Dear Mike Myers,
I always thought you seemed like a pretty nice guy. Sure, you ARE a comedian, and that means you run a high risk of actually being a truly terrible human being and any day now a massive scandal might erupt, tarnishing your name for the rest of time. But for now, right now, and until further notice, I have always thought of you as a swell guy. I think you are a good person.
In the unending quest to understand all of the mysteries of the world, we are perhaps not as tireless as other people out there. Our lives are more dedicated to the pursuit of sneering, and also laughing (both kindly laughs and laughs that are not so nice). So a lot of the time, if we find ourselves delving into mysteries… well, maybe we aren’t being as studious and serious as the nice people who get interviewed in TV Documentaries.
There are loads of documentaries and books and even a whole movie starring Richard Gere of all people about the Mothman. AlexT and I watched one of those documentaries the other day and decided to do a little investigating of this mystery on our own! We put on our investigation bonnets, slapped a mixed CD filled with summery music into a rental car, and took a road trip straight to the Mothman Museum located in Point Pleasant, WV! That’s really all we did. We took pictures.
The museum consists of a gift shop and a room of newspaper clippings, movie props, and costumes. But we learned all that we needed to know to become experts. We have solved the mystery of what this thing was that tormented the good folk of this town. But first, we will tell you what it is not.
There have been a lot of movie cowboys who have had famous star horses as their mounts: Hopalong Cassidy and Topper, the Lone Ranger and Silver, Gene Autry and Champion the Wonder Horse; but none were as famous as Roy Rogers and his Palomino steed, Trigger. Or really, I should say “Trigger and his hanger-on, Roy Rogers the singing cowboy.”
Trigger was a wonderful horse, a marvel. And he was so famous that he even starred in a comic book series! He could walk on his hind legs, sign his name with an “X”, cover himself with a blanket, had a very good rhythm as a dancer, and apparently, he was even house-trained. He had so many tricks memorized that they ran out of ways to teach him prompts for new ones (that amount, for those of you who are curious, is 150 tricks). He was a professional actor and like any superstar, would perk up as soon as he saw cameras or crowds. Trigger was not a diva, though, and was reportedly as sweet as sugar to almost everyone.
However, in my idle moments of reading about this equine, I discovered several shocking facts!
We know that dating is the worst. So is internet dating. Where do these people even come from? I tell myself that it’s not so strange. I tell myself that if I use internet dating, so do other regular people [editor’s note: haha – Amandoll]. I tell myself that it’s 2016 and I do everything on the internet. I tell myself that I’ve met plenty of people through The Online, including Amandoll, Hoffman, Daniel Haun, Alext, Grogberries, and Cheston. I tell myself that I’ve met plenty of dates on there and they went just fine.
But oh, the ones that didn’t…
I haven’t seen The Three Caballeros since I was about eight or nine years old at my grandma’s house. And even then, I am not sure if I saw the whole thing, as it is incredibly boring for a child to sit through. If you haven’t seen it, it is basically a weird Disneyfied “documentary” (or maybe it is just “vaguely educational” instead?) that tells you a little bit about our beautiful friends to the south, the Central and South Americans, in little segments. Well, the plot is that Donald Duck receives a mysterious gift in the mail or something and then he watches it and we do too and so we learn with Donald, and that seems simple enough. Except of course that it turns out to be not that simple after all.
As with all good things, it began with boredom and YouTube, my adventure. And ends with my inability to craft a pleasant looking sentence, it appears! Well, this is what you get. Anyway, the other while ago I decided that I wanted to watch something. Now it is true that there is television and there are cable channels where I am, but it is also true that I have gone so much of my life without having a television of my own that I don’t really want to navigate channels and mute advertisements anymore. So there was YouTube. And somehow or another in the related video list, I noticed The Three Caballeros — FULL LENGTH.
The Van Morrison hit “Brown Eyed Girl” is just one of those songs you hear innumerable times over the course of your life. You’ve probably heard it in your home, your car radio, overhead at the grocery store, and countless other places. The point is this is a song that is played out the ass (FORESHADOWING) and chances are you could sing a few lines if asked on the spot. If someone asked me to sing for them on the spot I’d tell them to go sing to a big meaty johnson, but that’s just me.
Now I do enjoy this song, but probably not for the same reasons as most. My enjoyment from it comes from my knowledge of what the TRUE meaning of this song is all about. That beneath those charming and harmless lyrics is a cesspool of debauchery. Would you believe me if I told you that this song has a secret meaning that you’ve gone decades without noticing? No? Well then… Would you believe me when I tell you that you’re living in a FOOL’S WORLD?
Money is grosser than gross. It is essentially nasty garbage that everybody wants and feels compelled to carry around in their pockets. “Look at that nasty garbage,” people say, “I want it very much. I want to take the nasty garbage with my bare hands, and place it lovingly in the pocket of my pants. Then I will carry around the nasty garbage with me for some time, before exchanging it for goods or services, giving the nasty garbage to someone else who would very much like it. I love you, nasty garbage.” I might be paraphrasing.
After over two decades of experience and exhaustive research, I have concluded that no one should ever touch paper money. Not you, not me, definitely not your children or other loved ones. Not ever, and not even a little bit. Maybe you can let your pets handle your cash, but remember that that’s the same creature that eats its own poops and greets others by sticking its entire face in their assholes.
Why is it that something so coveted by everyone should be so detestable? Why? WHY?! Calm down, psycho, you don’t have to yell. I’ll tell you.
Breaking news! This just in! Stop the presses, stop EVERY press! We have made the discovery of the century: Ryan Gosling, famous actor, is in fact really a secret time-traveler who is moonlighting as an actor! And what is more: he is the great-grandfather of my very own real life actual living breathing friend, another Amanda!
I will cool it with the exclamation points, but I refuse to calm down.
This other Amanda, whom I have been close to since the year 1988, did not realize that her great-grandfather was Ryan Gosling until very recently when she showed us a photograph of him in his “younger days.” I wish her great-grandmother was still alive so that we could ask her if her husband ever acted strangely, accidentally using terms and lingo from now-times, although she would not realize that is what he was doing. And I would like to ask Ryan Gosling-now how he is doing this. When does he find the time to time travel? Does it ever weird him out to know that he apparently grows old and dies in these other lives? How many alternate lives in history is he currently living? Is the Ryan Gosling we THINK we know actually from the future? Or from the past and has been to the future and is using future knowledge in order to be “lucky” in show biz? What is even happening I’m scared to think about all of this!
I am sure you all want to see what it is that has got me all whirled up in a tizzy, so here it is: THE PICTURE.
Incredible. Good job having such a great great-grandad, Friend Amanda. But too bad you can never think of Ryan Gosling in the same way, filled with romantic notions, again.
I’m sure no one here is a stranger to the popular internet image stream of Marilyn Monroe being depicted as a curvy ideal of Hollywood’s yesterdays. “Women used to have CURVES, Marilyn was a curvy curvy sex GODDESS, round and lush and built real like really real women are!” And it’s true. Marilyn Monroe did have curves! She was built that way. But if you really look at most of her pictures, she was actually really slender and healthy looking. I saw a picture of her measurements and she had a twenty three inch around waist! I saw this picture on the internet and it supported the beliefs I already held, so I didn’t bother verifying it, but clearly it must be true.
So, one day I was talking to Chris about this very interesting Marilyn Monroe information regarding how much she was a gentlelady of leisure and he went and Chrissed it all up. Then I Amandaed it up by turning it into a comic!
You know how there are words out there for highly specific emotions? Like adronitis, the frustration over how long it takes to get to know someone. Or liberosis, the desire to care less about things. Is there a word for that feeling you get when you believe that there must be alternate realities that exist closely in space to your own reality, so close that they are ALMOST your reality, and that reality is that your real dad is cartoon buffoon Hong Kong Phooey? Does that even make sense? Great.
Well, since I was a very small child, I have had this feeling occasionally. And as I’ve aged, the feeling has lessened a bit, but it’s still there inside of me, shaping my personality to some extent.
Unlike other forms of insanity I probably have, this one can be traced directly to my mother. For as long as I’ve lived, my mother has always told this story about how she and some of the rest of my extended family took my older brother, then an only child, to see a Hanna-Barbera Icecapades show. While there, Hong Kong Phooey apparently took a liking to her and showed his ardor by sitting on her lap and dragging her from the audience to dance with her in front of everyone. She concludes this oft-told story by saying, “And then, nine months later, Amanda was born.” Everyone laughs. Everyone always laughs. But once upon a time, I believed her. I was too young to understand that my mom might be kidding, but apparently old enough to catch the implication that Hong Kong Phooey was my real dad.
It turns out that if you start life thinking that you are half-cartoon, it kind of sticks with you, there in the middle, for all of the rest of your life. I mean, I know I am not actually a half-cartoon! Don’t send me to the asylum yet. Anyway, it would clearly have been an actor dressed up like Hong Kong Phooey, not the real poorly-animated dog. It would be like thinking that Santa and Mall Santas are the same thing. No! Regardless, in my idle time, I start to wonder what my alternate reality life must be like, the one where HKP was not an absentee father. Let’s look at my art therapy session.