George “Chiffon Dickey” Wendt and the chiffon dickey

You fucking prick, I’m so sick of being asked questions about my taffeta dickeys. I stopped with that shit a long time ago. I haven’t donned a dickey since ‘95. Well, once in ‘97 I wore a chiffon dickey to a chiffon dickey fund raiser, but that hardly counts. Man, was that a wild party. It was at the Drake. Andie MacDowell was there. Pendleton was there—he got so hopped up on the Steve Coogan moonshine that he tried to take his pants off over his head. Later he ran into Chris Noth and proposed to him. Never seen Austin like that. Anyway, we were raising money for kids in Africa who couldn’t afford chiffon dickeys, so it was for a good cause that I once again wore a false shirt-front. You know, it’s bullshit: do you realize that while 46 percent of Africans have access to potable water, zero percent have access to chiffon dickeys? Well, we did something about that.

Oh, also, Pendleton threw up in Bebe Neuwirth’s big hat.

Bug Hall looks out the window, tells his side of the story

There was a fire on the set of Little Rascals, but it wasn’t how Mr. Trump described it. What happened was, Penelope Spheeris, the director, had a crush on George “Dreamboat” Wendt. We all did, to be honest. Every day he wore a red taffeta dickey—and nothing else. When it was time to shoot a scene George would weep in his trailer because he’d have to change into his character’s clothes. He wouldn’t leave his trailer. Eventually Penelope said he could wear his taffeta dickey under his shirt, and that seemed to make him happy.

Anyway, Trump was jealous that Penelope was into Dickey Wendt and not into him. So in order to try and impress her, Trump got all hopped up on the Steve Coogan moonshine and had one of his underlings light a fire next to Penelope’s ponytail. Then he “heroically” appeared with a copy of the Trump board game and put the fire out. No one was impressed. We saw him as a nuisance. One day he even showed up in a chiffon Trump dickey but everyone thought it was so lame and he wasn’t allowed near the craft services table until after the PA’s had eaten. There was nothing left but two packets of relish and a radish rose, and he pretended to enjoy it! He kept saying real loud, “Mmm, now that’s a good radish! I enjoy this radish! Such a tasty radish!” He was so pathetic. A few years later, when he found out I was going to be Eddie Munster in the made-for-TV movie The Munsters’ Scary Little Christmas, he sent me steaks around the clock. He wanted me to put in a good word with Norm Liebmann—he wanted to play Grandpa Munster!

What a lout.

Why so glum, Donald Trump?

Penelope Spheeris, that bitch—that’s why I’m glum. I was the best fucking part of 1994’s Little Rascals. You ask a hundred people on the street, you couldn’t find person one who remembers that Bug Hall played Alfalfa—but ask them who played Waldo’s father. Trump, goddamnit, that’s what they’ll tell you.

So why is it that Penelope isn’t casting me in Little Rascals 2: All Grow’d Up? How could she forget that on the set of Little Rascals I put out the fire that threatened to consume her dangling blonde ponytail? She didn’t even see the damn fire, she was so busy making eyes at George Wendt, a.k.a Norm from Cheers, a.k.a. Dickey “No Dick” Wendt, a.k.a fine I admit it he’s kind of a dreambarge. Boat? The expression is dreamboat? Thought it was barge. Fuck off, it’s dreambarge now. Point is Penelope’d be dead if it weren’t for me. I walloped out that fucking fire with 1989’s Trump – The Board Game that the grips were playing with. Lost my fucking eyebrows, thank God they’re flesh colored so no one noticed. But whatever, Penelope, 1998’s Senseless sucked—only good part was Brad “Dickie” Dourif.

Send a dozen Trump Steaks to all of Penelope’s enemies. Around the clock.

Leonard Cohen on un banc public

Ah, mon ami, won’t you come over to this bench of agony? How it hurts your back, but what a beautiful pain it is. Cigarette? Très bien. I can see from your outfit that you’re a plumber. Me, I toil in a similar vineyard—you may not realize it, but we both ensure that bad stuff goes down and what rises is as clear and pure as spring rain.

Mon frère, allow this humble poet to tell you a story. Allow me to take you to Montreal in 1964 when I moved like a Semitic apparition through jazz clubs and cafes, staying long enough to be espied but not so long that my absence would disrupt the fragile meditations of the assembled spirits. One evening, drunk on cheap wine, two women followed me to my tiny dwelling, my cramped and unfortunate cold-water flat. What they sought was shelter, in the Old Testament meaning of the word. I said to these twin angels, these impossible creatures of the night, “Girls, if you do not mind the faucet’s mythological drip into the destroying porcelain sink, my home is yours.”

Ah, the love we made that night! They pursued, and I was coy—I was coy, and they pursued. The love burned long, but of course, in the end, all that is left is ash. Comme l’oiseau sur la branche, comme l’ivrogne dans le choeur de la nuit, j’ai cherche ma liberte. How rusty my French sounds—I can get by, but it’s not a tongue I could ever move around in in a way that would satisfy the appetites of the mind or the heart. Oh, the heart.

Goodness, how low hangs the sun. Mon ami, I bid your farewell. I don’t know when I’ll be back.

What we talk about when we talk about khakis

Jared Fogle here, folks. You probably know me as the guy famous for holding up pants. It’s a hard racket, actually—forearms get tired. But there’s one thing that keeps me holding up pants day in day out: wearing my other pants. My khakis, man! Fucking love ‘em! Shit, I get so sexy in my khakis. I throw on my pager (pictured) and the women of GIA (greater Indianapolis area) get soaked. This one time, I went to this real casual Bar Mitzvah, right, and it said “black tie optional.” I was like, “black tie optional? More like khakis MANDATORY!” God, I loved it. I got so sexy in my khakis. Threw on a purple polo, a brown belt, and my beloved khaks. Showed up a little late to the service but the minute I walked into shul Cantor Weintraub stopped the service—stopped right smack in the middle of Ein Keloheinu—and he goes, “Yahweh in heaven! That’s what we talk about when we talk about khakis. Come up to the bimah!”

And that’s why I do it. That’s why I hold up pants all day long.

The Steve Coogan

I make fantastic fucking moonshine.

John Waters responds to Brad Dourif

That story is nothing but fanciful bullshit. Except for the part about the Steve Coogan moonshine.

Brad Dourif fields a question

Look, folks: I’m not happy about that baby I ate. But I had to. I was too damn hungry and he was too damn honey-slicked. Now I can’t apologize for something I can’t uneat, but let me just—if I may—tell a quick story in my defense. This one time, when we were working on Seed of Chucky, John Waters took a dump in the middle of the room. It was just wild. He said he did it to get us refocused, because Jennifer Tilly was hopped up on the Steve Coogan moonshine and started yelling at Redman because she thought he was Method Man and I guess Method Man once tried to smoke Corky, her cat, or something? So it was just chaos, and the director Don Mancini just could not keep it together. And boom, Waters, the fucking genius, takes a dump to refocus us. Let me tell you, it worked. It was just wild.