Written by John Peurach

Sunday, 8 August 2010

image for Mea Culpa This: Are You Now, Or Have You Ever Been A Member Of The Cover Story Elite?
SOCK IT TO, ME?? Dick comes clean, along with many others, the only obvious way they know how. Way, way, after the fact.

BEVERLY HILLS - Due to the unprecedented far-reaching response to a recent news item in "The Spoof" ("FDR, We Only Thought We Hardly Knew Ye!," dated 1 August 2010), which -- at least based on the collective calculations of both the always reliable "Spoof-O-Meter" and the newly installed "Smarmatron 2000 Ratings System" -- was found to have been read (in its entirety) by apparently three-and-a-half actual alive and swell (a.k.a. partially breathing) persons from various key points all around our otherwise busy with whatever-like globe (apparently the only two guys in Kentucky USA either not religiously watching judge shows on TV all afternoon, or, it seems, already well into the process of locating and successfully accessing an ever widening array of random around the (rhymes with) clock streaming-like tubed coverage of assorted full-tilt psycho-sexual exploits involving either Carmella Bing and/or Sandra Romain; one reportedly underage (or as near as one might be reasonably expected to assume, providing, of course, a notarized note from home has already been dually authorized by: A. Whatever regional tribal council is responsible for any and all human exploitation within the specified jurisdiction. B. Whichever theological-based establishment monitors the pre-set rules and regulations governing the hearts and minds of all those within-boundary citizens currently without the free choice to not be so recklessly and unrewardingly governed, while (hopefully) still validating the parking of any fuel efficient vehicle and/or beast of burden mammal of (most likely not) anyone's own choosing, for the first two hours; and/or written off as "marginalized for your protection" by those presently affiliated with the United Nations still possessing the geopolitical flexibility to, in fact, do so) female from Gaziantep, Turkey, who felt the need to relax a bit after a long day of trying to escape from the family/clan restraints currently keeping her in unwanted physical, mental, and emotional daily servitude to a ruthless Turkish warlord/international traffiker of sweatshop produced wool sweaters and NFL branded doo-rags; plus, one misguided bloke from East London, who, according to numerous follow-up reports, got half-way through the aforementioned "Spoof" piece on U.S. President Franklin D. Roosevelt before he realized that any reference to "FDR" meant the late American Commander-In-Chief, and not (as would appear to be the case with anything he's recently made available for public amusement) the sound that apparently occurs behind him several hours after consuming too much Tandoori Murghi, or been his usual show-off self during any sort of all day dim sum jam session at any number of local Far East establishments, currently specializing in offering such a fine and occasinally delectable culinary fare.), an altogether intriguing post-story follow-up inquiry soon developed, which, in turn, uncovered a wealth of previously thought to have never existed hard copy examples of numerous over-zealous journalistic tendencies, that, taken as whole (or, better yet, and/or more accurate-wise from the "dark hole" deep within the unfinished urban crawlspace they, until a few days ago, were apparently meant to forever remain), couldn't help but quickly whip up (so far) an uncertain amount of all-too-necessary busy buzz within (as well as outside of) crank infested heads-a-plenty of all those either entrusted with the juice (or, as a rule, just irresponsible enough to have a continual thirst for its sometimes intoxicating elixir) to insist on making a career out of their seemingly endless attempts to make (no) sense, and/or like tons of speculative "say hey" hay, regarding such nosethumbworthy "news" items, whenever said headline seeking material assumes whatever position is therefore perpetually required to either, yet again, rear an ugly head (or two), or provide the opportunistic wherewithal to further entertain, amuse, and (hopefully) inform, the unwashed masses already in place (and wasting water) within these particularly troubling western hemisphere-like shores, and across-pond distant locales, as so implied.

Which, considering the strange but true fact that, neither Susan Boyle, Robert Pattinson, the Isle of Wight, and/or Justin Bieber (nor, for that matter, whiz-bang TV producer Daniel Cutforth, except in the form of a, more or less, indirect reference, via a side-handed shout-out to "trimmed or plucked President Lincoln facial hair,") were ever mentioned, or, in any way, otherwise assumed to be even partially alluded to, during the full body of work (as presented by this reporter, and subsequently published by "The Spoof"), might, in fact, be cause for some sort of future concern, if not a total recount and/or legally mandated reassessed retabulation of the bottom-line (no, not that kind) kind, so as to better understand and/or explain the, at present so-called questionable (and thus, now under review) viewer/reader measures of accountability, and all its (i.e., "their") related means and/or future abilities to both conduct and maintain whatever necessary presubscribed requirements are otherwise engaged to insure the accuracy of any and all claims for impartial evaluation, and any resulting, or ultimate grounds for established levels of entirely capable, and thus, mutually understandable corporate (and, if at all possible, public, as well) interpretation.

I guess.

In other words, having been alerted to the existence of an apparent questionable piece of historically significant "journalism" (the almost, but not quite, would-have-been-but-was-never-published 1932 TIME magazine cover featuring then Democratic presidential candidate/New York state Governor Roosevelt publicly acknowledging, with bold and totally determined WTF candor, that, yes, enquiring world-at-large, I am - or rather, he was - of a particular physical managed manner, hence, the "Yep, I'm Crippled" pronouncement, graciously made available for anyone still not yet then fully aware, and/or, till then anyway, perched on-the-fence of whatever prevalent misunderstood vox pop may have, at the time, been the so-called (anything but tall) social disorder of the day wrong day) former TMZ wunderkind (and legally recognized ordained Cross-gender Minister of Misinformation in the states of California, Delaware, and Michigan) Meredith F.U. Toowey stumbled onto a certifiable (and, in many other clearly gruesome ways, and means) a bounty of inadvertent gem-like examples of once-not-proud journalistic excesses too good to apparently pass up, and/or ignore completely; without, of course, first locating (hopefully) enough of a nearby receptacle to properly install and/or otherwise deposit (when needed, and, no doubt, it will be, eventually) with whatever fast-moving fill-in-the-blank bodily fluids are in (or, will soon be) in the process of heading for the nearest exit of whatever strategic anatomical pathway is, at the moment, cleared for outward passage from deep within an otherwise, already fully engaged, shocked and amazed, head to like toe, body cavity, of sorts, and/or well within the standard, officially sanctioned, heretofore, legally registered, state-sponsored, ecumenical-tested legal animal, vegetable, or mineral limits, typically accepted, and/or understood to be a viable, yet isolated, necessary picture, separately positioned inside the extended scope of any outwardly uncomfortable dimensions already pre-disposed to be in operational mode, either as implied, or suggested, and, by being so, also in full recognition of any limitary boundaries, such as are, and/or, already have been (thus, were) in place, and thus, entirely (more or less) employed, if not, soon-to-be possibly even further utilized by those of, by, and/or for the continuing progression of the "big picture," or, whatever else gives, until further notice, or, whenever it should so come time for any already reclining religious figurehead (preferably the Pope), culturally inept (or, at best, suspect) social network entrepreneur, and/or, recently disgraced overweight Major League Baseball umpire, to officially awake from whatever already in progress nap had, until such time, been the cause for, and/or resulted in, their apparently unwavering spiritless indispensability.

That is, prior to their being otherwise fully aware of what was, in fact, initially intended to be just a simple enough proposition, if not exactly an already, assumed to be, long since past afterthought. In the first place, as it were. And so, it was. With, of course, clearly no one yet to know (or understand) the real reason why. Except for maybe, just because.

In still other words, Mr./Ms. Toowey, while he/she/it was snooping around recently during an Ed McMahon Estate Auction/Porte-cochere sale in Beverly Hills, California (following a series of tips, found in both a hermetically-sealed mayonnaise jar underneath the cushions of a couch that had been on Funk and Wagnalls porch since noon of at least fifteen years prior, and, as it turned out, also near the bottom of a pickle barrel discovered in the alley behind a well known West Los Angeles delicatessen/tailor shop/mohel tools & supplies/pre-school training center) apparently stumbled upon what appears to be a largely unknown priceless collection of mint-condition magazines, periodicals, and/or multi-tiered press-kit information notebooks. Each of which showcased a disgraced and infamous public figure from the past in all their then well under-fire hoped to be soon mea culpa'd like glory, attempting to, at long last, set the record straight.

At least for any and all those who, at the time, were of a mind (besides what was limited to their own) to either pick up any late breaking news and informative discussion at the local newsstand, get it delivered to their door each and every (and sometimes twice a) day, or have it be explained in a soft and soothing, wisely worded manner that played up to their expectations and never irrespectively down to their, more often than not, unfounded, if not entirely unguarded fears.

But, in the meantime, was apparently inside a Publisher's Clearing House labeled footlocker heavily covered with an assortment of American University decals and sports oriented team logos, which (until its moment of discovery) was otherwise being utilized as the supportive structure for several tropical fish tanks that had long ceased to support anything more substantial than a significant amount of noticeable fungi, along with the numerous, fully expired fish, each of which were still in the bloated-like process of floating slowly atop what was, by then, a decidedly cloudy collection of otherwise putrid fish tank water.

Upon further review, Mr./Ms. Toowey quickly made the somewhat startling discovery that, because the assorted magazines, periodicals, and notebooks in question each resembled, all-too closely, the aforementioned Franklin D. Roosevelt "Yep, I'm Crippled" TIME magazine cover story, as dreamed up by edgy, over-the-top, FDR campaign manager/advisor extraordinaire, Abe Snidewinder, (later to be farmed out so successfully with the then infamous, yet now kind of quaint, Ellen DeGeneres' "Yep, I'm Gay" TIME cover from 14 April 1997) it would appear that he (Snidewinder) subsequently continued to dabble in the sometime high-handed/low-ball P.R. game, either by hook or by crook, or by accidentally on purpose design, long after leaving the tricky trenches of his governmental advisory post somewhat unsafely behind him.

Needless to say, it was no wonder then that at the time said cover story materials were uncovered by Mr./Ms. Toowey,, it was reported that he/she/it immediately let out a loud scream, then promptly fainted and quickly fell head first into a nearby pile of still rather plush "Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson bathrobes and Budweiser barbeque chef aprons.

"I couldn't believe it," exclaimed Mr./Ms. Toowey, once he/she/it was brought back to earth with smelling salts, and the suspicious contents of what at the time was assumed to be an open can of Alpo dog food, but later turned out to be something of a more personal nature, which one of the auction house attendant's had apparently failed to properly delivery in time to his primary care physician's office earlier in the day for further study at a nearby diagnostic lab. "It was all there. The mother scratcher lode of us all. I mean, there they were, all the urban myth front covers of whatever kooky spin jobs Snidewinder and his band of P.R. obsessed village idiots had apparently either constructed and construed, whenever it was thought that the time might be right to finally bust things out of the all for nothing, screwed, booed and un-tattooed mentality constraints that back then held the masses in total check, and took whatever fun these joy-buzzin' bozos liked to experiment with, and, well, you know, turned a deaf ear and blind eye to it, and, as was always the case, an upset sour stomach, all over it, as well, n order to, I guess, match the rest of the country's already weak heart and altogether gutless, lock-step, lazy ass, poor man's soul, of sorts."

Meanwhile, aside from the aforementioned Snidewinder produced treasures (apparently spun out, on the sly during his under the radar days (from roughly 1933 until his death in 1962, during which time the erstwhile political schememeister punched the clock, and whatever pompous public gas bags needed either a poke, shove, and/or proverbial sharp stick in the eye of the beholder, while otherwise employed and/or socially engaged as the producer of assorted Three Stooges shorts, third base coach for the St. Louis Browns, Co-Procucer/Head Writer of whatever radio, TV, live theater mischief Soupy Sales got himself into, and, as was traditionally the case during much of that time, the occasional weekend (not exactly full-service) escort for both comedic stage and film actress Patsy Kelly, and highly regarded popular songstress Margaret Whiting), numerous other similar styled front cover concoctions of note were discovered as well, in this latest find during the McMahon estate sale/auction.

Although not officially verified, many of these items are believed to be the work of once upon a time Detroit area kiddie TV show host Johnny Ginger, who, for many years, served a somewhat spirited apprenticeship under the guidance of Snidewinder, and later formed a limited partnership association with him, as well, prior to his own eventual abbreviated fame and undetermined quickly spent fortune as resident funnyman/small-time Wayne County numbers runner kicked in for better or worse at WXYZ -TV in the Motor City during the 1960s.

Based on the existence of these either commissioned, and/or phony as all get the "F" out cover stories, it would now seem that Ginger may have in fact picked up all the way up the you-know-what, or wherever it was Master Snidewinder left off, following his unfortunate accidental drowning death in 1962, when he fell off the Staten Island Ferry near the Statue of Liberty during Kitty Carlisle's birthday party, apparently as a direct result of an alleged scuffle with longtime N.Y. radio talk show host Barry Farber that was reported to have originated due to a spilled cocktail and a somewhat creative follow-up suggestion as to what to do with a nearby shrimp platter, along with, it would seem, Snidewinder's expert ability to curse in Serbo-Croatian, and Farber's overall fluency with regards to the sometimes inflammatory nature of some of the more hotter choice words available to loud and aggressive verbalizers of the anything but romantic, tongue first, Balkan area language.

All of which, of course, means that what Mr./Ms. Toowey had, and thus, what he/she/it still has in the form of these would-prized examples of celebrity-based expectations and intentions, especially as they come face to face down with a reality wall that asks for none, but will always take whatever prisoners make themselves readily available for a bit of public-like poking and around the horn plucking.

Consequently, some of the here and there who's whos on display in this wide load collection, are many familiar show and tell's, of the long ago, as well as recent variety past. Taken together they offer up a consistently inventive form of "what if" to stand in unhinged loyal opposition of "what was", for then, as not now, a more, or less, closed off system of only hinted at derangibiltiy within a sea of perpetual club-footed multi-media predictability.

"And here, I thought, all I was going to find, at least going in, was perhaps Mr. McMahon's rather extensive collection of Jeanette McDonald sheet music," confessed Mr./Ms. Toowey, still not yet all the way down from her most recent stay on cloud 9. "Or, at best, a small, sliver of a sample of his legendary, one-of-a-kind, world class "Soap Opera Digest" collection. I mean, to find at least some of what he is supposed to have on both Kim Zimmer and Colleen Zenk Pinter, well, I don't have to tell you. But, seriously, who the hell knew anything about there being something along the likes of all this??"

In any case, some of the more noteworthy familiar in this all present and accounted for fun bunch brigade, include:

MILTON BERLE: That's right gang, it's Uncle Miltie beaming at ya big time on the June 1953 cover of Confidential. And, according to the boldly stated banner-sized QT mush just north of his goofy moosh, "big" is indeed the order of the day, as the Titan of TV comedy leaves no stone unturned (except for maybe Forrest Tucker's) when he alerts the stay-at-home enquiring mindset troops that, "Yep, It Is! (Which is why I'm required by the Friar's to fold it in half!)." Thank God, or whoever it was that helped Snidewinder put together the issue (court documents several years later revealed this to be current Port Huron (Michigan) Times Herald publisher, Andrew Osgood Achetz), which also featured supposed verifiable eyeball/hands-on testimony to Berle's down there claims, from the likes of Broadway heavy hitter Ethel Merman, TV second banarama ding-dong Vivien Vance, and, surprisingly enough, buttoned down network TV newscaster John Cameron Swayze.

Meanwhile, contrary to what some felt the need to come out and all the way suggest following the discovery of this particular cover-story, Milton reportedly never had anything more than a cigar filled hand at, or about his side, and/or way, way, out in front, when it came time for Swayze to test out the durability of the always licking and ticking Timex watches he was seemingly so keen on pushing, whenever the bulletins from the Korean battle theater and the clued-in clinic conducting Senator McCarthy's overall shame bypass began to slow down to a trickle.

GEORGE W. BUSH: I-i-i-i-i-i-t's him, on the January 2001 cover of Kickback, the seldom read Halliburton international agenda newsletter/many penny saver (for them, exclusively) global weekly. And, wouldn't ya just know, W would be perhaps the last to know that, "Yep, I'm President. (So, there! From now on, it looks like I'm the one you erected to be in charge, after all. Go figure!)" Don't look now, but somebody already did. And this time it was in all the papers. Since, of course, at the time, a mess like that was too much for the usual pocket-sized supply of necessary walking the dog around the park plastic bags.

GARY COOPER: Small talk comes cheap. Especially when this lanky silver screen heartthrob graced the would-be cover of the August 23, 1949 issue of LIFE, to inform an anxiously enraptured world of onlookers that, "Yep." in other words, yes Virginia, there was at least a 10cc chance that the moist and sweaty rumors were true that Coop and Pat Neal were an on again (usually the plush couch in Fred McMurray's Paramount dressing room, the last row of the Santa Anita grandstand, and/or John Barrymore's long since forgotten snooker table in the backroom of Perino's) romantic item for the lustful golden ages.

CAHIERS du CINEMA BOY'S CLUB plus AGNES VARDA: The ever-popular French New Wave almost tsunamied its way all the way to Cannes (and points everywhere else along the jump-cut highway) on the June 1959 cover of Paris Match. What with Francois Truffaut, Jean-Luc Godard, Claude Chabrol, Alain Resnais, Jacques Rivette, Eric Rohmer, and yes, Agnes Varda (looking more like Moe Howard than her typical usual) each sitting triumphantly in the Palais des Festivals et des Congress lobby with their feet up on a coffee table that looks suspicioulsy like a highly unamused Maurice Chevalier, while the headlining banner above the new conquering cineastes-on-the-block proudly states, "Yep, we love Aldrich, Fuller, Hawks, Hitchcock, Ray, Siegel, and Sirk. (And, oh hell yeah, Jerry Lewis, too!)"

DETROIT LIONS: The inadvertently held back issues of numerous (too many to actually determine at this point) Pro Football Digests can't help but say it all with this recurring theme gridiron assessment, much to the clueless chagrin of erstwhile cover boys Matt Millen, Scott Mitchell, Eric Hipple, Joey Harrington, Chuck Long, and Andre Ware, "Yep, We Suck! (All the way to whatever banks currently hold possession of more of our fans used to be homes than ever before!)" And that they surely do, the Lions, that is. As in, suck, just like they pretty much have done ever since the fabulous 1950s found its everlasting unsafe-loser-at-any-speed home in the rearview mirror of millions of poorly produced and/or (for the most part) totally unsold American-made automobiles everywhere and, of course, all the usual other nowheres in between.

JUDY GARLAND: On the December 1950 special Holiday Issue of One Magazine, little girl lost Judy - recently it-canned by MGM - sits all elf-like on a not-exactly hunky Santa's lap, looking out sadly at an otherwise mostly still in world looking on, and, well into the beyond. The clearly foreshadowing caption reads: "Yep, I'm a long beloved pill-popping, basket case, show-biz icon, who's untimely demise will one day be the indirect spark that will otherwise ignite an altogether unshakable, yet forever festive, social movement which will someday rule the world, dearie."

ADOLF HITLER: TIME magazine, in a sort of too little too late attempt to make-up for their having awarded Hitler their 1938 Man of the Year honor, had somewhat nobler than usual thoughts of maybe setting the record straight with a planned for May 1945 cover with a surprisingly sheepish, but obviously, not yet down and out and/or all the way on-the-ropes Fuhrer puttering around the bunker with Eva, beneath the headline: "Yep, I was kidding. (About all that master race stuff, mainly, but not about Mahler and, of course, my sometimes peculiar obsessive-like fascination for any kind of strudel.)"

JOHN F. KENNEDY: Looking as bold and as brightest as can be, to say nothing, if not totally daring and adventurous, although, maybe at the moment, down a quart, or two, of his usually ultra-impressive and commanding presidential vigor, JFK had this to own up to on a proposed September 1962 issue that featured a not-exactly grainy series of enlarged super-8 film frames of him exiting Marilyn Monroe's L.A. home, "Yep, I have, for sometime now. (Or, ever since that party at Peter Lawford's, and, like, pretty much non-stop since I took the oath of office, except for, well, that night of my birthday. But still, she sang like a door bell, didn't she? Or, something like that.)"

LYLE LOVETT: On the never published October 1993 cover of semi-legendary Chattanooga-based country music fanzine Long & The Short of It, obviously got something going on singer-songwriter Lovett, took time out from his somewhat shocking, still-scratching-his-mangy-head, love bird nuptials to starlet Julia Roberts to offer up this little bit of something, if not the total-like truth of the real deal matter, "Yep, I'm one lucky bastard! (In other words, who cares if the dog up and dies now? I mean, screw the county fair/back to school tour. I'm sticking around the house here, with no intentions of ever waking up again. Or, at least not before the wife does.)"

CHARLES MANSON: A mid-seventies issue of Fed Slammer Monthly that apparently was lost (and then found) during someone's weekly cavity search, had this to say about the then reigning incarcerated superstar, "Yep, I'm nuts. (I mean, I thought that was already fairly obvious. But hell, I can wait for you all to catch up with me. And I know you will, eventually, all in due time. If you don't think so, just read the riot act in my eyes. And while you're at it, scope out that forehead. If that doesn't do it for ya, then, by all means, watch me wiggle my ears!)"

JIM MORRISON: Luckily for Doors faithful everywhere this never went to press July 1971 issue of Rolling Stone was left hanging on no one's drawing board. In other words, even though much of what was intended to be revealed wasn't exactly news, no one at the time really needed to see another photo of the bloated, passed-out carcass of the dynamic rock God lounging in some West Hollywood bushes with his leather pants half-way off, while a quasi-psychedelic headline rather unsubtly informed what remained of the used to be far out world that, "Yep, I'm a drunk. ( What, you were expecting a....what, a prophet? A poet?? A more or less overheated crooner of highly expressive rock songs, dripping with poetic possibilites that, if not totally pretentious, were, in themselves, pointed-to-nowhere propositions brought forth to petition the Lord with prayer? To petition the Lord with prayer?? To petition the Lord with.........bl-bl-blaaaaaaeeeeeeccccchhhhhhh!!!!)"

RICHARD M. NIXON: Presidential Bad Boy #1 went whole hog on this Newsweek cover in 1974 that was scrapped as soon as he had enough nerve to tell a weary nation that his full-of-it road show was being called on account of a two-bit burglary and eventual resulting follow-up national political scandal. In other words, it would have been a whole lot different, for sure, if Tricky had only said "Yep, I'm a crook. (And a jim dandy one at that, too, I might add. Cloth coat, or no cloth coat.)" when he initially had us at hello, rather than at what it seems to have eventually all sort of become, namely, just one long, forever nation dividing, never have to say you're sorry, goodbye.

PABLO PICASSO: Although this in no way was intended to fill in the blanks or even attempt to stay in whatever lines went nowhere, and thus, everywhere but as expected, the master artist was at least being fairly candid when he announced via a never-before-seen held back cover of a July 1969 issue of ArtReview, which showed Pablo, clad in nothing but a pair of New York Mets boxer shorts, posed on the shore somewhere in the south of France, with this to say, "Yep, I can't figure out some of them either. (But, what the hell, it pays for the villa, and seems to have supplied me, over the years, with more tail than Tony Curtis.)"

O.J. SIMPSON: Looking even more surprised than certain segments of the interested population were at the time, former football superstar/recently un-convicted murder suspect Simpson had this to confess, on a not-ready-for publication 1995 cover story for GQ that spotlighted a growing need for men's gloves that fit properly, without too much unnecessary or obviously uncomfortable snuggability, "Yep, I'm innocent. (And, back to lookin' as sharp as an alleged murder weapon, not, of course, of my own carefully staged and/or plausibly denied choosing.)"

TIGER WOODS: Leave it to Sports Illustrated to rain on Rick Reilly's chummy do-tell with the golf's greatest 3-wood free swinger that was apparently geared for a special edition Meet the Master's Tournament issue this past April, with cover guy Tiger's 19th hole turnaround explanation doing the honors, "Yep, I'm as horny as a hound dog hanging around one of Kelly Wells' all-night Las Vegas poker (I did) parties. (And that ain't no tricky sort of, you know, deep in the usual ruff kind of three-stroke, well.......lie.)"

And so it slides. With even more alarming would-be tell it like it is, was, and, more or less should-be should have been cover stories from both Snidewinder and Ginger depicting the big faces and little, seldom spoken words of the rich and forever misunderstood infamous, as they tried hoped for best to properly air out whatever they could of their sometimes emperor-like dirty laundry.

Until now, that is, when, at long last, the unbroken record of past dumbbell deeds can finally now all be set straight, and hopefully forever free. Going full-circle, and then some, if you will. Or, if not, then at least full of something to little note, nor long remember.

Yeah, right.

Uh-oh, here comes Harvey and his TMZ honks.

Check, please!


The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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