This one is going to have zero meaning, just going to be clear from the rip (and yeah, I love old typewriters & hence, old typewriter fonts), but if someone out there wants to take me up on it, I can write stuff like this for days, so here‘s the pitch, and if you swing and miss, that‘s going to be on you, because this is a hanging curve of monumental proportions: The Revisionist History Channel, brought to you by Miller, enjoy the High Life, or maybe Coors, because is it really cool to call yourself the “Banquet Beer“ I am sure the guys over at Budweiser are not worried, being the king of beers and all, wonder how they figured that out, in a democracy no less. If only Pep Vitamins were still around. Dammit political correctness movement, learn to take a joke you over sensitive douche bags.
Tonight, how the ghost of Lincoln changed the course of WWII with his invention of the Pop Tart, on True Stories They Don‘t Want YOU to Know. The paranormal, aka, abnormal delusional explanations to explain nothing needs proven these days, just grab that list of freedom from debate words: probably, perhaps, possibly, maybe, a chance, etc, straight confound the ignorant with ambiguity so shapeless, so devoid of logic, that indeed, this is exactly what most likely went down. I get it, you are saying, Pop Tarts weren‘t around in the ‘40‘s or maybe you know they were actually invented in 1895, by druggist Jakob “Nutter“ Butters, when he was on a binge for something sweet after one too many Brompton Cocktails, and only had a jar of strawberry preserves and flour, who allegedly was instructed by miniature police constables to make them what would be the first ever Pop Tart, sans icing and sugar sprinkles, which were later added by another apothecary denizen, Stan “Kaiser“ Mimosa after a nefarious slip and fall incident across 110th Street.
Yeah, thinking tonight should be brought to us all by something better. After all, you shouldn‘t just blindly accept a sponsor, take it because times are tough, no, never sacrifice integrity. That‘s the lesson, so Playtex, I can‘t in good conscience accept a time, and my friends, maybe it would be different if it was that time of the month for me, but I am not bleeding anymore, had to force menopause by shutting up my internal clock, diffusing the pain into perspective, and here I am, able to launch something tragically beautiful, true history perhaps, where the names and places are factual, so who cares about what happened, it‘s getting on to the other side, a leap into the light, that is really what matters. After all, I can give you 1000 ways to get to Pismo Beach, but wouldn‘t you want the fastest route? There really is a bit of truth in every bit of fiction, just depends on your decoder ring and the calibration.
All things considered, how a pastry jammed into a toaster changed anything, well, imagination is boundless, and maybe they dropped a special batch behind enemy lines, lace with explosive brown sugar filling, and Germans and their love of pastries, the rest is revisionist history. It wasn‘t about some fire in a theatre in France, but I admire Quentin‘s imagination. What? Everything is historically accurate, but none of us were there and really, we trust written accounts, so while this is typed, it‘s permanence is even more cemented, thank you very much waybackmachine.com or whatever it is, maybe a .org, but Mr. Peabody and Sherman made a comeback, Snapshots of internet truths, preserved in these mystical, mythical clouds, invisible to the naked eyes, they ooze wisdom by preserving facts that passed the rigorous standards of Al Gore, Lord Overseer of the World Wide Web. Believe all you see, and become wise.
I get it, really, my channel may indeed be late to the party, and whereas you say so late the party is over, I exclaim I am fashionably late so everyone pays attention. Gander at the grandeur, good to see the youth of today putting their energies into killing two birds with the proverbial solitary stone, pest control and escape the pain of existence, by smoking bedbugs to get high. Some cry depravity, some have a fresh perspective and praise problem solving merged with good old ingenuity.
Back to WWII, the Revisionist History Channel & sponsorship. I got a call, new movie, needs some promotion, I say, needs to have Miley Cyrus in it, or at least in the commercial, something about her makes me stare, scratching my head, trying to figure out exactly why it is I can‘t turn away. They say, great idea, but she is off in the Philippines, passing out copies of dad‘s hit, Achy Breaky Heart, signing lead paint Herbies made in China. What a world. Filled with such unfortunates that just miss the point, where is all of this going? I can‘t violate my principles, and really, calling it a choice, sign up a remake of ET or Ghost, come on, get some sense of originality.
I mean, this is a channel based on wild conjectures. I can write shows for days, weeks, years really, because what do I really need, a name? Ben Franklin, already have a bunch of stuff on him, those underground sex parties, think he impregnated an alien at one, she was an undocumented girl from Zoltar, so I heard perhaps, from a scholar who doesn‘t want his identity known, because Professor Konkers, where‘s the backspace key, screw it, strikethrough function get some use, that will hide him, if not, it‘s exactly why God made disguises, and the witness protection program, not that he knows anything about corruption at his alma mater and can spill the beans about a certain dean of economics who is sleeping with a rather gigantic investment firm, creating academic theories to be applied to Wall St.
Sponsored by: Bustello. And of course, Redline, for those moments when I need an extra jolt of adrenaline, like that moment in Fear and Loathing, the adrenal gland from an unfortunate drifter, that can sometimes be the difference between a mundane, yet effectively communicated post, versus a lightning bolt of dazzling bull…apparently a turd can be polished.
Tonight‘s episode of It Happened, brought to you by Kosher Salt, the foundation of seasoning in everything, followed by the sautéed onion, we explore the possibility that America was not founded by fathers, but perhaps by a group of misogynistic opium smokers who were so off their rockers, they couldn‘t be bothered with paying taxes, or procreating, so as many New Revisionist Historians theorize, the United States only became one over a clandestine meeting aboard an alien craft…
So it goes…