Anytown, USA

March 11, 2010 at 10:05 am | Posted in Jonny R Goode | 1 Comment

Anytown, USA is just your average American community. Children ride bikes down Main Street, while parents shop for food and clothes in the markets on First. Mr. Curruthers at the General Store has what you need, and if he doesn’t he can order it for you from Ajax, Inc – just be prepared to wait a coupla weeks. Little Sally Sampson is the town cutie – some say the County Beauty Pageant is in her future. Billy Jones works day and night on his pitching arm – come Spring we’ll see what he’s made of. Mrs. Piper makes the best Rhubarb Pie this side of the river, and Mr. Piper knows to his heart he’s the luckiest man in town. There are clubs here: the Model Train Boosters, The Elk Lodge, The Good Times Bridge Club, The Shriners. The Portal To Hell is here, a half-thousand whirring teeth in a fleshy, vaginal gash in the ground. Last year, Mr. Baker built a treehouse for his son Tommy, built it with his bare hands – all the other boys are green in the face. The Municipal council doesn’t want to have to make the cuts to the road repair crew, especially not with Mike Barton’s son so sickly – but they may have no choice but to put it to a vote. The biggest celebrity in the area is Pride Of The Family – he’s from three towns over, and he’s in the Belmont Stakes this year. Little Paul Hill hid in a barn all night, said he was “running away”; he was back for breakfast though. The Saxons were a little weary of that Indian family moving in next door, but Mrs. Mehta brought them a Rubbermaid full of samosas and now they’re fast friends. Sam King was just fat enough to be Santa again a few months back, but that chemo he’s receiving might hurt his chances come December – Hell, something tells me that the kids won’t mind a thin Saint Nick this year. Sister Jane at the Church is getting up there in years, but she shakes it off and says, “every wrinkle is a footstep in God’s direction.” The parade came through town on Tuesday – it’s probably in Kansas by now – I hear they slept in a cave Thursday night. Jenny Tucker has gotten in more fights than half the boys in town – and she’s not afraid to touch a frog either. Hey, you know my favorite thing about Anytown, USA? Everyone knows the exact day and second when they’re gonna die. – Jonny R Goode

Spittoon Baboon

June 26, 2009 at 9:49 am | Posted in Jonny R Goode | Leave a comment

Spittoon Baboon is the popular children’s cartoon character of the future.  If any animators, Hollywood executives, or millionaire benefactors are reading this, you’re gonna want to hear me out. Spittoon, the “Smoking Simian,” lives in an enchanted tobacco grove with The Tsar of Cigars and Pipe Smoke Bloke.  Together, they fight off the wicked advances of Lord Legislation and the P.C. Patrol.  When times are good, they take “long, lovely drags from their Fabulous Fags,” as detailed in the show’s boss-nova inspired theme song.  A typical episode will find “Spitty B.” blowing smoke rings (and stars and spirals!) in the Bar Light, Bar Bright, First Bar I’ve Seen Tonight.  When Lord Legi tries to get him to stub out his “Bliss Cylinder,” Spitty responds by putting it out on the Lord’s hand, then kicks out the stool from underneath him so that the chin of the “Cruel Fool” hits bartop, rattling his teeth.  The Tsar of Cigars then removes a Gold-Gilded Royal Scepter from underneath his robes, and beats the “Asshole” to within an inch of his “Magic Lifeforce.” “Right-o!  That’s done it, boys!” exclaims Pipe Smoke Bloke in his rich Cockney tones.  The Baboon then hocks a black chunk onto the dome of the “Lil’ Lordie,” and it’s off into the night for a piece of tail.  “Caw, have a butcher’s at the bristols on that Brass Cart,” remarks the Bloke, in reference to the stunning and glamorous Lady Lionessa, “Wot I wouldn’t give for a roll in the King’s Pay with ‘er…”  The “Nicotine Chimp” then performs a sashay beneath the streetlamp, and they all three descend on the purring feline like scythes to the harvest.  I’ve got a press pack with funny pictures so give a shout Tinseltown! – Jonny R. Goode

Colonel Mustard

June 18, 2009 at 2:40 pm | Posted in Jonny R Goode | 1 Comment

Colonel (or “Lieutenant”) Mustard (or “Mayonnaise”) is an unpopular board game character in a very popular board game.  The game in question is “Cluedo.”  The question in “Cluedo” is “Who killed Mr. Body?”  The answer in question is “Colonel Mustard with Professor Plum in Miss Scarlett.”  To get to the answer, one follows the clues. Here’s a clue: Colonel Mustard is not a real Colonel.  Here’s another clue: Colonel Mustard IS a real mustard.  When I play Cluedo (or Lifedo, or Monopolydo) I eat pretzels with mustard like some sort of German.  The German in question is Adolf Mustard.  Or Heinrich Cluedo.  In 1944, Colonel Mustard was caught behind enemy lines.  They tortured him, but he refused to tell them where the lead pipe was (it was in the Conservatory.)  They rigged him to a machine.  He protested.  They demanded to know who killed Mrs. Peacock in the Rope Room with the Kitchen.  He denied them their answer.  They switched on the machine.  A bolt of DNA shot through the Colonel, causing electrics all up and down his body.  He yelled, then melted.  What was once a human body became yellow: mustard.  The Germans turned him into his least favorite condiment.  He oozed into the secret passage connecting the torture room to the Billiard Room.  He climbed into Hitler’s mouth.  Hitler wheezed.  He clutched his throat.  He begged for some water (Colonel Mustard had horseradish in him.)  Hitler flailed, then died.  Here’s a final Clue: Colonel Mustard in the Billiard Room with his own mutated body. (SPOILER ALERT) – Johnny R. Goode


February 27, 2009 at 12:40 pm | Posted in Jonny R Goode | Leave a comment

A pencil is a long, thin writing implement used to write 19th-century Russian novels or radical political tracts.  Some visual artists also use pencils, notating down their ideas in a strange and ungainly language called “pictures,” wherein an image of a head, for instance, is used to denote a head, an image of bread for bread, and so on. This language has its limitations, however, in that only things that rhyme with head apparently can be written down, or “drawn,” in pictures.  As my name is ‘Ned,’ this isn’t really a problem.  But my brother’s name is Charlie, and he has a dogYou can start to get a feel for the headaches this causes.  We’ll stick with English, thank you very much.  Pencils have other, more violent uses as well.  For example, when the “picture” lobbyists come around my house with their colorful Red pamphlets of beds and sleds, I often threaten to use a pencil to stab them in the eye.  They look at me blankly.  I then indicate that lead will be put into their head. This works – immediately they move off my property.  When the police vans come, with their wildly blinking lights, I smile at the boys in blue and thank my good fortune for being able to express what exactly is happening to me in my wonderful English language.  I then use a pencil to write down my memoirs as I sit in prison.  This is Chapter 1. Chapter 2 will be entitled “Using a Pencil As A Shank.” – Jonny R Goode


February 25, 2009 at 3:10 pm | Posted in Jonny R Goode | Leave a comment

lionLions are ferocious cats that treat gazelles like balls of yarn, batting them around until they come undone.  The first time Man met Lion, Man yelped, Lion meowed, or “roared,” and the rest was history. Lions do not appear in the bible, but a tuft of lion hair is used as a bookmark in my copy.  Lion fur, or “scales,” is a hot commodity these days, having been seen in an Old Navy commercial.  Tigers are like Lions, but with stripes instead of “plain.”  Panthers are like Lions too, only black; some enterprising young radicals picked up on this concept and used it as the basis of their name: The Black Panthers. I’m not entirely sure what this group did, but based on some pictures I’ve seen I would imagine they were probably a band.  I would love to have seen the Black Panthers open for Tony Curtis at the Copacabana!  Lions have massive paws, massive maws, and massive “saws” (teeth)!  They also have massive jaws.  Lions are particularly known for their “cowardly” behavior.  Lions found to be lacking in courage are summarily put down.  Therefore, it is important for a Lion to put up a good front.  This is why you’ll often see Lions at an American football match, particularly in Detroit (Ed note: or near Mt. Nittany, Pa).  Don’t be fooled – when Lions go home to their dens, they pine over loves lost, crying Lion tears onto rough-hewn rocky floors.  Don’t touch it – Lion tears are acid.  Throughout pre-history, great legions of lions, stretching for thousands of miles in every direction, would plow weeping over the landscape, their tears eroding the land into the multitude of beautiful shapes we see today.  Such is the origin of the popular catchphrase: “Lions are glaciers.” – Jonny R Goode


February 19, 2009 at 11:58 am | Posted in Jonny R Goode | Leave a comment

Sass is a form of “backtalk,” “jackback,” or “flapjazz,” that I just don’t want to hear.  I ask you a simple question, and all I get back in return is your Sass.  The history of your Sass goes back almost as long as I’ve known you.  It manifests itself as a roll-of-the-eyes, a raise-of-the-hand, and an invitation for me to engage in conversation with that hand.  Frankly, I’ve had it up to HERE with all your “jiveback.”  Sass, also known as “lip,” is driving me up the wall. Its bad enough you don’t put down that video game when I’m talking to you, but the added insult of your “jacktalk” is just too much to bear.  If I have to hear you “jazzflash” one more time, I’ll go nutty, and not in the delicious, candy-bar kind of way.  No, more like “Jackflash the Ripperjazz.”  One defense against your “Sassback” is to simply ignore it.  Impossible!  Not when I’m dealing with a World Champion “Sass-Slinger” such as yourself.  And so we roll on.  Dark night gives way to dawn.  Dew collects on the ferns and flowers, and a light morning mist fizzes away.  Birds turn their eyes to the bright morning sun and start their sweet song.  And that’s when your “Jack-Sassery” hits hardest – echoing off the facades of the row homes and rocketing down 81st street like an asshole on a motorbike.  I roll over in frustration, bury my head deep in the pillow, and scream and scream until my voice goes raw.  Would you just quit it with that Sass? – Jonny R Goode

Matty Fatty: Author Bio

February 18, 2009 at 4:06 pm | Posted in Jonny R Goode | Leave a comment

Matty Fatty’s just a man, like any other.  He has two legs (for runnin’), two arms (for liftin’), and two heads (for fuck’s sake!) Yes, Matty Fatty’s just a man.  A greasy, pimply mess of a man, whose wayward ramblings, drunken in the street at 3 a.m., moaning at the sillhoutettes in the windows, waving his be-brown-bagged-bottle- frankly, it’s all a bit of an embarrassment.  Matty Fatty’s not a disproportionately large man, not as his name would have you believe. Oh, he’s FAT alright- his folds roll and break like huge waves on his pants, and a beetle surfs.  But Matty Fatty’s JUST RIGHT.  He’s a porridge of a man, a pillow.  A harmless man.  Invisible.  He makes no efforts, and no boats get rocked.  Had he captained the Titanic, it never would have been built in the first place.  Now, Matty Fatty’s not a smart man, but nor is he dumb.  He can rub two pennies together. He’s good with the friction shtick. I’ve seen him do it for hours, delighted, that huge wet smile from where the drool drips down. Those glazed-over eyes, those wildly jerking limbs, those teeth that must be held so that he does not bite off his own tongue.  Yes, Matty Fatty’s just a man, a man with the body of a lion and the head of a goat. What’s that one called?  Chimera.  Matty Fatty’s just a Chimera,  like any other. Jonny R Goode


February 17, 2009 at 9:49 am | Posted in Jonny R Goode | Leave a comment

An umbrella’s like a little house you carry around with you to keep you from getting wet in the rain.  A better name would have been “Porta-Shelter,” but they don’t ask me to name things, only to explain what those names mean once they’ve made their crummy decisions.  I mean, seriously.  Umbrella doesn’t really MEAN anything.  Let’s break it down: the prefix “um” is what a dumb person says when they can’t think of what they’re trying to say.  C’mon.  Next we have “Brell”- this may be a reference to French songwriter Jacques Brel, which was probably playing in the room when they thought of their despicable “name” for my beloved Porta-Shelter.  And the final suffix “a” was probably an exhalation of relief for having come up with a name at all (similar to the refreshing exhalation one cannot help but emit after a nice long swig of a Lymon-based beverage.)  So, what we’re looking at is a particularly dense dude, seated at a desk in a room with a Jacques Brel record playing, handed a Porta-Shelter, asked to name it, and as he looks around in panic for inspiration, he proceeds to spout: “Um…BREL…AH!”  Idiot.  Probably had a big dumb smile on his face after the ordeal, and rewarded himself with a Lymon-based beverage. And here I am, soaking wet, my computer ruined, because I outright REFUSE to use the damn, dumb thing.  Ah, but I have a petition.  And, I have three signatures.  Change is coming.  Oh, Porta-Shelter, take me away! – Jonny R Goode


February 14, 2009 at 11:51 pm | Posted in Jonny R Goode | Leave a comment

A hamburger is a roundish object you can eat, but should not be confused with a pancake or an orange.  Hamburgers are typically composed of many layers, or strata, of foodstuffs.  The outer layer is typically a breadishly good substance called a bün, unless you’re some sort of goddam commie.  The middle bit is either meat or meat with pickles on it.  Some goddam Reds put pineapples on theirs or some BS. Me?  I squirt out some ketchup on that shit like a true Patriot. That’s because all Warm-Blooded Americans use hamburgers to regulate their metabolism in such a way as to maintain a consistent body temperature, regardless of the ambient temperature of the outside environment, unless they’re some sort of goddam lizard.  A variation on the popular American Hamburger (a German invention –ed.) is a Cheeseburger, which adds a slice of good ol’ fashioned AMERICAN Cheese. (I enjoy a good Jarlsberg – ed.)  Some commie EDITORS I know of, who shall remain nameless (My name is Ed – ed.) like to put some sort of Fancy French Bullshit on their burgers. (Jarlsberg is Norweigian – ed.)  As far as I’m concerned, such folk can grow scales, walk on all fours, and eat moths with a forked tongue, ’cause they ain’t no AMERICAN HUMAN BEING.  (Fuck you – ed.)  Did I mention a hamburger goes great with a side of Freedom Flies, er, Fries?Jonny R Goode


February 13, 2009 at 1:55 pm | Posted in Jonny R Goode | Leave a comment

Dirt is a brown dusty substance that can be quite filthy.  It is frowned upon to have dirt in your house, unless it’s in a flower pot. For some reason, this kind of dirt is not as “dirty” as the outside kind.  When dirt gets wet it becomes mud.  Mud is like dirt, only dirtier.  Mud, in fact, may be the most filthy and repulsive of all the myriad kinds of dirt, of which there are a seemingly limitless variety.  For example, there’s the “fake dirt” one makes out of crushed Oreo cookies and deposits liberally over a Graveyard themed birthday cake.  Rising from this fake dirt, always and without fail, is a gummy-corpse for the amusement of small children.  Other kinds of dirt include “Red Dirt,” which can typically be found caked into the shoes of a Man from Mars, who, as of this printing, has stopped eating cars and bars, and now only eats guitars.  David Spade made a feature-length film called “Joe Dirt,” and then immediately destroyed all copies, because that’s the sort of beautiful universe we live in. The best kind of dirt, according to anybody who’s anybody,[1] is “Sand,” which is not quite as dirty as dirt, but is still more dirty than things that are clean (such as a linoleum kitchen surface.)  Sand is great for lounging around on and soaking in some sun.  It is also great for “babe-watching,” which could be considered a “dirty” activity.  Along these lines, I could be described as a very “dirty” man, and it’s true.  No matter how much I scrub and scrub, I just can’t wash off that “dirt.”  Jonny R Goode

[1] – Wall Street Journal, September 25, 1978.

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