Captain Ahab's Lost Twitter Log Sees Light of Day

      At long last, the lost Twitter log of famed whaler and monomaniac Captain Ahab is available for viewing, thanks to the fine folks at Yankee Pot Roast. From Hell's heart, he'll stab at thy funny bone.

Family Court Circus

Family Court artist Bill Keane is off this week, so Little Billy is filling in with his observations.

Trending Twitter Topics--Catnip for Comics

      If you've ever Twittered away your time online, you're probably familiar with the "Trending Topics" list on the right-hand side of your Twitter home page that identifies the words and phrases that are appearing most often on the social networking site. The trending topics list usually reflects the news of the hour, but it also serves as a sort of meme mine, and often facilitates--for better or worse--a certain brand of flashmob comedy writing. Tonight someone started the topic #coolbandsmadeuncool, which essentially involved changing famous band names to their near--but very disappointing--analogues. The Broken Stove is feeling pleased enough with its own contributions to reprint them here for your delectation.

#coolbandsmadeuncool

• The Snuggle Pistols
• Telegraphhead
• The Butthole Smurfers
• They Might Be Padres
• Dead Coolidges
• and my personal favorite, Public Enema

addenda

• Burkha-Clad Ladies
• RUN DMV
• Dr. Drédel [Yiddish mother voice] "Such a nice young man...AND a doctor!"[/Yiddish mother voice]

P.S. The musically-challenged among you should feel free to request a key to the original cool band names. But then I'll know either a) you're not cool, or b) I'm not as clever as I thought I was. Probably it's a).

Father's Day After Dad (Not to Get Too Maudlin or Anything)

      Every year on Mother's and Father's Days I feel a vague sense of aimlessness and resentment, based on the fact that I no longer have either a mother or a father to whom to make the obligatory phone call, or to send the expected card. The resentment isn't with my parents for having checked out at relatively young ages (cancer both times), but rather with the world at large for so cheerfully reminding me at least twice a year, via the power of advertising, that Mom & Dad are no longer accepting their obeisances, and in fact aren't even available for a nice chat. Of course that isn't the world's fault any more than it is my parents', but feelings certainly don't need to be rational to be real.
      On Father's Day at least I have my father-in-law, a semi-retired American Baptist minister, a counsellor, a lover of books and history, and by any objective standard a swell guy. In most particulars, he and my own father couldn't have been more different--my father was bald from his thirties; my father-in-law still sports a shocking and impenetrably thick pelt which, even in its current complete whiteness, could be the envy of any 25 year-old. My father once let me assist him in the construction of a dot matrix printer for his computer--from a kit that actually required the soldering of components onto the circuit board from a schematic diagram; my father-in-law can still become lost in the wilds of his email program. In any group of strangers my father became shy and retiring and said little; my father-in-law comes to life with strangers, asks them about their lives, regales them with his formidable collection of personal anecdotes, and generally makes them feel special, appreciated, and better off for having met him, however briefly. My father-in-law is now the one with whom I can commiserate about the shameful play of the Mets and Pirates, and to whom I will happily listen as he decries the breaking of sports rules which haven't been in effect since the early 70's (Do not get him started on breaking the plane of the goal line. Just don't go there.). Happy Father's Day Don, you white-haired smoothie, you.
      But since Father's Day has me wishing I could have Dad over for a nice steak off the grill he bought for my first house-warming, and since he's not around to become embarrassed, I feel free to tell one of my favorite tales of one of his less brilliant moments as head of the Waldron gang. In his defense, I will begin the tale by informing dear reader that I do have four brothers, and the oldest is only seven years older than I, the youngest. So the pace of life for my parents in the days of my youth probably hovered somewhere between "dull roar" and "riot control," depending upon our sugar levels. And generally speaking, my mother was the one to take us to the doctor when germs, or hurled rocks, or the simple fact that gravity works made such a visit necessary. So my father was already out of his element when he had to take my six year-old self to the doctor's office to deal with one of the dozens and dozens of ear infections our germy little clan no doubt contracted in those days.
      There we sat at the nurse's reception desk, Dad in front and I kicking my heels on a too-tall chair behind. The nurse needed my particulars of course, so she bent over her form and tossed my dad what she probably thought would be an easy one, just to get warmed up. "Patient's name?" There was a pause. The nurse looked up at my father and tried again. "The patient's name?" Another pause. OK, I thought, this is totally understandable. He's got the five of us and, ha, ha, he's forgotten which one he's got in tow this time. That's pretty funny. Now he'll have to turn around to check. And he did turn around. And stared at me. Blankly. It was the look of a man who had begun some sort of errand or other, but then had wandered into a completely unrelated train of thought, or maybe gotten a song stuck in his head, and now no longer had any idea of why he had left the house. I had innocently expected that seeing my face would have snapped him back to his errand--or at least provided him with the required name--but no dice. The stare became uncomfortable, in both its length and total blankness. "Peter," I offered helpfully. He turned to the nurse. "His name's Peter," he said redundantly, and on we went.
      I suppose some folks end up in therapy over such things--"he couldn't even remember my name boo hoo"--but even at age six I had enough sympathy to be nothing but amused. I still don't know how my parents survived the five of us; just the thought of it makes me want to go lie down. How does anyone shoulder a responsibility that can weary and distract you to the point where you can stare at your own child and not know who the hell he is? But somehow Dad and Mom did it, and we all have college degrees, and we're all happily married, and none of us has spent the night in jail, and the other four even have kids of their own, bless their hearts. So Happy Father's Day, guys! And Happy Father's Day, Dad; the next steak will be for you.

Pittsburgh Hoists Stanley Cup, Prepares Parade They Can't Afford

      With a couple of excellent last-second saves by Marc-Andre Fleury, the Pittsburgh Penguins wrested the Stanley Cup from the multi-championship-beringed fingers of the Red Wings on Detroit's home ice in Game 7 of the playoffs tonight, and set the stage for a victory parade they'll be paying for with bond issues for years to come. According to the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, that parade "will begin at noon Monday at the intersection of Grant Street and Seventh Avenue, Downtown."
      Just before the game began, I heard several sports analysts say things pretty much like, "I don't think the Penguins can win in Joe Louis Arena." WRONG. "Pittsburgh will need to get big games from their stars Malkin and Crosby to have any hope of winning this game." WRONG--Max Talbot (pictured at left) was tonight's hero. "Pittsburgh needs Fleury to have a near-perfect game and outplay Osgood for them to have a chance." WRON...no wait. That one was right, and was exactly what happened. Up by just one goal with seconds left, the Penguins lost a crucial faceoff in their own end, which led to a Red Wings shot, a dangerous rebound, another Red Wings shot, another dangerous rebound, and a brilliant, diving recovery by Fleury to block the third, last-second shot, which would have meant overtime and a big advantage for Detroit at home.
      So it's been a great year to be a fan of Pittsburgh sports. The Steelers won the Super Bowl, the Pens have taken the Stanley Cup, so now all the Pirates have to do is...BWAH HA HA HA HA! Oh, dear (*wiping tears from eyes*)! I thought I could pull that off with a straight face, but no. It'll still be a great year.

RiffTrax Contest

      There's still time (if it's not yet 11:59PM Friday the 12th) to get in on this contest from the very funny folks at RiffTrax (they're some of the same people who brought you Mystery Science Theater 3000). The premise is simple:

THE CHALLENGE: Make an existing comedy into a drama, or vice-versa.
DETAILS: Pick an actual movie, from any era. Re-pitch it as a comedy if it’s considered a drama, OR if you’ve chosen a drama, re-pitch it as a comedy. Stick as closely as possible to the actual characters and plot of the real movie, but completely change the tone…. and do it in 150 words maximum.

It's just that easy.
      For the record, here are my entries--one is drama to comedy, and the other is the other.

Rick was fed up with the rat race, so he dropped out, bought the bar of his dreams, and started spending time with his feet in the sand and a drink in his hand. Life was great… (*sound of needle scratching across record*) until his ex walked in! With a hunky new boyfriend! Who’s on the lam from a bumbling band of Hitler’s hitmen! Two’s company, but three will make you laugh out loud in CASABLANCA!
Ingrid Bergman wants what only Humphrey Bogart can give her…a one-way ticket out of town. But Sydney Greenstreet--the funny fat man who split your sides in THE MALTESE FALCON--and Claude Rains–the kookiest collaborator since Benedict Arnold--have plans of their own.
Of all the gin joints in all the world, this one is the most full of laughs! Get the Dooley Wilson single, “As Time Goes By” on Warner Bros. Records.

Edwina’s a no-nonsense cop with a promising future; H.I. is the three-time loser and petty crook who has stolen her heart. But their newfound happiness together is shattered when they discover that her womb is a rocky place, where his seed can find no purchase. Yearning to build the family that nature has denied them, they make a desperate decision that will CHANGE THEIR LIVES FOREVER (cue pounding drums). Now they’re on the run--from the law, from a ruthless pair of escaped convicts, and from a dark and unrelenting agent of vengeance, a warthog from hell that may be of H.I.’s own creating. With the greatest chase sequence since THE FRENCH CONNECTION, Ed and H.I. are raising hell, raising the stakes, and RAISING ARIZONA. All they have is an empty gun, a box of Huggies, and each other.
(cut to Nic Cage) “Well, it ain’t Ozzie and Harriet.”

BTW, the prize is your pick of one of the movies from their catalogue of RiffTrax.

Fate, Coincidence, and the Twitterpated--Curmudgeon's Corner (10)

      Smokey Burner, the Broken Stove's resident curmudgeon, has been Twittering for a while now, and mostly he likes it. Twitter lets him keep up with the daily doings of his friends, and also allows him to brush up against the goings-on of various other people he finds interesting. In moderation, it's a good thing.
      But Twitter also has the unfortunate side effect of reminding Smokey that, as a friend once explained to him, the masses are asses (Smokey already knew this instinctively, but he had never before heard his belief so artfully encapsulated in words). Today, Twitter is all aflutter with the sad story of Johanna Gunthaler, an Italian woman who escaped death on Air France Flight 447 by arriving late at the counter, only to be killed today in a car crash in Austria.
      "Fate," intone a distressingly large number of the tweets on the subject, "she couldn't escape Fate," "it was her time to die," "it's just like the Final Destination movies," and on and on and on. Of course what these purblind doomsters fail to mention, or even notice, is that her husband didn't die in the car crash. Shouldn't he be doomed as well? And I seem to recall reading that there were a handful of other would-be passengers of Flight 447 who only avoided being on the plane by the coincidence of being bumped, or waiting for a later flight, or whatever. Why aren't these people hurtling off various roads in their ill-fated cars? What's the statute of limitations on Inescapable Fated Death? If they die of heart attacks in three years, will people still tsk and say, "they were meant to die on that plane"?
      Don't be so twitterpated. "A" happens. Then "B" happens. It does not automatically follow that "B" was directly caused by "A", no matter how oddly reminiscent of "A" that "B" turns out to be. Johanna Gunthaler's story is strange and sad, but it's not Fate Writ Large.