Commentary by Rosacea M. Swayne

Television has become a 24 X 7 electronic Viagara, a cesspool, an open sewer, a pit of putrefaction, a slimy gathering of all that is rotten in the debris of human depravity.

The purveyors of these shameful exhibitions, and the viewers luxuriating in them, are all going straight to hell, each and every one, and you heard it here first.

I grew up in a time when morality held sway, thank you very much. Back then, on a hot day like yesterday, a girl wouldn’t need to watch these dirty things on television in order to be exposed — IN A HEALTHY, RELIGIOUS WAY — to members of the opposite sex. All she had to do was go outside and there they were in all their shirtless wonder.

I can still picture it: lithe, muscular boys in their late teens frolicking in the majesty of their budding manhood; perspiration highlighting their well-toned pecs; their sweat-soaked shorts accenting tight, beautiful asses and vibrant genitalia. We didn’t need HBO AND ITS UTTER FILTH; we were exposed to sexuality in RELIGIOUS, MORAL, HEALTHY WAYS because our imaginations supplied all we needed to know about what each of these boys looked like completely naked — from the size and shape of their penises down to the dimples in their asses.

Later, in the still of the night, we reflected on these images, etched forever in our chaste memories, IN A HEALTHY, MORAL WAY – as we pleasured ourselves like wild fillies, fantasizing that their pulsating manhoods were throbbing inside of us. It was all VERY MORAL AND RELIGIOUS.

And, damn it, we would never dream of tuning into a cable channel to lead us down the path of hell!

Which leads me to the obvious question: where are all the shirtless young men today? Over the past several years they have all but completely disappeared from the public square.

Have they grown fat and ashamed to display their out-of-shape bodies in public — the product of too much EVIL INTERNET PORN AND IMMORAL VIDEO GAMES and not enough exercise?

Whatever the problem, they are depriving a generation of girls of GOOD, MORAL AND HEALTHY sexual fantasies. And they are going straight to hell for that. You heard it here first.

The thing I don’t get is this: why don’t people break chairs over each other’s heads anymore?  Trust me, everybody above a certain age is asking the same thing.

In the old days, when a barroom brawl broke out, before it was over, one of the combatants would pick up a chair and slam it atop the other guy’s head.

Aside from having a woman massage my perineum, there is nothing on earth more exciting. 

But nobody’s doing it nowadays (neither the chair slamming nor the massaging), and that’s a damn shame.

From what I can tell, the kids aren’t even being taught fundamental chair slamming techniques, so if a barroom brawl broke out – well, good luck, is all I can say.

NOTE TO KIDS: To properly slam a man into unconsciousness with a chair, you’ve got to grab it, raise it dramatically over your head, and let her rip smack on top of his noggin.

To properly massage my perineum, just locate the spot between my balls and my anus, and knead away.

Commentary by the Hon. Rufus Peckham, Editor of Carbolic Smoke Ball

The Japenese will, of course, never attack the United States of America, despite whatever geo-political legerdemain the State Department manufactures, and you heard it here first.

I have studied the Japanese closely for many years, their quaint ways and inscrutable customs, and I am certain beyond any reasonable doubt that Japan would immediately drop any designs it has on mainland China if it meant militarily tangling with us. The fact of the matter is, the Japanese care not a whit about whether they lose face in the international community by backing down when pushed. Trust me on this one.

I am also thoroughly familiar with the Japanese military, and am certain that they do not possess the capability of launching an attack on our Pacific fleet, and they know it. Moreover, I have personally met their Imperial General Hideki Tojo (he once gave me a recipe for raisin bread), and I found him to be a fun-loving, gregarious man more concerned about peace than any so-called imperial designs.

No further exegesis on this point is warranted since the thing the State Department seems bent on inciting simply is an impossibility.

Now, whether the Japanese should withdraw from China is another matter. No useful purpose would be served by responding to the self-serving blather of Secretary of State Cordell Hull’s November 26 note to the Japanese that demanded their complete withdrawal from mainland China. Japan has expended tremendous national resources to dominate China, and Hull would completely eviscerate all of that hard work. The domination Japan seeks is part and parcel of its larger expansionist interests, which interests may not be such a bad thing, truth be told.

But that is the subject of another editorial. For now, it is my opinion that the American people are bored to tears with this Japanese topic, and I will not bother them further with it.

Rejoice, my brothers, for the harvest is rich, and our men have labored mightily.  My lone regret is that I was unable to participate in the back-breaking labors attendant to the harvest this year, inasmuch as I was felled by the gout, coincidentally,  just as I was last year at the time the physical labor was most intense.  But, just as last year, miraculously, now that the harvest is ended, I am entirely well, and I shall not want this winter thanks to the labors of others.

Tonight, in profound THANKSGIVING for this bounty, I invite Squanto, he of the Patuxet tribe, and some 90 braves to join us for a feast of turkey, eel, and fowl that I fervently pray will become an annual rite of thanksgiving for the gifts spread at our feet. Fittingly, I have resolved to call this annual rite “THE FEAST OF TURKEY, EEL AND FOWL.”

I anticipate that in years to come this feast will be celebrated with parades that include giant balloons, senseless family squabbling, inexplicable overeating, and the solidification of rigid gender roles which dictate that the women serve the men, who shall do nothing but eat and fart.

Most important, I am convinced that this feast shall herald centuries of uninterrupted peace and brotherhood between the white man and the red man, two races — one highly advanced in culture, the other downright comical in its backwardness — living together in bliss under one firmament, intermarrying, melding and assimilating to the point that they shall be but one race by the year 1750 at the latest.  I have coined a phrase for this inevitable harmony between these two disparate peoples: “Manifest Destiny.”

Tonight, I intend to memorialize this harmonious relationship in a solemn written pact that will be forever enforceable in our courts and which shall insure, beyond any question, peace between the two peoples for all times. Never will either race commit atrocities against the other, and you heard it here first.

As a gesture of the white man’s affection for the Indian, I intend to bestow upon each one of our Indian guests at the conclusion of tonight’s meal a special blanket that I have been saving for this very occasion. These blankets will keep the Indians warm throughout the winter, and I am assured by my wife, Jezebel Peckham, that the smallpox that previously infested each of these blankets was driven out by good, old-fashioned Christian prayer. We bestow this gift because we must be careful never to do anything to bring enmity between our peoples. Of course, we will not handle the blankets personally, because of the smallpox and all.

It promises to be a wonderful evening! And so I say to each of you, Happy Feast of Turkey, Eel and Fowl!

Commentary by Noah Swayne, Jr., Carbolic Teen Critic

When I’m not knockin’ boots with the GF or waitering at BRAVO! making some serious cheddar, I’m downtown chillaxin with my boys, fo’ shiggidy my weeble! 

But downtown is shitty on Veterans Day, dude.  I mean, is it, like, any wonder regular people like me don’t come downtown any more?  It seems every year on Veterans Day, the dilapidated, ratty-looking veterans of yore gimp along Main Street, cluttering up our central thoroughfare (h/t to Ms. Douglas, English Lit, for that cool word) with their war-mongering nostalgia and such. Thus will it be today as we observe yet another Veterans Day parade.

Like, yawn.

Those old men in their wheelchairs act like they’re still wounded, for fucks sake, or not right in the head, some of them. Others, they walk upright carrying flags and what-not, looking altogether too proud of themselves for whatever reason, with their medals pinned all over their old-man shirts.  They smell of Metamucil and Vitalis, and their faces look like horse hide left out in the elements way too long.

Seriously, dude, I, for one, don’t care about whatever the fuck sacrifice these old dudes made back, like, in Biblical times.  Are these the kinds of people we want hanging around downtown? What kind of Velcro-sneaker, early-bird special, retirement community image are we trying to, like, foster here?

If our town father dudes want this town to rock, they’ll have to sponsor a video game tournament or something, with hot chicks and beer.  And these old men have to go away and die.

Then, and only then, maybe we’ll attract the right kind of people downtown.

You’ve come to the right place.

Approach the dignitary with your head bowed and your palms facing toward them so they know you’re not packing heat.

Curtsey (especially the men), and then turn your head into your sleeve and yell in a loud voice, “Danno, I need back-up!”

I made up that last part.  Actually, the yelling is a good idea.  They may not understand English, but if you speak very slowly and practically scream at them, that could help them learn our language on the spot.

Do not — I repeat, do not — mention the peculiar odor emanating from them, especially the dignitaries from France. 

These dignitaries have had a long, grueling journey, and they will appreciate a little levity, so address them as “Bub” and “Bubbette.”  

Ask them how they like their hotel — if they enjoy having running water and electricity all hours of the day.

When walking away from the dignitary, do not turn your back on him or her. It is disrespectful, and depending on the dignitary, you may be shot.

Commentary by Carbolic Smoke Ball Founder Rufus Peckham

You see, “The King” (yes, dear readers, Arnie was royalty long before Elvis, the white guy who sang black,  or Michael Jackson, the black guy who turned white) retired from professional golf with scarcely any fanfare, much less the hoopla he deserved.  This is how we treat our champions?

I have a proposal to honor the man who still has more charisma in his little putter than all the current crop of colorless golfers combined, including the temperamental Woods kid: let him win one more tournament. 

Just hear me out.   Would it kill the PGA to give the proud but decrepit veterans of “Arnie’s Army” one final thrill on their way to that 19th hole in the sky by letting The King pull out one last tournament?

I know, I know: it would “tarnish the integrity of the game,” blah, blah, blah. And, yes, it probably would be a crime of one sort or another. 

But if that’s the price to pay homage to The King, so be it!  I say, throw a tournament for The King. Even if it means requiring everyone to shoot in the mid-90s.

I can hear the wheelchairs squeaking up over the bunker: the “Army” is assembling for one final charge!

Commentary by Carbolic Smoke Ball Editor, the Honorable Rufus Peckham

A St. Louis Burger King franchise has come under fire for enforcing its “no shoes, no service” policy against an infant. The shoeless 6-month-old was politely asked to leave due to her blatant disregard of the restaurant’s policy.  The restaurant was later criticized for going “too far” and apologized to the child’s mother.

In fact, the restaurant didn’t go far enough. It should have called the cops to forcibly remove the young scofflaw. The failure to insist that young people follow rules is destroying America and everything it stands for.

Why should this child be permitted to flout the rules the rest of us must obey? If deceased Chicago White Sox outfielder “Shoeless” Joe Jackson sashayed into Burger King to get a WHOPPER® without wearing shoes, how do you think the people in the restaurant would react? I’ll tell you how: they’d go running out in horror because “Shoeless” Joe has been dead for 58 years.

Maybe that’s not the best analogy, but you get my point.