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Tuesday, August 24, 2010


I was at a gathering in Branson, Missouri in the summer of 1984. After the business portion was concluded, we had a little get-together afterwards called "The Campfire". It was during this party that "A Roll in the Cosmic Hay" was read to everyone's amusement.

Happy to share it with you here.

By Jeff Williamson, 1983

From NASA, in Texas, comes word that both sexes are being recruited and taught
To perform all the tasks that the agency asks of a qualified astronaut.

They’re engaged in a race to put women in space and, unless we are reading it wrong,
When we mount a safari to Alpha Centauri, the ladies are going along.

When we bid such a crew bon voyage and adieu we might add, for whatever it’s worth, that in weightless condition, the act of coition beats anything known on Earth.

I’ve enjoyed a screw in a log canoe in the wilds of the upper Amazon,
and I’ve shared a bed with a French co-ed who hadn’t her pajamas on.
But I’m here to report there’s no grander sport this side of the Milky Way
Than the kind of sex you will find in an ex-----traterrestrial roll in the hay.

You can fiddle around through the long countdown to zero at main ignition –Erect on the pad – with, of course, old Dad in precisely the same condition.

But restrain your lust during booster thrust or the rapid acceleration may –
By loading too highly the membrum virile, produce premature consummation.

It is best to relax, to lie flat on your backs, and – to spare yourself exertion,
Await if you will, the sensory thrill, of the orbital insertion.

I had a go with an Eskimo on the shores of the Bering Strait, who insisted
I rub her with walrus blubber, before she’d consent to mate.
But I still contend- and believe me, friend, I am willing to guarantee -
That it’s not in class with the piece of ass you can have under zero “g”.

If she strikes you as cute in the Mylar suit with which she will come equipped,
Prepare your eyes for a real surprise when you get the thing unzipped.

Because bosoms that sag like laundry bags or hang like a spaniel’s ears,
In the absence of weight will consolidate into perfect hemispheres.

With no gravity vector around to affect her, each tickle-and-slap you give her,
Each pat of affection from any direction will set the whole mass a-quiver.

I have sampled the sweets between satin sheets in a canopied four-poster;
I went all the way, one Memorial Day, in the back of a roller coaster.
But I state, as a fact, that the sexual act that I most in my life enjoyed
Was a casual lay in a cargo bay in the intergalactic void.

Now, your average broad may be overawed by the gages, knobs and dials,
But she’ll get the hang of a weightless bang after half a dozen trials.

Try a loop or a roll as you gain control in maneuvering thigh to thigh;
You can steady your flanks on propellant tanks as the Moment of Truth draws nigh.

And when you and she have reached apogee and the pressure is off the plumbing,
She can point her knees to the Pleiades and wait for the second coming.

I’ve been bitten and clawed by a crazy bawd with a passion for flagellation;
She loved to raise welts on someone else in a bondage situation.
Now, I’ll grant that a tryst with a masochist can add zest to the commonplace,
But it isn’t a patch on the brand of snatch that awaits you in outer space.

Flash Gordon and Dale liked a good piece of tail when the forces of evil were scattered,
While to Wilma and Buck an occasional….kiss was the only reward that mattered.

The guys in Star Wars dropped the princess’s drawers whenever the chance was afforded;
Having mastered the Force, they employed it, of course, in a manner predictably sordid.

Once the shuttle lifts off into orbit aloft with a heterosexual crew,
Man’s greatest advance in the art of romance could occur by the time they are through.

We all agreed on the need for speed, so if they don’t hurry up and do it,
There’ll be news from the crews of Salyut and Soyuz that the Russians have beaten us to it.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010


It was pointed out to me some years ago that if you throw the word "Ol' " into the phrase, it will almost improve it. Example: "Choking the Ol' Gopher". While that does work, I'll list them here without it. Feel free to add it based on your personal use preferences. Here we go:

Jerkin' the Gherkin
Spanking the Monkey
Strangling The Scarecrow
Beating The Bald Guy
Choking The Gopher
Burping The Bishop
Going On a Date With Rosie Palmer & Her 5 Sisters
Pullin' The Pud
Oiling The Tripod
Massaging The Moisture Missile
Flogging The Flounder
Taking Mr. Ed For a Ride
Shaking Hands With Mr. Happy


Re-Winding Lunch
The Rainbow Splat
The Technicolor Yawn
Blowing Chunks
Motion Lotion
Liquid Protein Spill

Wednesday, July 28, 2010


Because you never really know when you’re going to be stuck in some non-English speaking country and have to verbally point out that you have an axe handle sticking out from your skull. Sometimes it’s not likely that it would be noticed otherwise.

English, Modern: Oh my god! There's an axe in my head.
Afrikaans: O God! Daar's 'n byl in my kop!
Alsatian: Lever Gott! Es esch a Axe en miner Kopf!
Ape: Kree-gur! arad zor wo b'yat
Arabic: Ya Allah! Be fass bi rassi!
Aragonese, High: Ai ridiós! Tiengo una estral en o tozuelo.
Assyrian: iliya pashum ina reshimi bashu
Babylonian: iliya pashu ina reshiya bashu
Baselang: "Won suripiria nemia voci 'wonden divin'. Un chafergarbar i conboro wonden siras posi."
Basque: Jaungoikoa! Badut aizkor bat buruan!
Belarusian: Bozha moj, ja maju siakeru w halavie
Bengali: Oh Allah! Amar mathar upor bash poreche.
Bosnian: Boze moj! sjekira mi je u glavi.
Breton: Ma Doue! Bez' ez eus ur vouc'hal e va fenn.
Bulgarian: Bozhe moi, niakoi mi e zabil bradva v glavata!
Catalan: Déu meu! Tinc una destral al cap.
Celtic: Mo Dhia! Ta' tua sa mo cheann.
Cree (Dialect N): Aah n'kiseemantoom, Ciikahikan asteew nistikwaanihk.
Czech: Pane boze! Mam sekeru v hlave!
Danish: Oh min gud! Der er en oekse i mit hoved.
Dutch: O, mijn God! Er zit een bijl in mijn hoofd.
Egyptian, Ancient (Middle Kingdom): in Amun! iw minb m tp-i!Emoticon: k:-O
English, Old: Wa min God! Se æx on min heafod is!
Esperanto: Mia Dio! Hakilo estas en mia kapo!
Estonian: Oh mu Jumal, mul on kirves peas
Faroese: Á Gud! Ta er ein øks í høvdinum hjá mær!
Farsi: Oh! Khodayeh Man! Yek Tabar tooyeh saram rafteh!
Finnish: Voi Luoja! Paassani on kirves!
French: Mon dieu! Il y a une hache dans ma tête.
German: O mein Gott! Es gibt ein axt im meine kopf.
German (Carinthian dialect): Um Goddes wuell, do is a hackale im meim schaedahle.
German (Styrian dialect): Jessas, i hab a hockn im schaedel.
German (Upper Austrian dialect): Hümmi, Orsch und Zwirn! Do steckt a Hocka in meina Birn.
German (Vorarlbergerisch; West Austrian dialect): Hargoläss, do ischt an agscht i minoem griand!
Goa'uld: Yo me Weiafei! Te monba im tap-ei.
Greek, Ancient: O Thee! Echo ten labrida en te mou kephale!
Greek, Modern: The'Mou! Eho ena tsekouri sto kefali mou!
Gujarati: Aare Bhaghwan! Mara matha ma ek kuladi chhe.
Gullah: Me Gawd! Dey en' ax een me haid!
Hausan: Kai! Ina da bambaro ciken kaina!
Hebrew: Oh Ellohim, yesh li garzen ba-rosh sheh-li!
Hindi: Hay Bhagwaan! Mere sar mein kulhaadi hain.
Hungarian: Jaj Istenem, de fejsze van a fejemben!
Icelandic: Gud minn godur! Thad er o:xi i ho:fdinu a mer.
Ilythiiri (Drow): Ussta Quarval-sharess! Gaer zhah velve wun ussta karliik!
Indonesian: Ya Allah, dikepalaku ada kapak.
Inuktitut (Greenlandic): Åh gootinga! Niaquniipuq ulimaat.
Irish, Modern: Ó mo Dhia! Tá tua i mo cheann!
Irish, Old: A mo dé! Táthum túag im chenn-sa.
Italian: Dio mio! C'e' un' ascia nella mia testa!
Italian (Trieste dialect): Co dio! xe na mannera nella mia testa
Japanese: ahh, kamisama! watashi no atama ni ono ga arimasu.
Klingon: toH, HIvqa' Qun'a'wIj! nachwIjDaq 'obmaQ tu'lu'!
Korean: aigo, OtchOna! nae daegarie tokkiga pakhyO inne!
Kyrgyz: Oh Kuday! Bashimda balta bar!
Latin: Deus Meus! Securis in capite meo est.
Latvian: Ak Dievs! Man ir cirvis galva!
Lithuanian: Dieve mano, turiu kirvi galvoje!
Malayalam: Entey Deiwame, entey thalayil oru kodali undei.
Maltese: Alla tieghi, ghandi mannara f'rasi
Mandarin: Wode tian a! You yi ba futou cha zai wode naodai li!
Maori: Ave Te Ariki! He toki ki roto taku mahuna!
Marathi: Aray Devaa! Majhyaa dokyaat kurhaad aahay.
Norse, Ancient: Haurheghaud, ijh hehe einght aghsethe hjij haafhohuhede!
Norwegian: Herre Gud, jeg har fått en øks i hodet.
Norwegian, New: Herregud! Eg har ein øks i hovudet.
Polish: O Moj Boze! Mam siekiere w glowie!
Portuguese: Meu Deus! Tenho um machado na cabeca!
Quenya: A Ilúvatarinya! En ná pelecco cárinyesse.
Romanian: Dumnezeule! Este un topor in capul meu!
Russian: Gospodi! Topor u moye golovye!
Sámi: Vuoi Ipmilahcci! Mus han leat aksu oaivvis
Sanskrit: He mama deva! Asti mama murdhni parasuh!
Serbo-Croatian: Boje moj! sjekira mi je u glavi.
Scots Gaelic: Och, mo Dhia, 's e tuagh a tha sa' mo cheann.
Sinhala: Ane Deviyane! Mage oluwe porawak thiyanawa
Slovak: Pane boze! Mam sekeru v hlave!
Slovenian: Moj Bog! Sekiro imam v glavi.
Spanish: ¡Dios mio! ¡Hay un hacha en mi cabeza!
Srana (Surinamese): Tjé mi gado! Mi ab' wang aksi na ini mi édé!
Swahili: Siyo! (Huko) Shoka yangu kichwanil!
Swedish: Oh, Herregud! Jag har en yxa i huvudet!
Tagalog: Ay Dios ko! May palakol sa ulo ko!
Tamil: Ada kadavule! En thalaiyil oru kodali irrukku!
Telegu: Ore devudo! Naa thala lo goddali undhi
Turkish: Aman Tanrim; Kafama saplanmis bir balta var.
Ukranian: Bozhe mij, ja maju sokyru v holovi
Urdu: Au Mere Allah Mere Sur Me Kulahri Hai
Vietnamese (North Dialect): Oi gioi oi! Cai bu'a no bo vao dau toi!
Vietnamese (Central Dialect): Oi troi phat oi! Cai rua chem vo dau tui!
Vietnamese (South Dialect): Chu'a toi oi! Cai rua chat be dau tao!
Visigothic: Meina guth, Ikgastaldan aqizi-wunds meina haubida
Volapük: O God obik! Binon lecüd in kap obik.
Wallon (Belgian dialectical French– phonetic)50: Nom dé dju, y a èn hache din m' tièt
Welsh: A Dduw! Mae bywell yn fy mhen i!
Yiddish: gotenyu! s'iz do a hak in kop! Zau Ta-folin : Afar Lugbúrz! at sapat kok-ishi.
Zulu: Awu nkosi yami kunembhazo ekh

Thursday, July 22, 2010


Picture this: It’s 1972. I’m living on a pleasant street in St. Charles, Missouri. A neighbor, whose home is across the street and several houses down, is having a garage sale. I am an 11 year old boy then and I head down, by myself, to the sale. Always checking out books and records at garage sales. What specifically catches my eye is a book called PORTNOY’S COMPLAINT by Philip Roth. I’d heard of this book because it was supposed to be vulgar, dirty and upsetting to the older generation. So, of course, I had to have it.

Did I get to read it then? No. Why? Well, as it turned out, this neighbor lady asked my Mom later if she enjoyed the book. “What book?”, Mom asked. “Portnoy’s Complaint”, came the reply. “We don’t have that book”, Mom countered. “Well, Mikey bought it the other day and I thought he was getting it for you!”. Yup, I was ratted out by the neighbor lady. Later that day, the paddling commenced.

That’s part 1 of this story. Here’s part 2:

1974. I’m 2 years older and none the wiser. I find PORTNOY’S COMPLAINT at the DeSoto, Missouri, Red Barn Flea Market. I buy it from some careless vendor for 25 cents. This time I smuggle it home and take it to the Hillsboro, Missouri, Junior High School where I will read it (or so I intended) during the day and leave it in my locker at night.

What happens is that I have it in Ms. Slachman’s class. She sees it and grabs it from me. I would never see that copy of the book again.

Great, I’m screwed outta reading it. Twice, no less. At least she didn’t call my home to tell anyone and as far as I can remember, no mention of it was made on my report card (other than perhaps to say that “he’s always somewhere else even though he’s sitting right there in class” – I used to get that a lot). However, Ms. Virginia Slachman was one of my younger school teachers and at one time talked about Jim Morrison masturbating on stage. Then she takes a book – essentially about the masturbatory habits of one young Jewish boy – away from me. Seemed like a double standard to me.

End Part 2. Begin Part 3:

I’m an adult now. Or as much of an adult as I’ll ever be.

Attending three-four book fairs a year, I am inundated with copies of PORTNOY’S COMPLAINT. So I pick a hardcover of it up for next to nothing.

Mike Madonna starts reading PORTNOY’S COMPLAINT, take 3.

Got through the book, uninterrupted this time. I didn’t get it. Looking around in the refrigerator for one’s next bedroom partner wouldn’t occur to a normal mind. Even a necrophiliac would have to agree that that’s sick. I’m mean I’ve screwed UP dinner before but have never screwed the dinner itself. Seems to me that foreplay would be a complete waste of time.

That’s really all I’ve got to say on PORTNOY’S COMPLAINT. I’ve never seen the movie, nor do I want to.

In parting, the only advice I would impart is this: NEVER accept an invitation to eat dinner at Philip Roth’s house. Capiche?


Hey, why is it that nothing the post office ever delivers to me is addressed to “Master Michael Madonna” anymore?

When I was a kid, that was all the rage. Order something from the back of a box of cereal and it would come addressed to “Master Michael Madonna”. My CAP’N CRUNCH deck of playing cards was sent to the attention of “Master Michael Madonna”.

How did the term “Master” become applicable to male children in America anyway? Seemed to me that that would have been a proper form of address to boys in England, but somehow it migrated here. Did we have a British Postmaster General in the days when I was a kid, and if so, did he bring this phrase with him?

Anyway, I guess I didn’t really consider how old I’d gotten until I remembered that I wasn’t “Master Michael Madonna” anymore.

Of course, getting into the teen years and such, and after having read some of those “Mandingo/Falconhurst/Kyle Onstott” books, I learned that the word “Master” had an entirely different meaning than what I was used to.

What a bizarre journey it has been from the youthful “Master Michael Madonna” to the “Hey, you’re almost eligible for your AARP benefits” mail I’m getting these days.


It was so subtle at first that I can’t really pinpoint when it happened. I’d felt the transformation occurring slowly over the past few months. There were noticeable things that I ignored on purpose just so that I wouldn’t have to think about what was happening.

Then, sometime this morning it hit me in the face. Much in the same way that stepping on an upside down garden hoe will bring the handle up quickly and smash you right in your nutsack.

This NEVER happens to girls because they’re smart enough not to leave garden implements on the ground in the first place (plus the fact that they don’t have a nutsack to injure). Conversely, this ALWAYS happens to guys because we never think to check the lawn before we start walking on it. So you see, this doesn’t just happen in Adam Sandler movies.

But I digress. I’m talking about, of course, the instant I realized that I became my dad. I don’t know if every guy goes through this; if so, is this the warm-up act for menopause?

The cold, hard facts about the transformation happened to me today at work. A co-worker asked me whether I texted or not. I told her no. She then pointed out that I had a cell phone, that I was now on Facebook and that the logical connection between the two would be to learn texting.

“My fingers are too big to text”, I argued.

“No, you use your thumbs to text”, she countered.

“Ok, my thumbs are too big to text”, I put forth.

“Oh, you’re just too stubborn to learn”, she opined.

“By George, I think you’ve got it!” came my witty retort.

At this moment, I knew that I was at about 17% away from completely being my dad.
Pop wasn’t keen on computers and gadgets and such. Now that I’m reaching an age where I could have adult children (if I had had children), the new millennium is leaving me in the dust, a virtual techno-moron. But something makes me resist completely giving in to it. Could be that it’s because I’m a product of the 1960s.

I suppose that the only thing left, really, for me to go through to complete the transformation is to sit back in a recliner, eating sardines while watching the news. There’s a better than even chance that this won’t happen, mostly because I detest eating anything which smells that bad and/or is looking back up at me from a can. Gotta draw the line somewhere.

Perhaps I’ve just about reached the end of this particular personal odyssey.

Monday, June 28, 2010


More pukey fun from the Prince of Putzes, Obnoxio the Clown!


This is why some kids are afraid of clowns.

Cleverly abusive wit was Obnoxio's stock-in-trade. Sit and learn at the feet of the Master!

Friday, June 25, 2010


THE TRUTH ABOUT ELVIS ARON PRESLEY is about Dr. Donald Hinton's supposed treatment of Elvis Presley - in modern times. Hinton is an MD, practicing here in Missouri. He specializes in Psychiatry. He probably needs to.

The photo of the gentleman on the riding lawnmower is purported to be Elvis as he looks today.
This story died pretty quick after it hit the news. Wonder if Dr. Hinton's career died as rapidly?


…for that “Just Picked” freshness!


O. J. cops to both Ron and Nicole’s murders – but only after he’s been acquitted in the murder trial. Fred Goldman proposes to drop his civil suit if O.J. confesses. O.J. takes the deal and that’s the premise of this fictional piece.

I imagine that O.J. now wishes a deal like that had been in place initially or else he might not have wound up in jail on kidnapping charges. He certainly wouldn’t have become the bitch on Cell Block H or wherever he’s housed these days.


If a ghost was wearing an invisible bikini, wouldn’t she then be naked? One of the questions my young, warped, fragile mind was contemplating as I first saw THE GHOST IN THE INVISIBLE BIKINI in the early 1970s on local TV during their frequent beach movie marathons. And, if she was naked, could it please, Dear God, be Nancy Sinatra?

Still have a crush on Miss Sinatra to this day and at last got to see her lovely undraped form in the pages of PLAYBOY some years back, so at least that part of the fantasy was fulfilled.

Haven’t yet watched GHOST OF DRAGSTRIP HOLLOW, but who cares? I’m going to go back to thinking about Nancy in that invisible bikini…..


The K. Gordon Murray/Kiddie Matinee classic.

Gotta admit, I saw this one (yes, at a Kiddie Matinee) when I was about 12. Even then it was irritating.

A poor little girl struggles with her conscience as she is torn between shoplifting a doll she wants or doing the right thing. Santa’s watching her, but so is Pitch, one of Satan’s minions.

Pretty standard fare for annoying Mexican movies dubbed into English. But, hey, it made more money than most of us will ever see, so what the hell do I know?


A childhood favorite of mine. Every year around Halloweentime the Weekly Reader (remember those?) would offer this one in their book order forms. That’s how I got my first copy. It disappeared in the mists of time, but I have since found a couple of them here and there.

Of particular note is Red’s intro and the poem, “Little Eefin’ Annie”. That one stayed with me, but I had to re-read the book many years later because I’d forgotten everything else.


Can’t imagine that a sequel to THE CORPSE GRINDERS was “long-awaited”, as it says on the DVD cover. If so, I wonder if those who were “awaiting” it thought that it was worth “awaiting” for?

One of the extras here is take after loving take of Liz Renay screaming as she is supposedly on her way through the grinder.

Delores Fuller, Ed Wood’s most famous starlet, has a cameo here.

The plot: blah, blah, blah – grave robbing – blah, blah, blah – corpse grinding – blah, blah, blah – hungry lil’ kitties – blah, blah, blah – this time hungry aliens as well – blah, blah, blah – a whole new way of looking at population control. And, oh yes, blah, blah, blah.

Above is an example of what the kitty food label looks like in the film.


Another one of those “specialty” tapes from Good Times Home Video. This one, however, did eventually make its way onto DVD.

Mostly movie trailers and highlighted fight scenes. Especially loved previews from THE FLYING GUILLOTINE. It lands on someone’s head, removes it and flies off. Know several politicians I’d like to see that happen to.


A re-making of Herschell Gordon Lewis’s 2000 MANIACS - but without the heartwarming ending of the original movie.

As with 2000 MANIACS, 2001 MANIACS can best be described as a gory version of BRIGADOON, sans the musical numbers.

All kinds of unpleasantness awaits some modern-day Yankee tourists when they stop in at Pleasant Valley. This town was once the site of a Civil War massacre and it appears that the dead aren’t satisfied to remain dead.

Dismemberment by horses, a fatal case of “acid reflux”, metal orthodontia and a rump roast for dinner (you’ll recognize to whom the rump belongs by the tattoos on it) are just some of the memorable scenes.

If you don’t hurl, you’ll probably laugh yourself silly.


One of my favorite books as a kid – sort of a junior version of NIGHT GALLERY.

Most unforgettable story in here is SAY GOODNIGHT TO MR. SPORKO. As it turns out, Sporko is more than just a young boy’s tutor.

Written for 4th graders and above.


I have to say that I’m a big fan of obnoxious, cigar-smoking animal rubber hand puppets, so this one was made to order.

Robert Smigel’s creation is one for the ages. Triumph’s at his best when he puts people in their place(s).

Especially had a good time seeing Triumph giving grief to costumed Star Wars fans.

Grab this one and watch it when the kids are tucked in for the night.


Here’s a switch: the escargot is eating YOU!

One of the more memorable films I saw THE MONSTER THAT CHALLENGED THE WORLD many years ago on Saturday Night’s CREATURE FEATURE on St. Louis Channel KDNL.

Thank God that video/DVD gives these films new life today.

Has one scene in it that makes me jump every time even though I know it’s coming.

Fun stuff.


I guess that the biggest joke here, aside from the whole Killer Tomatoes concept, has to be the casting of Rick Rockwell as our star.

As you may remember, Rick Rockwell was the “Millionaire” in the ill-fated TV special WHO WANTS TO MARRY A MILLIONAIRE. He chose Darva Conger from the contestants and they were wed at the end of the show. It didn’t go well.

An annulment was granted and they went their separate ways. Rockwell continued in his comedy career and Darva, well, she milked it for what it was worth as well. A spread, so to speak, in PLAYBOY, some radio work and God knows what after that.

Anyway, Rockwell did this film before all that Darva stuff blew up in his face. Make of that what you will.

John Astin returns as Professor Gangreen, this time to make another attempt at world domination through his tomato buddies.

As it was pointed out to me a long time ago, it’s really hard to hate a movie when it’s intentionally made to be bad.

Worth having for the double novelty value of Rockwell and giant BLT sandwiches.


Boy, how dated is this?