Venutian Sex Education

The vagaries of Venutian venereal diseases no doubt played some role in the suppression of that particular 1976 episode of Match Game – the seminal television classic so fondly remembered by enthusiasts of ribald tomfoolery, double entendres and Charles Nelson Reilly.

I allegedly appeared in the episode myself as a guest panelist, as I entertained at the time a minor and dubious celebrity as a result of the still controversial Marrakesh Affair. As the episode in question has not only completely vanished but supposedly never existed, I cannot confirm or deny my participation.

The threads of research that are available indicate that the episode was not without the usual hullabaloos – including but limited to crass blankety blanks, public drunkenness, as well as a fist fight between a certain science fiction icon and a former child star which was ultimately edited from the broadcast.

For all intents and purposes this episode was not unlike any other from the show’s storied run in the 1970’s – apart of course from its peculiar disappearance. Many episodes were lost due to eaten videotapes or bawdy behavior and yet this episode was not banned due to some mere accident or act of censorship, but something far more sinister.

While the vast majority of its North American viewing audience was enjoying the reliably entertaining hijinks of Match Game something unusual was occurring in a television market in Saskatchewan – a signal hijack from unknown sources.

The actual footage - as best described as the possible work of Dadaist perverts, genuine humanoid entities or a cosmic conspiracy of lunatics – was said to resemble something not unlike an extradimensional sex education film – little green men putting their ________ into ________. 

Regardless of what the signal hijack did or did not contain, or who was indeed responsible, the video feed reportedly had maddening effects upon viewers ranging from seizures to paranoia to madness. Indeed, one particular town on the northern fringes of the province was said to have been besieged by an abnormal frenzy of aberrant behavior said to include cannibalism.

In spite of the localized nature of the mass hysteria all copies the Match Game episode itself are believed to have been destroyed.

This, of course, is all mere speculation. And yet I have little doubt that somewhere amongst the many towns and peaceful hamlets dotting the frozen Canadian prairie there remains at least one tape containing the said footage.

A Brief Youtube History of Match Game

A Brief Youtube History of Signal Hijacks

Mr. Baron Samedi

My latest do-si-do in zealous zombification, Mr. Baron Samedi, will be included in the June 9th, 2013 edition of Schlock!.

Bring Me the Head of Charlie Borgia

I vaguely recall I had claimed numerous islands in the South Seas and anointed myself as the President-for-Life, Commander and Master Inquistioner of my own personal would-be utopia - the Borgian States of Polynesia.

I made a princely sum via several wealthy eccentric investors but my autocratic monarchy succumbed to numerous problems - including but not limited to a cholera epidemic, attacks and forays from an irritable local headhunting tribe as well as my subjects' cloying desire for a representative democracy.

Like any self-respecting dictator I promptly absconded with all available funds, relocated to Spain and spent the rest of the money on ordinary and necessary business expenditures such as falconing lessons, cocaine and hot air balloon rides. 

However, the IRS objected to these tax deductions and I received a charming, cordial letter informing me of my imminent financial assassination.

Ever the rambler I fled and found myself back in the Borgian States of Polynesia, only to find myself usurped by my former friend and forever nemesis, the Lisping Persian, who had seduced the local headhunters into installing him as ruler.

The Borgian States of Polynesia is the now People's Sultanate of Revolutionary Delight, and I find myself hunted through the bush by experienced cannibals.

I can only hope the hapless IRS auditors parachuted into this hellish jungle at the beginning of every month to find me are functioning as an entertaining distraction for my would-be carnivores. 

Tales of Madness and Rhodesia

I can't escape my past as a professional soldier of fortune, lover and gambler during the Rhodesian Bush War of 1976.

I had gone AWOL from my position as a drug mule for the Greco-Turkish mafia, and as such had a significant blood debt upon my head. Suffice to say, the obvious immediacy led me southward.

Along with many Afrikaners, Dutch and amoral adventurers, I had been hired as a mercenary to train the peasant irregulars of Rhodesia into killing and dying, but mostly dying.

Those feverish nights led to a kind of sultry desperation; I witnessed things and did things which I will never repeat to another human being. And dare not repeat, even upon my deathbed.

I distinctly remember that a shortage of tobacco had led a mad Boer named Piet (art forger by trade) to capture and torture dung beetles. The resulting carcasses were then ground up and sprinkled into his cigarettes.

It may have been his infectious madness, or a madness of sweat and delirium and violence, but this spread quickly through the camp and made all of us mad.

Fresh dung beetles were sold at a premium exceeding gold or bullets. The tips of these cigarettes were then dipped in mostly diluted and cut cocaine, provided by the Soviet agents and harlots that frequented the region at this time.

The lisping Persian was essential in these transactions, but I was never able to assess his exact role. He was my best friend and most hated enemy; a man that would alert you to the latest assassination plot against your life while profiting by assisting the CIA or KGB on how to make the next four plots more efficient.

These were bleary, hungover kind of days. I had profited from rigged gambling in each of the mercenary camps, and fled to South America with a Canadian felon that had specialized in faked passports.

Renfield's Twist

She was an unrepentant nine on the scale from nun to gangster’s moll, and her legs didn’t seem to spread so much as they sprawled.  She raised ructions without her bottle of bourbon and regularly treated me as her beast of burden.

My cards didn’t flop so much as they folded after I found I had been serially cuckolded – I vowed to see the marriage through to the end before I realized she had fornicated with most of my friends.

This beauty once so petite was now quite gluttonous with swollen feet – her love for food and booze was exceeded only by her fondness for my mouth organ, the only instrument in my possession ever touching the lips of this now considerable Gorgon.

My salvation came in the form of that Kansas City geek – an English freak that happily bit the heads off of rats and devoured live chickens’ feet.  A mere carnival distraction and yet the beginning of an undeniable attraction – her lazy and sinful ways accommodated his eccentricities and affinity for flies with mayonnaise.

Soulmates no doubt, as her girth and reliable gout made her a candidate for the big top in a dual show billed as Renfield and the Fat Lady with a Harmonica and a Trough Full of Slop.

Topless Afrikaners

As a horrible human being I've happily stolen from the poor to give to the rich, for a few dollars I once turned Judas and became a federal snitch and I regularly deface fine art in the name of kitsch.

And yet I do have some holy vows and sacred cows, namely the exposed breasts and flirtatious jests of topless Afrikaners. 

I've seen many a nude wench, primarily American, Japanese or French and yet some South African quirk provides a supple yet inexplicable perk in that land of cheetahs, toucans and substantial mammary glands.