Hey, WFMU bloglets! Ed Shepp here with a tender virgin postie for all y'all out there in bloglandd. So much old news is hitting the fan now that I had to weigh in with my two scents. Don't worry, though-I didn't really read the stories I'm about to mention; I got the info from headlines and hearsay: inadmissible-in-court type stuff. So you won't have to deal with complicated, hard-hitting exegesis (but maybe a few $10 words just for show) . Aiight, everybody grab a bran muffin and let's get started.
First off, something radio-sorta-related. Word on the street Howard Stern wears a wig, without which he looks "like a dentist from the Bronx, who probably sells condoms." Amazing. I never would have guessed, with his fine faux tresses and my short attention span to things-that-aren't sparkly. But now that I know of his Secret Wig of Doom, I'm convinced it's the same one Cher wore in Moonstruck. Oh, wait-that was real. Amazing.
I must admit-this wig thing has given me a whole new appreciation for Howard Stern. You see, I've been chanting at the wig temple for longer than I can remember. One of my cherished dreams of early adulthood was to be like Ray Jean (played by Tootie Ramsey) in that sitcom Living Single, sporting a new wig for every scene in each episode of my life. But then one day I decided to seize the wigged day and go buy one-a Keanu Reeves bob, maybe a James Dean pompadour-to my dismay I discovered that NOT ONE good man's wig could be found on store shelves!!! (No good crowns either, but that's a different obsession-lots of tiaras, no crowns.) I realized that if you want a really good man-wig (mawg), you have to drop a few thousand in cheddar, so I packed my dreams of endless effortless hair variety away with the 700 packs of gum I keep in-case-of-apocalypse. ...But wait! Here comes Howard Stern with his wig flapping in the breeze like a deflated tire (shhhh-can you hear it?), fanning new life into my dreams of wigdom. Thank you, Howard Stern! And good for you for having the courage to parade around in that wig! And a woman's wig no less! Amazing.
Since we're on the wig tip, I would like to take this opportunity to say the word merkin. (Click here to hear me say merkin.) I only recently found out what one was, and from Pseu Braun no less, who lives in a tent (actually, it's more like a teepee). Do you know what one is? No need to reach for the dicktionary-I'll tell you. Briefly, it's a pussy wig. Apparently they're big with bushless actresses who need to go native for a scene. Who knew?! Anyway, I've decided to endeavor to intend to collect merkins one of these days, ideally to have one from every continent. I think it would be amazing to have a Merkin Room (merkoom), where they proudly festoon the walls like the Art they are. I wonder if they come in mink. Of if they shrink. Do they stink on the pink of a fink in the clink? Are they rich in zinc like a drink of ink from the Sync Roller Rink, Inc.? Hmmm. Makes you think.
Another item: I heard the other day that gawker* is planting its bloggers in a glass storefront so that passersby can, er, gawk at them typing up their hilarious missives. LIVE. How exciting. Almost as gripping as watching really sarcastic grass dry, but only in that way that people who eat a lot of liver can do. Did that make sense? No.
I think it would be much more engaging if they were locked in a Plexiglas box over Times Square, harnessed into those torture chairs that pierce you if you lose muscle tone, and denied bathroom access unless they could grasp a bean between their toes and toss it into a hoop across the room (at which point a huge Alarm of Celebration would sound, the surprise of which rendering the whole bathroom effort moot). Ah yes, that would be nice. Sigh with me in blissful reverie. Ahhhhhh...
But since that can never, ever, ever be, I'm issuing a call to arms, a Phlashmob Phatwa if you will: Let's all go down there next week carrying signs saying things like, "I thought you'd be better-looking" and "You're not so fashionable" and "Don't think of a white bear." Furthermore, everyone bring squeak toys-they're such sonorous instruments of torture. None of us shall utter a word: the signs and squeaks will speak louder than any human or kangaroo ever could. Maybe we could even make them cry! I'm sure the tears would have the consistency and odor of motor oil. ^Å.Or crude. Hmmmm, could I have just singlehandedly solved the world's looming energy problems? Yes! A-ma-zing.
Moving on, my roommate told me that a remake of Dallas is in the works. He also told me that, whenever he had an exam in college, if the Dallas theme music sounded in his mind's ear beforehand, he always did well. I thought, Now that's the kind of brain seizure you want to have! They have HBO and Showtime on demand, why not brain seizures on demand?? Mark my words, bloglets-as sure as Cher wears a merkin, it's the next thing. Buy stock in siezurators now. I have a nose for these kinds of things.
But back to the remake: Why? Aren't Madonna's last 3 albums and all of Eddie Murphy's movies stinking up the world enough? Do we really need another remake of some 80s series that, when you think about it, wasn't all that good to begin with? Especially since the remake is bound to be even worse. If Hollywood or Sitcomland is doing it, it will be wretched. But since hope, like a dystopian turd, floats eternal, instead of expervigorating the idea I will offer my free** advice on how to make this new series amazing. Just a few blips: Miss Ellie should be played by the only person who can do the role justice, Miss Oprah Winfrey. In whiteface. She should be coated in latex makeup that peels off at dramatic moments; the plot could explain this by giving her some rare form of reverse vitiligo-meets-leprosy, in which her skin flakes off in sheets to reveal more pigmented skin beneath. Except that it's back to a uniform shade in the next scene. Mazazing. I see Sue-Ellen being played by Sharon Stone, but admittedly, it would be quite entertaining if she were played by Sharon Stone in some scenes and Dakota Fanning in others. JR must be played by someone with a wicked combover. Who is really skinny. Maybe they can get Jack White to take lose some hair so that he could take on the role. Lastly, and most importantly, Jerri Blank should live on the ranch. (Click here to hear me imitate Jerri Blank.) She could be even a fringe character, just as long as she's there. But then I challenge you to name a show that wouldn't be made more amazing by adding Jerri Blank! Can't think of one? Exactly.
One final point: I've come to the realization that I overuse the word amazing. To rectify this, I've printed out a list of synonyms that mean the same thing and have the same effect with identical substance. (Click here to hear me read some now.) In case you too abuse the word, I will reproduce as a public service some alternatives for you here:
Electrifying, incandescent, spectacular, scintillating, capital, voluptuwhimsical, EdSheppian, arrestounding, primotastical, devazzgling, WFMUlial
And thus my virgin WFMU blog post comes to a gwanzbeepular close. How'd I do? (Don't answer that! Don't make me get out the squeak toy!) I'll be back again when the moon hits your eye like a piece of eel pie. Stay tuned, bnootches!
Beeps and paste,
*Full disclosure: I actually love gawker. No, I
love/hate gawker. I almost had a gawkerian on my show, but it didn't
work out, which was lucky, cux it would've been one of the Christmas
shows, all of which
turned out amazing staggerastical. But my affection/legionofdoomness toward them long predates that, ever since I asked, "Put me in gawker!" and heard nothing. but. silence.
**"Free" in this context means "You better pay me a lot of cheddar if you use those ideas!!!" (Click here to hear me say that, just in case it's not clear.)