lvis In Him

It's time to barbecue, boys, so let's all pull our manhood's out of our socks and get set to do two great things that go great together: Drink beer and set fires! Now I realize that some of you poor bastards wouldn't know a grill from your mother's underpants (and ain't it about time you took them suckers off and got you some Fruit Of The Looms?) but that's why 'ol Danny is here on the Big Blue Ball. Your continued education. I'm not too worried about the ladies out there, especially since I'm doing them the great favor of illuminating you panty boys on the ins and outs of accepting your testicles and the power they possess.

Danny Says: "Don't be a sperm donor, boyo, be a sperm owner!"

Now I don't want to get off on a drunken rant here, especially since I was hounded so bad by all them short fellers after last month's column. Apparently I was a little hard on the less than six foot crowd and they sure let me know how they felt. They raised their little squeaky panty boy voices in protest and said, You hurt our feelings! What can one say? I ain't a bit sorry and any of you little trolls wanna dance, just bring it on! I'm ready.

I expected a little flak from the Michael J. Fox fans out there for my treatment of his tragic condition (the one that makes you spill your beer), but I guess you were all too busy browsing the local Banana Republic and drinking decaf, nonfat soy lattes to dash off a note. Anyway, it came as no surprise to me that they've replaced the star of Spin City with Charlie Sheen, a life size actor and a man who's fully vested in his testicles. Not like some of you I could mention. But I'm not going to name any names. Frankly, my audience is so freakin' small you all probably know who I'm talking about. Some of you boys are flailing about in your lives and relationships like you're in a goddamn Gap ad and I'm here to tell ya, your lady friends are just plain sick of it. So before you pay some pith helmeted, granola munching, transgender hippie poet-spirit channeler three grand to drag you off to the woods with your panty boy racketball club, beat on tom-toms, cry about your fathers, and ('scuse me while I hurl) HUG each other, you might just take a look at some back issues of this column.

It's time to take back your testicles, gentlemen. Retrieve your spine from under the bed (it's next to the weight set you bought after you saw American Beauty, but never used), put the Bud on ice (that's an American beer for you slack jawed, web toed, wanna-be European panty boys), grab the spatula and set fire to the Webber. Let's cook some freakin' meat fer Christ's sakes, because we're men, dammit! It's what we do! And fer Christ's sakes, stop asking for permission every time you want to take a piss or have a night out with the boys. Some of you may have missed it, but the sensitive man is gone - in life, in the movies, and in Fairfield. Kicking ass is back and women, if they could ever get to the freakin' point, would want you to know that - unless your "feelings" are directly related to them - suck 'em in and cook the goddamn steaks. Make enough beans and don't put raisins in the cole slaw!

Damn I'm ticked! Gotta get a cold one. Be right back.

Okay, I'm back.

Now I realize this month's column is about a month late [Ed's. Note: MORE!!!] but I was locked up in the freakin' looney bin and they wouldn't let me have a pen or a typewriter or a piece of paper or my belt or nothing. No beer neither, but they did have these yellow pills they handed out like freakin' candy. Gave me an erection you could play baseball with. Now that's therapy, baby! You think I'm kidding? Here's a little tip for you concerning how I came to be at the Pleasant Dreams Psychiatric Hospital and Dairy. If you should ever come across Elvis on the back forty, don't run back into the house drunkenly shouting, "I see dead people, I see dead people!" Man, give my wife half a chance and she'll put me away quicker than you can say, "Are you gonna eat that?"

Danny's Elvis Sighting:
Anyway, it was about nine in the evening and I was nursing a case of Bud Natural Light, contemplating the stars, or some crap. Marty Robbin's Gun Fighter Songs was spinning round the hi-fi in the house with "El Paso" slipping lightly through the screen door. The fruit trees were dropping soft white flower petals on me while their branches swayed in the cool breeze and Benny the dog had just fallen over into his own poop when suddenly, there he was! ELVIS! Replete and beautiful, trim and tall and tanned in his 1971 Aloha From Hawaii white suit. Man, he was a sight...and I thought to myself, I've gone round the bend just now. But then I thought, Man, isn't that just where we went wrong? We let 'ol Elvis die on us and then we just made fun of him like he didn't matter. Elvis freakin' matters, pal! And then I thought, What the hell is he doing here? And then I thought, Man, I could eat Big Macs with Bacon morning, noon, and night. And then I thought, Gotta crack another Bud but I don't want to seem like I'm missing the enormity of the moment. Then I thought again, I've gone round the bend. But then I thought, I really gotta crack another Bud here, so I said,

"Well, hey Elvis, you ready for a cold one?"

"Little man," Elvis said, displaying his trademark sneer, "if a man came into your house bent on destroying all that you have built with drink and women and drugs, if a man brought all the sins of the world into your house, what would you do?"

I thought, Man, he's so serious. I really must be in the sh-t here, so I go: "Well, Elvis, I'd freakin' ventilate him with my shotgun." And I tapped my twelve gauge Peace Keeper, which is never more than a foot away these days, what with short guys out for my ass, which is about all they can reach.

"Well then," the King said, pointing a jeweled finger in my face, "what do you think you're doing, boy?"

So, I thought to myself, This is the reckoning. The Judgment day, and they've sent Elvis for me, naturally. I swallowed hard, figuring my immortal soul was at stake. Then I answered:

"The very best I can, Elvis, the very best I can." At which point, Elvis peered at me through the darkness.

"Larry?" he asked.

"Next door," I pointed, breathing a heavy sigh of relief, "smoking that Oklahoma Bushwhack."

"Wrong goddamn house," Elvis cursed. "That's God for ya. Elvis do this! Elvis do that! Elvis go tell Fallwell to lay off the gays. Elvis get me a Big Mac and make it a bacon! Elvis go see Larry! Gives me the wrong damn address! People think God is dead. Truth is he can't find the damn place. So lemmie see here. You'd be Danny, then?"

"Yeah, Elvis."

"How's that dog of yours, boy?"

"Sitting in his own poop, but still clinging to life."

"Ah, well," the King sighed, "That's kind'a how I went out." And with that, he did a Karate kick into the air, leapt the fence, and was gone.

I ran in, told the wife "I see dead people!" - and got six weeks in the Dairy talking about my father and beating a tom-tom with my yellow-pill boner. The only other thing to do there is watch television and, General, I watched plenty. I saw Sex In The City, which if I was still dating would scare me right back to marriage, which is how we all ended up there in the first place. Marriage, not the Dairy. But that Sarah Jessica Parker is yummy. I saw Secret Agent Man on UPN and liked it a whole lot. Lots of tall, beautiful people with James Bond-type gadgets, wishing their secret agent jobs didn't get in the way of them all having sex. Unfortunately I watched a lot of television news and came to the conclusion that if we could replace stupidity with courtesy, there'd be a lot less television news. Yuck! Did I just write that? Somebody put a bullet in me already. I think I'm crossing over to the dark side! Where are the irate midgets with firearms when I need them? Elvis, take me now, King! Take 'ol Danny home!

All right then, I'm getting the sixth-beer weepies, so I'm going to cut this short.

Boys, we're all of us men, freakin' idiots, and that simple fact forgives a lot of nonsense, but it don't forgive sloth, rude behavior or soy burgers.

Ladies, a morsel of advice for those past and passing thirty:

It ain't our fault.
Remember, we will always bend for a soft voice.

Give it a try sometime.

Bye.

Elvis says, "Bye."

Daniel J. Barbeau, lives in Northern California, where he roams about rototilling people's yards late at night while they're sleeping.

Got a problem? Email Dan at filmmonthly@hotmail.com