eh, Mr. Pitt? Grrrrr…to fulfill their fantasies. When I realized what happened, I tried to reason with them. Out of the goodness of my heart, I offered to treat them to one appetizer each and a complimentary appletini at Applebee’s. Wow, you’re smooth, Mr. Pitt! What’d they say? Half of them wanted to skin me alive and the other half wanted to hurl me off the top of this building. In a compromise, they decided to do both. It was beginning to look like I would be dropping before the ball in Times Square tonight, that’s why I ran like Hell. Thought I could find someplace to hide, but everything’s all locked up. Why didn’t you call the cops for help, Mr. Pitt? I did, but the situation sounded way to dangerous to them, so they suggested I try contacting the 82nd Airborne for assistance. Are those ladies that scary? They’re like the angry villagers in a Frankenstein movie, complete with torches and pitchforks. Where the Hell do you get those in Midtown Manhattan on New Year’s Eve anyway? I know a guy on the Lower Eastside… Never mind! I thought since I do have a way with the ladies… You sure do, Mr. Pitt! Grrrrr. Anyway, I’m blessed or cursed with what are known as ‘bedroom eyes’, heh  heh heh, er, um, so I figured I’d flash those ladies a look like this. What do you think? You look like you have indigestion, Mr. Pitt. Never figured Angelina would go for a guy who looked like he was about to burp. I’m not Brad Pitt! My last resort is this then. On the way up I found a sombrero and a pair of glasses with a fake nose and mustache attached.  Figured I’d disguise myself and slip past those angry females. Here, let me put them on. Well, how do I look? You look like the Mexican Groucho Marx, Mr. Pitt. I’m dead. Wait! I can hear them coming up now! Goodbye, Mr. Pitt. I’m going to hide in this utility closet, because them dames might not be too particular who they throw off the building tonight. Have a nice flight. Well, here goes nothing… WHERE’S THE BOMBTHROWER!!! Hola, Senoritas. El Bombthrower hitched a ride on a passing news helicopter and is now on his way back to his hacienda, no doubt. I am just a simple tourist, in no way involved with any contest, admiring the view on this lovely New Year’s Eve. OH WELL, THANKS FOR LETTING US KNOW WHAT HAPPENED, SWARTHY MYSTERIOUS LATIN STRANGER. DO YOU HAVE INDIGESTION? No, I’m just overwhelmed by so many mas chicas so muy linda. THANK YOU. Perhaps you ladies would like to join me at Applebee’s for appetizers and appletinis? WE’D LOVE TO! Then let us vamanos and later we can catch Senor Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. HOORAY!—Feliz Ano Nuevo from your amigo, El Bombthrower!

The Bombthrower Ruins Christmas

December 6, 2008

     It’s Christmas Eve in a typical American home, no different from any other, except in this one The Reluctant Bombthrower is waiting to do an ambush interview of a beloved jolly red-suited gentleman who is about to come down the chimney. Anyone expecting fair and impartial reporting should remember the interviewer is a guy who calls himself  ‘The Bombthrower’. It is a safe bet that Bombie will need a semi to haul away all those lumps of coal he’s going to get for Christmas this year—Ho ho ho…what’s that I hear stirring? A mouse. I was using my laptop. Bombie, what are you doing here? Up to a little holiday mischief, eh? That could get a fellow on Santa’s naughty list, you know. Ho ho ho. I’m doing a little piece I like to call ‘North Pole Confidential’ and wondered if you could answer a few questions. I was expecting milk and cookies. The family that lives here always leaves me those really good Toll House cookies every year. Santa likes his cookies. Ho ho ho. Sorry Santa, no cookies. I wanted to ask about some troubling reports coming out of the North Pole. If you’re referring to the stories about Dasher and Dancer being more than roommates, I tell you they’re all lies! And the rumors that Rudolph shot a guy in Atlantic City because he tried to join in a reindeer game, I think it was Texas Hold ‘Em, are all the work of rogue elves. Rogue elves? What are they? They’re disgruntled troublemakers led by Hermey the elf. Ever since he starred in that sixties animated special he has been impossible to work with. Hermey and the other rogue elves are constantly pressuring me for a forty hour workweek, profit sharing and less beatings. Beatings??? Oops, I meant to say less beans. Yes, nothing worse at Christmas time than a flatulent elf. Anyway, ho ho ho, I think I better go, got a lot of toys to deliver, you know. I hate to tell you this Santa, the place is wired for sound and video, so you’re on ‘Candid Camera’, so to speak, and it may be in your best interest to stay. Ho ho ho, would you care for some figgy pudding? Yuk, no thank you! I don’t blame you. Got tons of the stuff in warehouses back at the Pole. It’s like fruitcake, you can’t give it away. Ho ho ho. Do you ever bring special guests up to the North Pole? Well, maybe an occasional adorable orphan to share the magic of Christmas with. Ho ho ho. Then how do you explain bringing Jayne Mansfield up for a private performance of ‘Santa Baby’, while the missus was away visiting her sister? Er, um, Santa is a great patron of the arts. Plus Jayne had some great cookies. Heh heh heh, er, um, I mean ho ho ho. Bombie, shouldn’t you be home hanging your stocking by the chimney with care? You should at least be sleeping with visions of sugar plums dancing in your head. I’ve got another question, Santa. I see a lump of coal the size of Schenectady in your future, Bombie. Then I won’t have to worry about Winter heating bills then, will I? Can certain wealthy and influential persons buy their way off Santa’s naughty list? Outrageous! No one can bribe his way off the naughty list! Did I mention I know someone who’s about to get himself permanently listed on Santa’s extra extra naughty list? Ho ho ho. You can’t scare me. Back to my question, if there’s no bribes involved, how do you explain Donald Trump and Martha Stewart getting on Santa’s nice list? It is very simple. The Trumpster, out of the goodness of his heart, gave Santa and the missus matching Gulfstream jets to aid in bringing joy to children everywhere, especially the ones living in Acapulco. That sounds like behavior worthy of the nice list to me. Ho ho ho. What about Martha Stewart? She had some great cookies. Heh heh heh, er, um, I mean ho ho ho. It’s all about the cookies with you, isn’t it? Look what I found in Santa’s bag—an X-Box 360 with a copy of Guitar Hero World Tour, and it has your name on it. Ho Ho Ho. Sounds like a bribe to me. Bombie, bribe is such an ugly word. Wait a minute! What’s this—an iPhone with Mariah Carey’s unlisted phone number already programmed in it. Ho ho ho. Wow! I mean, I can’t be bought! Unlisted number, eh? No, I can’t be bought! Now I remember, you’re still mad because I didn’t bring you a pony when you were ten years old, aren’t you? Ho ho ho. I was extra nice that year and  I cleared out a space in the garage right next to dad’s Studebaker to use as a corral. I even got a lasso and a cowboy hat. Do you know how hard it is to wrap a pony? And Santa has a bad back from eating too many cookies, if you know what I mean. Heh heh heh, er, um, I mean ho ho ho. Well, I still have to finish this interview. Of course, of course. You could do that, but that would delay me from delivering a brand new pony to a very special little Bombthrower. Ho ho ho. Really? Yes, and if you end this interview and give Santa any pesky old tapes, you could rush home to find Mariah Carey admiring your new pony. Ho ho ho. It’s a Christmas miracle! Here’s all the tapes, I can’t keep Mariah and my new pony waiting. Bye bye. Merry Christmas and don’t forget the cookies! Santa can’t get enough cookies. Heh heh heh, er, um, I mean ho ho ho.