He-Man….She-Ra….SNAP…Kentucky Jay Headstone:
WE ALL HAVE THE POWERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR……
Skeletor is ravin’. Faith No More, you are the guiding light…
Kentucky Jay is jovial on a Tuesday Night. JOVIAL ON A TUESDAY NIGHT!!! Why place prohibitions on paradise? I’ll bring you twenty leagues closer to the Infernal Bliss, and I WON’T charge you a penny for the ride! However, Obligations to the Averse Demand:
In 1985, CBS resurrected “The Twilight Zone”. The second episode that aired starred Melinda Dillon (Ralphie’s mom from “A Christmas Story”) as an overworked, underappreciated housewife who unearths a gold pendant during a gardening excursion. The pendant grants her the ability to stop people dead in their tracks, frozen, unaware of their homeostasis. She revels in her ability to shut up the world for as long as she likes and enjoy the solitude and silence. When she wants to re-start the world, she utters a calm “go”, and folks are back to noise-makin’. One evening, an ominous siren pierces suburbia, and the TV & radio stations holler that a full-scale attack from our friends in the U.S.S.R. has gleefully commenced. The end is imminent. She yells “STOP!” and, of course, the pendant does its thing. The world stops. The housewife wanders downtown and observes the once-fleeing-to-their-homes-and-shelters (now flesh and blood department store dummies) people looking up and pointing. Housewife looks to the night sky….a nuclear missile is trapped, motionless, mere yards from the ground. She can’t wish for the world to start again…what can she do?? The episode is entitled “A Little Peace and Quiet”…AND THIS MOMENT DEFINED ME FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.
Yes, in 1985, that picture was scarier than Bruce Campbell in an agitatin’ blender.
I’ve memorized the names of each wrestler who has competed in the WWF/WWE Royal Rumble, and, when I cannot easily fall asleep at night, I recite them in chronologically descending order, 2012 to 1988, starting with CM Punk and ending with Sam Houston. I do not permit myself to accept the embrace of sleep until this mental recollection is comprehensively completed. I have resigned myself to the need for sleep, but gee-dam, I abhor dreaming. I don’t have a phobia or fear; I don’t wake in a cold sweat and ghastly chill. I just bloody detest dreams. They’re useless. I dream about wearing purple pajamas, waxing a kitchen floor and watching “The Chevy Chase Show” on CNBC. The punchline? I KNOW that I am dreaming, and in my dreams, I am disgusted. Ergo, I reject any validity the dream may hold, and I wake in a snit. Dreams. Nuisances. Lately, I’ve been dreaming that rotting fruit and derisive cheerleaders have been pestering me to watch the new TV show, “Arrow”. (BY THE BY, A POST SOME TIME BACK A SPELL EXPRESSED MY REGRET’N’RAGE THAT CHANNEL 11, WPIX, HAD BEEN EJECTED FROM MY LIFE — LAST MONDAY, THE NETWORK RETURNED…THEN NEW JERSEY WENT DARK. SMALL VICTORIES AND SPAGHETTIOS…)
For a while, I was secretly concerned that I died at birth and that my entire existence was only the fabricated “don’t let this happen to you” worst case scenario of a middle school safety filmstrip. Since getting married to my best friend, I don’t feel that way anymore, but I am still very nostalgiac for middle school filmstrips.
Now, here’s that fight scene from “Police Academy 2: Their First Assignment” you demanded…