Local Crank Guts Myra Kula Electra

THE GOLDEN CHILD - #6

You're not talking about me, Myra. You better not be talking about me. When you're running around using words like "crank," you best be kidding, because that's not Hoyle. Not kosher, not halal, not good for body or soul, junk calories. Yes, you, Missie Myra Kula Electra. I know you, and you know I do! I got enough dirt on you to sink your battleship now and forevermore! Ho, ho, ho!

Please, Myra, don't call me, OK?, wheedling in private about "being sorry" for this despicable article. It's your big scoop, my dear; own it! And all the baggage that goes with it! That's the part I like, 'cause now you're mine, aren't you? How, O how, do I plan on taking the great Myra Kula Electra down? Gee, I'm going to enjoy this! This is my project for the next day or so. Just taking walks on my half acre, giggling, laughing, and doing what I do best, holding a grudge till the day you're destroyed!

But how to do the deed? There's so many ways I could come at you, Little Miss Myra. The weird thing is you act like you don't know me, and I know you do know me. You couldn't have forgotten, of course! But you plowed ahead anyway, writing this scurrilous article, then plastering it across PAGE ONE! To me that's living dangerously! Obviously assuming, Kundalini's a nice guy. He'll take it in stride. He doesn't want to drag his dirty laundry out of the basket, for fear it might make him look worse. Well, let me pop your little bubble, My Sweet: Even though I am nice -- voted "Nicest Guy on the Internet" a few times -- I can also be mean. Self-preservation, you know, it's one of the basic instincts...

I'll just let you think about that for a minute, while I take your foolish article apart line by line, word by stinking word.

First, how about that newspaper: "SPECIAL." I like that part. My business, me being The Golden Child, is important enough to warrant a SPECIAL EDITION. That's actually pretty cool. Because if memory serves, how many "specials" has the Daily News had? Only a few. The Kennedy Assassination, 911, The Tearing Down of the Shopping Center, and now this, me being The Golden Child! Hell, looking at it like that, I'm in good company, three total disasters and one blessing. At least I see it as good news.

It's the headline that immediately catches my attention and gets my hackles up. "Local Crank." Sigh. Up-urp! I just ate chili and about lost it. I knew what you meant, but I looked it up in the dictionary just to be sure: "CRANK n. [kh-ránk]. 1. Twisted metal bar to start old cars with. 2. Drugs that fry your brain. 3. Term adolescent boys use for their junk. 4. Junior high teachers, who are crank-y. 5. Eccentric guys, believers in imaginary stuff, the clinically or colloquially insane, idiots with butterflies for brains.

Then there's your article, one crummy little paragraph. At least it doesn't mention me by name; it could be anyone! Except there's only one Coffee Club in town called "The" Coffee Club. And there's only one Golden Child that's been declared in recent memory, who just happens to be me. Imagine how this beautiful declaration blessed my life. I could've been nothing, like you -- just a nobody with a whole shelf of awards for Article of the Year, etc. Of course if they're all one paragraph long, I could churn out one paragraph articles all day! Look at my article here! Should I split it up into a 12-part series? Would they give me an award, some worthless award I could stick on my mirror, like you no doubt have done!

But we're not done here yet. Your article goes on to term The Coffee Club's declaration "a terrible step." That hurts. And is unfair. Had you gone on to elucidate the problem, maybe I might've seen the point. But you thought, 'One paragraph of scurrilous insults covers the territory. I'm going on break. Someone get me a fan; I've had a tough day writing.' Ha ha! I could sit here and write insults about you till midnight and not get the slightest overheated, let alone need a fan!

OK, Myra Kula Electra, here's the deal: You have 24 hours to retract this despicable article or face the music. I haven't forgotten all you did when we were together. I may have forgotten a lot of things in my life, but does July 4 set off any fireworks in your reprobate conscience? As in four unsavory characters having the time of their life, Danny, Spud, Cannibal, and Tipsy. You have 24 hours or I will repost your sins! If anyone forgot, they'll be dramatically reminded! Apologize or you're going down!

If you retract the article, on the other hand, all is forgiven. And maybe we could still get together for some projects. Remember, Babe, I am The Golden Child. How many of those do you meet on an average day? The things Golden Children are capable of. Oh yeah!

Your All Bad News Horoscope

Scientists tell us there's more stars in space than grains of sand on Earth. And there's far more grains of sand on Earth than there are people. Meaning, if you think about it, there's at least enough stars that each us can have one of our very own. So is it so hard to believe that there's also a bad star out there with your name on it? Always portending disaster.

I know people like bad news. True, we don't always like it about ourselves. But bad news is what sells, according to folks in the business. And of course it's better to know than not, so, on the chance that it might do some good, we could try to get ahead of it and avert it.

With all that in mind, I had the great idea of a horoscope column in the paper dedicated to nothing but bad news. Diseases, accidents, various cautions, take it slow, etc.

Here's a few samples:

Capricorn (Dec. 22-Jan. 19) -- Bad news is coming your way, when a long lost parent shows up, until now thought dead, but alive and in serious trouble, probably massive debt.

Aquarius (Jan. 20-Feb. 18) -- There will be a mass escape today of birds from a turkey farm. Most of them will make their way to your home, with some entering your closet and chewing your clothing to nothing but buttons and shreds.

Aries (March 21-April 19) -- The tree in your front yard that you've always seen as protection against an out-of-control vehicle will develop sap rot and need to be cut down early this afternoon. Later tonight, a drunken semi-truck driver will jump the curb and careen through your bedroom wall, killing at least one person. If you happen to have a date, it'll be two. The driver will survive.

Taurus (April 20-May 20) -- Your church will burn down this week. There will be a massive financial drive to rebuild. You'll be expected to contribute, even though you'll lose your job tomorrow.

I know what you're thinking, those might be a little too specific. It's hard to believe that so many churches will burn down all at once, one for every person born under Taurus. Or that turkey farms will have such bad luck and those under Aquarius will bear the brunt. But maybe horoscopes are tailored only for those who actually read them. Meaning, if I don't read it the turkeys stay put? Which doesn't make much sense; how does a turkey know if I read the paper?

Probably our best horoscope writers have the right idea. Keep it so generalized it wouldn't really make much difference if you were Virgo or Capricorn. I'll try a few.

Gemini (May 21-June 20) -- Hold off on making any decisions, any decisions whatsoever, including the decision to follow this advice. It's going to be bad.

Cancer (June 21-July 22) -- Your horoscope looks so terrible today, I haven't got the heart to even tell you what it is. You have my sympathy in advance. Maybe pretend you're a different sign today. If it's any consolation, the problem doesn't have to do with turkeys.

Leo (July 23-Aug. 22) -- I wouldn't get involved in what's coming up. Weapons may or may not come into play. He or she simply isn't worth it. End it, end it now, but remember, weapons may or may not come into play.

That's probably enough. I'll run it by a few syndicates and see if they want to publish it. It's very compelling. On a personal note, of course I'm a Capricorn. Both my parents are not just thought dead, they are dead. I was there when my dad died, but I took everyone's word for it that my mom died. Could it be? Is she suddenly going to show up, in serious trouble, perhaps massive debt. I need to go lock my doors.

Confidential to George in Syria -- You're part of a terrible struggle. You won't survive.

The Police Press Conference: "No Comment"

The local TV news urgently cut to the police press conference, about to announce the end of the latest gun-slinging maniac's siege. We see the various detectives, the captain, the sergeant, the FBI chief, and a few underlings bringing in a tray of iced tea.

It's live, and somehow they have all the faith in the world that they're going to get right to the meat of the matter, what happened, how they were able to storm the maniac's compound and finally free his hostage, a five-year-old boy in mortal danger. We've literally been praying that the boy would come out safe and that the maniac would be immediately killed.

Let's get to the press conference, no more delay!

"I'm Police Captain Butch McCall, that's M-little C-big C-a-l-l. This is the FBI chief, [his name spelled]." And so on and so on, right down to the guys with the trays being the comedic Wiere Brothers (W-i-e-r-e), last seen in Elvis' movie Double Trouble, now slopping iced tea everywhere.

"We'd like to thank you for coming out today," he says to the press.

Behind the scenes at the local news, we picture the producer saying, "Cut away! Sum it up, we'll be back when they get past the introductions!"

Then a few minutes later we're back at the press conference. Captain Butch is recognizing the important work of the state police in resolving this matter. "Thank you, gentlemen, for a job well done." This is the state police's cue to step in and thank the local captain and his force, for maintaining their calm in a very tense situation. The captain nods to the FBI chief, who thanks both the state police and the local police for coordinating a great effort in resolving the crisis. Finally, the sheriff moves to the microphone to thank anyone they might've missed. Other than that they will have no comment.

The local news cuts away with the summation, "So there you have it. The police are thanking the police for doing police work."

All Is Forgiven When You're Dead

A local TV channel's weatherman committed suicide. True story. I hadn't personally ever heard of him, since I don't watch that channel, but of course I feel sad that something, whatever it might have been led him to do that.

I heard about it on one of the competitor channels, and they gave a nice presentation on him. Apparently he was something of a cut-up on air, since they had him flapping like a wild chicken, dressed in a Superman costume, and so forth. Perhaps not the most flattering images, but they meant well, that he was well known and respected for various antics.

OK, but I have some objections. If the people on the competing channel aren't watching the other guys' shows, how do they know about him? And how did they become so chummy all of a sudden, since it's usually a cut throat business. Even while they were praising the deceased weatherman they were still using slogans for themselves like, "The most accurate weather report," as if to say the competitors' weather sucked. Maybe that's what pushed him over the edge, everyone questioning his accuracy.

The whole thing has been on my mind, as you can tell. It reminds me of the old truth that once you're dead, everything's forgiven. You can kill a hundred people, but once they get done executing you in the electric chair, you're in for an honorable burial. No one comes around and kicks your body. At least in America. In Libya they probably do. Or Iran. I think it makes a certain amount of sense. After all, it is your body. Why not pulverize it if you were that bad?

The weatherman, of course, wasn't a bad guy. According to what they're saying. They didn't mention why he committed suicide. Maybe no one knows. But they are definitely promoing the various signs of suicidal behavior, that the rest of us might be vigilant in the face of similar behavior in our loved ones. So that's a positive.

When they started promoing the upcoming story of the dead weatherman, I figured it was going to be some old 80-90 year old retired weatherman who was beloved in the area. Because I believed they used the term "dearly loved" or "well loved." So I was expecting to see an old black and white picture of the first weatherman in the area. But then it turned out to be this young guy, 41, flapping like a chicken, and I thought, "Whoa." They used the word suicide and I was thinking that's unusual! Who's happier than a weatherman? No one! Maybe the sports guys, whose constant happiness lies in their superficial approach to life.