"Cloris Leachman Cult" Grows in Numbers

More and more Americans subscribing to the theory that she exists

America, U.S. -- The ceremony begins with the solemn Donning of the Wigs ritual, wherein participants don a cap made of bleached straw and clay. Someone reads from a tome known as Mary Tyler Moore, Episode 403, and then two men and a woman stand and perform a complex ritual known as The Killing of Mrs. Garrett. At the close of this service, the congregation stands and sings a simple, lilting song:

"Who makes the fog surrounding the Golden Gate simply disappear?
"Phyllis. Phyllis.
"Who makes the warning bells on the cable cars play the 'Gangs All Here'?
"Phyllis. Phyllis.
"Who charms the crabs at Fisherman's Wharf right out of their shell?
"Who lights the lamps of Chinatown just by walking in view...who?
"Phyllis! Phyllis! Phyllis! It sure isn't you!"

Such a bizarre ceremony might not seem out of place among Amazonian Natives or drunk Romanians, but would you believe that these exact events actually took place in the basement of a suburban home in San Diego, California? "We're not crackpots and we're sick of being treated like lunatics," stated Herman Funderson, head of the San Diego chapter of the Cloris Leachman Foundation, a society of individuals that seek tax-exempt status as a religious institution, "we're not asking you to believe what we believe, we're just asking to be granted the American freedom to worship and believe what we want."
What they believe, precisely, is in the existence of Cloris Leachman, a human female that supposedly lived in the twentieth century, and who many followers believe exists to this day. Members of the fledgling Cloris Leachman Foundation do not believe that she had any special powers or abilities, but that her alleged contributions to both the silver screen and the small screen were useful and should not be forgotten. The only problem is finding people that agree about these accomplishments. Among the Cloris Leachman Foundation's most bizarre claims is that Leachman starred on popular television sitcom The Facts of Life from 1986 to 1988, actually replacing the lead role of Mrs. Garrett, played by Charlotte Rae for almost ten years.
"Absolutely preposterous!" sputtered Dr. Neil Neilman, Professor of Television and Snackery at Yale University, "I am quite familiar with The Facts of Life, I assure you. I can even recite the episode guide for the first season when Molly Ringwald was on the show, before Nancy McKeon showed up. And I can definitively say that Cloris Leachman--if she even exists--never starred on this program." Dr. Neilman then unfurled a scroll of paper about four feet in length on which was drawn a crude and annotated timeline for the show, and pointed a pudgy finger at a point near the end of the timeline. "Right here is when the girls and Mrs. Garrett left Eastland School for Girls to open a pastry shop called 'Edna's Edibles', and then here is when it burned down and they changed it to a novelty shop called 'Over Our Heads'. And then the show ended."
Not so, claims Mr. Funderson, shaking his head impertinently. "With all due respect to his degree, Dr. Neilman is incorrect. The Facts of Life continued for two more seasons with Cloris Leachman replacing Mrs. Garrett as her sister, Beverly Ann Stickle. Mackenzie Astin was on the show then. I think George Clooney was, too." As outlandish as these claims may seem, the Cloris Leachman Foundation is picking up steam. Now boasting twelve chapters throughout the U.S. and nearly a thousand members, the Cloris Leachman Foundation seeks tax-exempt church status from the federal government. Even without this status, the Foundation seems to grow in membership every day.
"I didn't believe in Cloris Leachman before, either," said new member Gertrude Jodphur, still sporting a frayed Cloris Leachman wig, "but then I saw this one episode of Malcolm in the Middle, and, hand to God, I saw her. It was only for a minute or two, but I saw her." Getrude looks away with a pained expression, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. Her voice choked with emotion, Gertrude stammers, "I know you think I'm crazy, but I don't care. I saw Cloris Leachman. Once you've seen her...you just can't pretend she doesn't exist any more."

Attention Holiday Shoppers: Safety First

The 2005 Holiday Shopping Season is upon us, and many of you have already trampled your friends and neighbors in the mad rush to the front doors of your local mall or department store. But while we are picking the dried blood and hair from the treads of our sneakers and punching people in the face to get an inch closer to the new shoot 'em up video game, I want you all to keep one word near and dear to your hearts during this joyous holiday season. One simple word of two syllables, so easy to say and yet so difficult to practice. That special holiday word, ladies and gentlemen is "safety".
When choosing which rifle-wielding monster figurine or fatty self-help book to give as a gift this season, I want you to stop and think: is this gift safe for the recipient? Or does it possibly stand to reason that your sociopathic Uncle Ned might use his new Ginsu knife set for purposes other than cutting up meat, vegetables, or soda cans? Remember, it is not just the safety of gift recipients we are concerned with, but everyone's safety at large. This is why I had to cancel that "Bean of the Month" club membership for my Aunt Sandra, who wrestles with flatulence every day of her life. She lives in a gated community, for Christ's sakes. I would hate to have inadvertently ruined her weekly sewing circle.
So to help you, the devout holiday shopper, choose gifts that are truly safe, I have scoured the available commercials that are shown to me during my regular television viewing (barring that I have not changed the channel or otherwised spaced out on the commercial content), and I have discovered a gender neutral gift, suitable for all ages, whose main focus is safety. That gift is the 2006 Volkswagen Passat, a car which comes with a standard refrigerated glove box. First off, I would like to applaud German car manufacturers and designers Volkswagen (which means "Imported Carburetor") for adding this sorely needed feature to their new line of Passats. While I am applauding Volkswagen, however, I also want to point a condemnatory finger at the American and Japanese automobile industry, and then also maybe wag my other index finger at them in a kind of condesceneding "no no no" gesture. When I saw that commercial that featured two dickwads in tight t-shirts putting sushi in their glove box, I thought to myself, "What a great feature! And surely it has other applications than to be a repository for gay mens' lunch."
The more I thought about it, the more I realized how dangerous an uncooled glove box really is. You're barelling down the highway at a buck ten, a buck twenty, still feeling the meth from last night's binge coursing through your veins. The rising sun hits your bleary eyes; squinting, you open your glove box and remove a pair of aviator style sun glasses which should prove some respite from the sun. You put them on your face only to discover the metal frames have been heated to lava-like temperatures that immediately fuse with your eye sockets and cause you to jump in alarmed pain and careen off the road, right into the front door of the local orphanage and puppy hospital. Your car ruptures an oxygen tank, which silently spills gas that permeates every corner of the hospital, just in time for Veterinary Nurse Scorndonk's cigarette break...one flick of the lighter, and kaboom!
So as you are acquiring your holiday presents this year, please remember to keep safety on top of your "to buy" list. Following that should be a litany of disposable crap and gadgetry that draws American society ever closer to the abyss. Happy Holidays!

What did the Pilgrim say to the Native at the first Thanksgiving?

"Thanks for inviting us to this swell feast. To show our appreciation, here's some smallpox and pestilence."

"Allow me to cut the cornbread for everyone; we Pilgrims will take these big chunks over here, and you Indians can make do with whatever fits in this here thimble."

"Let me say grace before we eat. Indians, you can plug your ears and avert your gazes."

"The Indians are savages and will be the end of civilized culture! ...I didn't mean you, Bubbling Creek. You're one of the good ones."

"This stew is great. What did you say it was called? 'Roanoke Survivor Surprise'? Whatever it is, it's fantastic."

"Okay, so you put the ingredients in a casserole dish, then leave it in the oven Until the New Moon Passes Over the Sacred Ritual Mound, and then you're done? How easy!"

"That was the best pumpkin pie I've ever had. We probably won't steal any more of your land until this is digested."

"Let's see, we got corn, cornbread, corn fritters, creamed corn, popcorn, and corn soup. You Indians sure are regular, huh?"

"Six beads and a jug of whiskey for some turkey? We bought Rhode Island for less than that."

"You may be soulless savages, destined to writhe in Hellfire for all eternity, but these radish florets are divine."

"I'll have seconds on the turkey, sweet potatoes, and the stuffing...I think I've had my fill of the skunk tail and fire ant goulash, thanks."

"Just so you know, this doesn't make up for the scalpings."

You are no better than me.

I’m sick of the jokes. Do you really think I haven’t noticed you and everyone else giggling and snickering behind my back? You’re not slick. Furthermore, you’re an insensitive asshole. I bet you really get off poking fun at other people, especially about things which are not their fault. Well, I’m not ashamed of my handicap, and I’m tired of being treated like a second-class citizen because of it. Even though I might not be able to do everything you can, I am still quite capable and I can do a lot of stuff you can’t, despite the fact that I never saw the two-part episode of Diff’rent Strokes where Arnold and Dudley get molested by Mr. Horton, the bicycle shop owner.

I’ve seen Diff’rent Strokes, okay? I’m not a fucking spaz. In fact, I’d wager that I’ve seen every episode except the two-part one where Arnold and Dudley get molested by Mr. Horton, the bicycle shop owner. Do you remember the two-part episode where Kimberly and Arnold get kidnapped by an artist/rapist, and Arnold gets away and then has to go under hypnosis to remember where Kimberly is? I didn’t think you did. But no one wants to talk about that episode, no. They want to talk about the one where Arnold and Dudley get molested by Mr. Horton, the bicycle shop owner. This show had almost a hundred and ninety fucking episodes, but you’d think the one where Arnold and Dudley get molested by Mr. Horton, the bicycle shop owner, was the only one. What about the one where Willis buys an ounce of marijuana and then smokes it all while his family is away for the day? How about when Arnold finally stands up to the Gooch? Let’s not even get into the introduction of Mr. Drummond’s new wife Maggie and her son Sam in the sixth season. No one wants to talk about those episodes, even the one where Punky Brewster guest stars as Sam’s best friend.

That’s what really kills me. It’s not like I don’t know about Diff’rent Strokes and television in general. Sure, we all remember Gordon Jump as the child-molesting Mr. Horton, but who remembers his softer side as Maggie Seaver’s retired cop father on Growing Pains? Or his groundbreaking role as station manager on WKRP in Cincinnati? He wrote the book on the cantankerous, lecherous old grouch with that role. But no, people want to remember a Maytag repairman and a child-molesting bicycle store owner. It’s funny, though, how selective peoples’ memories are. Mention The Gary Coleman Show Saturday morning cartoon or the final season of Facts of Life where Mrs. Garret was replaced by Cloris Leachman, and peoples’ faces go blank. One hint about the two-part episode of Diff’rent Strokes where Arnold and Dudley get molested by Mr. Horton, the bicycle shop owner, and suddenly it’s a roundtable discussion about the joys of childhood. And there I am, left in the cold, having never seen that fucking stupid episode.

Well, I’m not going to sit silently on the sidelines any more. My name is Reggie Kenseleaar-Jupiter, and I have never seen the two-part episode of Diff’rent Strokes where Arnold and Dudley get molested by Mr. Horton, the bicycle shop owner. If you think that makes me less of a human being than you, then you can go fuck yourself because there’s more of us than you think, and we’re not going to take this prejudice lying down. Remember: I may be someone who has never seen the two-part episode of Diff’rent Strokes where Arnold and Dudley get molested by Mr. Horton, the bicycle shop owner, but I could feasibly see it and remove myself from that category. You, on the other hand, will always be a jerk!

The Good, the Bad, and the Mediocre

Invading Rubber Monster Movies

THE GOOD: The Giant Claw, 1957, b/w

As a fan of bad movies, I have to give the “Rubbery Monster Award” (which is, of course, made from rubber) to The Giant Claw, a movie as senseless as it is incomprehensible. Perhaps the most confusing thing about this movie is that, despite the title, it is not a giant claw that threatens mankind, per se, but the giant bird from outer space that’s attached to it. There’s an interminably long phony science montage that takes up nearly a third of the film, but you’ll be enraptured by the gigantic, googly-eyed bird once you get a glimpse of him. He’s kind of a cross between Grover from The Muppet Show and a length of vacuum cleaner hose. Will the hard-jawed scientist convince the harder-jawed Army colonel to go along with his hare-brained schemes, or will the Giant Bird with a Giant Claw terrorize humanity until it gets bored and flies away? What do you think?

“Ooh, you meanies! I’ll give you such a pinch!”

THE BAD: E.T., the Extra-Terrestrial, 1982, 2002, color

I remember seeing this movie in the theatre when I was a kid, and when E.T. was yoked up by those guys dressed in leftover radiation suits from Three Mile Island’s nuclear disaster, I bawled like you’d broken my die-cast Optimus Prime toy. I loved that little guy. I loved him on my E.T. bedsheets, t-shirts, and lunchbox. I still loved him even through that terrible peanut butter-flavored E.T. breakfast cereal, and though it smelled kind of like varnish and bleach, I used the E.T. electric toothbrush until E.T.’s head broke off and I almost swallowed it and my mom made me throw it away. I still liked my various E.T. figurines (except for the one of E.T. holding that flowerpot, that was too effeminate for me), and I had a fondness for that little turd with eyes when he adorned the packaging for first-aid kits, candy, macaroni & cheese, and condoms (glow-in-dark at full extension, natch). But when I saw that goddamned E.T. video game for the Atari home console, I had enough of that leathery midget and I just wished he would die.

I don’t blame the merchandising, though. I blame Steven Fucking Spielberg. Oh, Steven Fucking Spielberg, with your mastery of Emotion Rays that beam from the screen directly into our tear ducts, and your annoying reliance on special effects to distract us from the fact that your movies truly suck. Oh Steven Fucking Spielberg, who controls Hollywood itself with whatever pop culture morsel affects your puerile whims and fancies on any particular day. You are the bane of filmmaking; the conspirator behind the ten dollar movie ticket, the re-editor and re-releaser of films that were already blockbusters to begin with. If I had a Delorean that could go back in time, I would use it to travel back to the early 1970s and change history by interrupting one of your cocaine-fueled parties, slapping Francis Ford Coppola’s dick out of your mouth, and tossing you out of a plate-glass window right onto Fairfax Blvd. But then I suppose that would probably change the present and turn George W. Bush from a compassionate conservative to an airhead politician that makes promises and uses buzzwords and serves only those interests that he is personally invested in. Curse you, Steven Fucking Spielberg.

“Yousa people gonna die?”

THE MEDIOCRE: Reptilicus, 1961, color

I had to do some pretty serious soul-searching in order to determine which movie, between The Giant Claw and Reptilicus, had the better Rubbery Monster. Without a doubt, Reptilicus is a better movie. Part monster movie and part travelogue, this movie takes place almost entirely in Copenhagen and features actors from Denmark, some of whom have their voices overdubbed by Americans. If that doesn’t delight you, then marvel at the ridiculous pseudo-science and questionable morals of a doctor who can’t stop talking about how sexually charged his daughters are. Much of the movie plays out like a prolonged “traveling salesman” joke, and the rest of it is a maelstrom of hokey special effects, terrible models, and—thankfully—comic relief. Ultimately, though, the bird from The Giant Claw looks like Big Bird’s retarded cousin, while Reptilicus looks like one of those bendable snakes you bought at the museum gift shop on your grade school field trips. The Giant Claw takes the Rubbery Monster Award, but jet-setters and frequent travelers will probably take more away from the dire warnings and terror of Reptilicus.

“Gosh, Copenhagen is beautiful! A shame I had to destroy it.”

Childrens' Letters to God

Dear God,
Maybe Cain and Abel would not kill each other so much if they had their own rooms. It works with my brother.
- Larry

Dear Larry,
You may have something there. To be perfectly honest, I've always felt like I could have handled the whole thing with Adam and Eve a little better. Maybe I could have put up a fence around the tree that yielded the Fruits of Knowledge, or maybe I could have set Adam and Eve up in a temporary shelter when I kicked them out of the Garden. Ah, c'est la vie. It was kind of a no-brainer that their kids would turn out to be a couple of assholes, given their situation growing up. As for you and your brother, he will kill you on your wedding night in 2021.
Love, God

Dear God,
I think about You sometimes even when I'm not praying.
-Elliott

Dear Elliott,
I'm flattered, really, but I don't go that way, dude. Try to move on.
Love (as a friend), God

Dear God,
In school they told us what You do. Who does it when You are on vacation?
- Jane

Dear Jane,
That's why my clients ask me when I get back! LOL! Seriously, Heaven, Inc. usually hires a temp or someone to make sure the filing doesn't get out of hand, but being the only onmiscient, omnipotent being in the Universe, it's kind of a lot to expect a temporary worker to handle every situation. And of course the day I go on vacation, there's a tsunami or an earthquake or some kind of religious bombing that needs My attention! I tell you, Jane, you don't have to be crazy to work here, but it helps!
Love, God

Dear God,
We read Thomas Edison made light. But in Sunday school they said You did it. So I bet he stole your idea.
Sincerely, Donna

Dear Donna,
Legal restraints forbid me from discussing particulars about the case, but we have been in litigation with Edison's estate for some time and we hope to reach an agreement soon.
Love, God

Dear God,
If You watch me in church on Sunday, I'll show You my new shoes.
- Mickey

Dear Mickey,
Sunday is My day off, you know. I'll tell you what: since I'm all-seeing, I'll just take a peek at them in your closet, and then try to picture how they'll look in church on Sunday, okay?
Love, God

Dear God,
Please send me a pony. I never asked for anything before. You can look it up.
- Bruce

Dear Bruce,
I did look it up, and it looks like this isn't the first time you've asked for something from My organization. It says here that in 1998, you prayed that you would get a Teletubby for Christmas, and you did. Then in 2002, you prayed that your mother would make your favorite dinner, spaghetti and meatballs, and she did. Then just last year you prayed that the Red Sox would win the World Series, and they did. The way I see it, Bruce, you owe me.
Love, God

Dear God,
If we come back as something else, please don't let me be Mary Horton, because I hate her.
- Denise

Dear Denise,
Don't be silly! You couldn't possibly come back as Mary Horton because she already exists. Believing in reincarnation is a mortal sin, anyway. When you die, Mary Horton is going to be the least of your worries.
Love, God

Dear God,
I think the stapler is one of your greatest inventions.
- Ruth M.

Dear Ruth,
Thanks very much for expressing interest in our organization. We are dedicated to providing reliable, quality service to our clients, and I hope you have found us to be personable and dependable. Please accept these money-saving coupons as a token of our gratitude for your continued support, and we hope you will keep choosing God for all your future spiritual needs. If we can be of any assistance in the future, please do not hesitate to contact us.
Sincerely, Peter
Undersecretary to God

Dear God,
I didn't think orange went with purple until I saw the sunset You made on Tuesday. That was cool.
- Eugene

Dear Eugene,
You would have thought it was cooler if you were tripping balls like I was. Heavy.
Love, God

Five Television Pitches

It's no secret to anyone that television is in a piss-poor state right now. If it isn't reality shows about rich bitches and their superficial problems, it's reality shows about poor bitches and their superficial problems. Situation comedies are all pale imitations of Married With Children and the once lofty genre of Drama has been reduced to hour-long sobfests about mismatched nail polish and an ever-revolving cache of infidelity. The reason television programming is so terrible should be evident to almost everyone: the entire entertainment industry uses way too much cocaine. Not to worry, though! I have concocted five, sure-fire pitches that will skyrocket any network's market share from 88% to 90%--maybe more--and all I ask in return is that a semblance of quality return to television programming so I can enjoy it more regularly. And I also want cocaine. Lots and lots of cocaine.

Make Room for Ethel
Situation Comedy

Billy Momzers (Jake Lloyd) is a normal, teenaged American boy in every respect, except for one: his best friend is the ghost of his dead, horny grandmother, Ethel Momzers (Betty White). She loves Billy very much, but is over-sexed and can’t resist peeking in on Billy in the shower and giving him masturbation tips. At first, Billy is annoyed by his Grandmother’s interference, but he falls in love with her after a while. Though their incestual, paranormal love is forbidden by both the laws of man and the laws of space and time, Billy and Mabel continue their affair until the show loses steam, and Billy commits suicide during the show’s finale in order to be with Ethel forevermore.

Maple & Oaks
Crime-Drama

New York City: a steaming cesspool of fecal matter and human waste and shit. The kind of place where you’d just as soon wind up with your face plastered along a lonely gutter as you would find yourself third from the left in the Rockettes’ line-up, kicking your feet to the sky. I work here; my name is Frank Maple (Tommy Lee Jones), and I’m an employee of the New York City Parks Department.
You see a lot of trash in the New York City’s parks and playgrounds. A lot of stuff you probably don’t want to know about. My job is to make sure that you never do. I can clean a square mile of park with my garbage-sticker before you can make a sandwich. Not a small sandwich of just some cold cuts and a slice of folded over white bread, but a serious sandwich, with mustard, some pickles, two kinds of meat, cheese, and lettuce and tomatoes. If you like sprouts, you can put those on, too. I’m just saying that if you’re really going to test my time cleaning a square mile of park against your making a sandwich, let’s be a little fair here. You can’t put Cheez Whiz on a cracker and call it a sandwich. I’m not scared, I just want to lay out a few ground rules.
I’m a bit of a loner, myself, and that’s why I bristled when my boss Sargeant Fenderson (Elliot Gould) assigned me a new partner. Name’s Susan Oaks (Mila Kunis) and she’s fresh out of Botany School. She’s a little green around the edges, always babbling on about some plant or another, but she’s growing on me over time. To be honest, she couldn’t find a better partner to show her the ropes of this messy trash-sticking biz. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll learn a thing or two from her.

Dinner With Dennis
Game Show

Three contestants are picked randomly from the audience and each stands at their own podium equipped with a buzzer. Host Dennis Miller greets each guest with some mindless blather, and then the game begins: Dennis goes into a monologue, supposedly about current events, and every time a contestant laughs, he or she is asked to explain what is so funny. If the contestant is able to justifiably explain their laughter, they earn points. The contestant with the most points after two rounds earns the right to go into the Lightning Round, where you face-off with Dennis Miller (on a “dinner time” set) and attempt to decipher a flurry of buzz words, newspeak, and plain ol’ gobbeldy-gook. The real genius of the game show is that, since no one can ever justify having laughed at one of Dennis Miller’s jokes, technically no one can score in the initial two rounds.

The God Couple
Situation Comedy

Jesus Christ (Timothy Bottoms) is an upstanding, cheerful individual with just one problem: He’s the son of God, and no one believes Him. No one, that is, except for His annoying best friend Judas Iscariot (Corin Nemec) that grew up next door to Jesus and is always nipping at His heels. When Jesus leaves Nazareth to spread His gospel, of course Judas wants to tag along with hilarious consequences. Where Jesus is fastidious, Judas is slovenly; where Jesus appreciates fine art and theatre, Judas enjoys fart jokes and football. Can this mismatched pair put aside their differences and learn to live together for the greater good? Or will Judas sell out Jesus to the Romans for a pouch of gold coins? Tune in to find out!

Hollywood Tonight!
Reality Television

Paris Hilton pisses her pants in public then drunkenly gropes quasi-celebrities and pretends to be annoyed at paparazzi while ensuring that her “good side” is showing, meanwhile Lindsay Lohan pukes unceremoniously into a potted plant on Hollywood Blvd. as her dress falls off her depleted, almost skeletal, body, and simultaneously Nicole Richie blows the Denver Broncos in the lobby of the MGM Grand for kicks and then acts surprised when she swallows the last load and discovers that she has drawn a sizeable audience.