The Ninth House

Back in the middle ’90s, the estimable thespian Jonathan Pryce starred in a series of television commercials extolling the virtues of the Infiniti luxury car line. (Note to younger readers: Mr. Pryce plays Keira Knightley’s dad in the Pirates of the Caribbean films.)

The commercials were minimalist — just the car against a white backdrop — and relied entirely on Mr. Pryce’s considerable urbane charm for the sell. Clad in dark slacks, turtleneck and blazer, with cool jazz or salsa music playing in the background, he made you feel like a Cheetos-eatin’ bumpkin if you didn’t think that car was just the slickest ride this side of Detroit. Or wherever the hell they make them.

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Okay. “Anal leakage.”

Where do we start?

Warnings for the fat substitute Olestra declare it may cause “anal leakage.” Those readers with more delicate sensibilities, please avert your eyes from the next sentence.

“May cause anal leakage” means “may cause you to crap your pants.”

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Gotta step into the wayback machine for this one.

I reckon this was produced in 1988. My fellow production pros will be interested to know that this was produced on an Otari 5050B-II two-track reel-to-reel, alternating tracks in mono. (LOVE that machine, with the splicing block stuck to the head cover and the big 10.5-inch reels with the spring-loaded chuck-type reel locks?  Oh dear, I think I feel an audio nerdgasm coming on.)

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I’ll tell you this story so I can tell you the one I really want to tell.

I wrote this bit as a parody of TV and radio commercials for a certain very popular over-the-counter medicinal product. What was funny to me was that the ostensibly “real” folks in these testimonials seemed to have no inhibitions about confessing to a national audience the fact that they suffered from skin conditions that would rot a creosote post.

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This one was written not long after Hurricane Katrina, when it became apparent that the federal government’s comparative response to the disaster was going to be about on par with — well heck, forget the snappy simile. It stunk.

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A follow-up to my first Bush impression effort. I particularly like the image of Rumsfeld eating corn on the cob. I’ll bet that man can flat tear up corn on the cob.

TNH

I don’t do voice impressions, as a rule. The reason is, I’m just not very good at it. And few things are as painful as suffering through the performance of some poor schmuck who thinks he does a pretty good (INSERT VICTIM HERE), oblivious that his audience is writhing about on the ground in pain like Gollum in Lord of the Rings: “It hurts us! It hurts! Make nasty impression stop, Precious!” Mindful of the ever-turning karmic wheel o’ comedy, I elect not to inflict that torture.

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Yesterday’s punch lines become today’s reality.

The Terminator runs for governor. Never mind that he’s turned out to be a surprisingly solid California chief exec. Guys like me fell to our knees and thanked the gods of comedy when Arnold announced his candidacy.

We waited for his first campaign ad. Watched it on TV, recorded it, and immediately set upon it like ants on an apfelstrudel (don’t worry, I had to look it up, too).

This was my effort. “You vant me to blow tings app!”

Still makes me laugh. Then again, I’m easy.

TNH

For years, I’ve done a generic Southern redneck character who has gone by various names. His most recent incarnation was a gentleman by the name of Cooter. Not the most original moniker, I’ll grant you, but alliterative enough to dovetail with the name of his restaurant, Cooter’s of Cainhoy, renowned for its penchant for serving roadkill:

“The daily special is venison. Or maybe German shepherd. I’ll have to look at it again in the light.”

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Hip-Hop star Busta Rhymes narrates an audio track for the Stevie Wonder video for the song “So What’s The Fuss.”

Call it closed captioning for our blind brothers and sisters.

If he can do it for Stevie…

(Morning show co-host Janet Walsh points out that Marg Helgenberger is a redhead, not blonde. I’ll split the difference and call it strawberry blonde.)

(Marg Helgenberger. Mmm.)

TNH

Back in 2005, it was revealed that Doug Wead, one-time aide to then-Texas Governor George W. Bush, had secretly tape-recorded private conversations with his boss. The recordings provided a rare and candid glimpse into Mr. Bush’s thoughts as he contemplated his run for the White House.

We have four installments for your consideration.

Let the fun begin.

TNH

I love home improvement stores. I love them more than I love office supply stores, and office supply stores occasionally make me damp. That’s how much I love them.

But it should be enough that they are a home improvement store. “Why so insecure, home improvement store?” I often ask. “Why must you be more?”

“I am not insecure,” the store answers. “I sell large, dangerous power tools and lumber in bulk. Insecurity is not an issue with me.”

“But your TV commercial–”

“–was not written by me,” says the store. “I have no literary pretensions.  It is enough that I am.”

“Can you forgive my presumption?” I say.

“Kneel before the shop vacs and I will consider it,” replies the store.

This is usually when security asks me to leave.

TNH

Anna Nalick’s “Breathe (2 AM),” which for the record is a lovely song, was high on the pop charts when my peeps and I were looking for just the right way to mock what we considered to be a laughably pretentious local neighborhood, one of those planned communities where folks pay twice the going rate for a homeowner’s association-approved, color-coordinated domicile erected on a minuscule lot so close to its neighbor, you can probably hear their $500 toilets flushing during the Desperate Housewives commercial breaks.

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So I’m in the studio one morning, and David, the morning show co-host, says, “Dining with Darth.”

“What?” I say. I’m quick that way.

David shrugs. “I dunno. I just think it’s funny.”

Sometimes, all you need is a funny name.  The next morning, I had these three ready to go.

TNH

(Note to fanboys and girls:  Yes, I know Lord Vader’s respirator doesn’t stop when he speaks.  He also doesn’t eat at Sonic, so let’s not be picky, hm?)