Archive for the Rotwang Category

Angel is a Centerfold: Remembering Terri Nunn

Posted in And now the snorting starts, Corruption, Embarrassing Butt-Shots, Fashion Forward, Grim Fairy Tales, Isnt nature wonderful?, love, photograph, Photography, Pop Culture, pork, Rotwang, The Matrix, The Second Coming, the snows of yesteryear, The Wilhelm Scream, The Wrath of God on January 2, 2014 by paulboylan

The odds are none of you reading this know who Terry Nunn is – or was.

 Terry was the lead singer for the 1980’s band Berlin.

BERLIN-Love-Life

Berlin – with Terri – made some amazing music.

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w8_u7rEavBM
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Terry and I attended the same high school  in Santa Monica in the mid 1970’s – a good time and a good place to be a teenager.  Terri and I were not close, but we were tangentially connected through others (Robert Benson, Aaron Salter, etc.).  I did not know her well, but I always felt she seemed troubled in a way I could never really grasp or define.  In all honesty, I admired Terri from afar in the way a teenaged boy admires the object of his hopeless desire – an object, a goal, that can never be achieved.

I graduated high school in 1976.   In 1979 the clockwork movement of the Universe put me in a convenience store where I saw a copy of the February 1977 edition of Penthouse magazine:

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 Inside I saw Terri.

terri-nunn

Does she walk? Does she talk?
Does she come complete?
My homeroom homeroom angel
Always pulled me from my seat.  

She was pure like snowflakes. No one could ever stain

The memory of my angel
Could never cause me pain.

Years go by –  I’m lookin’ through a girly magazine
And there’s my homeroom angel on the pages in-between.

My blood runs cold
My memory has just been sold
My angel is the centerfold
Angel is the centerfold

Slipped me notes under the desk
While I was thinkin’ about her dress
I was shy I turned away
Before she caught my eyeI was shakin’ in my shoes
Whenever she flashed those baby-blues
Something had a hold on me
When angel passed close by.

 Those soft and fuzzy sweaters

Too magical to touch

Too see her in that magazine

Is really just too much.

It’s okay, I understand
This ain’t no never-never land
I hope that when this issue’s gone
I’ll see you when your clothes are on

Take you car,

Yes we will
We’ll take your car and drive it
We’ll take it to a motel room
And take ’em off in private

A part of me has just been ripped
The pages from my mind are stripped
Oh no, I can’t deny it
Oh yea, I guess I gotta buy it…

My blood runs cold
My memory has just been sold
My angel is the centerfold
Angel is the centerfold

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A Grim Fairy Tale – BOXING DAY

Posted in And now the snorting starts, boxing day, Cowboys and Aliens, Crime and Punishment, космическая девушка, Fashion Forward, Grim Fairy Tales, Horrible Coincidences, Isnt nature wonderful?, It's not what you think, 스타게이트유니버스, love, Missile Defense, ученые, photograph, Photography, Pop Culture, Post Modern Knock-Knock Jokes, Pycho-Social Trauma, rimshot wav download, Romance Language Knock-Knock Jokes, Rotwang, Small Town America, Sports, The Great State of Montana!, The Wilhelm Scream, The Wrath of God, The Wrath of Khan, مقاطع‏ ‏سكس‏ ‏مصارعه, مصارعه, טילים on December 30, 2011 by paulboylan

Hello, children. I am Brother Grim. Would you like to hear a true story?

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BOXING DAY

Once upon a time there was a young woman named Jennifer. Jennifer lived in a place known far and wide as the City of Angels, which Jennifer liked because she considered herself a Born Again Christian, and living in a city of angels was fine by her.

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Jennifer lived with a man named Robert.  They met in church and were married a year later.  The day after their first Christmas together, she found Robert’s secret briefcase hidden in the apartment bedroom closet.

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The briefcase was large, hard shelled and had a combination lock with three numbers on rotating dials set side by side.  It was very heavy. She shook it gently, but didn’t notice any peculiar movement. She had no idea what was in it.

She tried to open it (of course), but it was locked and she could not open it. That is when she realized the brief case belonged to Robert, because she would have remembered buying something that could lock.  

She put the briefcase back where she found it and walked away.

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But the next day she was in the closet again looking at the secret briefcase. She looked closely and noticed that the numbers on the combination had changed. She didn’t know how she knew, but she knew. She memorized the number combination showing – 0-8-7 – and placed the briefcase back in the closet.

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A week later, she checked and saw that the numbers had changed to 4-2-7. This meant that at least twice in as many weeks, Robert had opened the lock, gone into the briefcase, and jumbled the numbers when he relocked it.  So Jennifer began to check the briefcase every day. Every day she tried to open it, just in case Robert forgot to jumble the numbers to set the lock.

One day the briefcase opened.

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Inside, Jennifer found a pair of musty, sweaty boxing gloves, a stack of magazines and some video cassettes. Tucked into one of the organizer pockets inside the briefcase, Jennifer found a bunch of letters from men addressed to Robert at his office.

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Jennifer read the letters and looked through the magazines. She even watched one of the videos. The magazines and videos showed men – and sometimes women – boxing and wrestling.

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Jennifer learned from the letters that Robert would regularly go to the Olympic Gym near Downtown L.A., rent a boxing ring, and box with strange men—rarely the same man twice.

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The Olympic Auditorium then.

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They’d punch and pound and smack each other and then afterwards they would perform unnatural, sinful acts upon themselves as the other watched.  The letters would end with promises that the writer would inflict great bodily harm upon Robert the next time they met at the gym.

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Naturally Jennifer confronted Robert about her awful discovery. She let him come home to find her sitting on their bed with the briefcase open, reading his letters.

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Robert admitted everything—the boxing and the unspeakable, sinful acts. He admitted that he lied to Jennifer – that when he said he was working on weekends he was really meeting strange men at the Olympic Gym.

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Robert admitted lying about playing rugby as a subterfuge to explain the injuries he sustained boxing.

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That night Jennifer slept at her friend’s house and the next day she moved her things out of the apartment she shared with Robert.  She resolved that her marriage with Robert was over because lying, Jennifer knew, is a sin. 

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The Olympic Auditorium now.

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HEADLINE – Man With 100 Pound Scrotum Seeks Donations

Posted in And now the snorting starts, dada, космическая девушка, Hapax Legomenon, Headline, Headlines, Isnt nature wonderful?, 스타게이트유니버스, News, Rotwang, The Wilhelm Scream, Weird Stuff, פיצה, سياسة on December 15, 2011 by paulboylan

Henry Spliff

MUNCIE, Indiana – A man famous for sporting a 100 pound scrotum (45.45 kg) has announced that he will be seeking donations for a wide-variety of charities all related to his environmental concerns.

“I care deeply about the earth on which we all live,” said Henry Spliff from his home in Reno, Nevada. “It is up to us to leave our planet in better shape than we found it.”

Friends of the Earth and the World Wildlife Fund welcome Mr. Spliff’s efforts on their behalf.

Source: http://www.searchtheearth.com/2011/10/18/man-with-100-pound-scrotum-seeks-donations/ 

From the Christmas Season’s heart, I Smile at Thee!!!

Posted in disembodied heads of the rich and famous, Evil Smiley Face, good guys and bad guys, 스타게이트유니버스, Mad Men, Photography, rimshot wav download, Rotwang, Science Fiction, Space, Star Trek, The Great State of Montana!, The Wilhelm Scream, The Wrath of Khan, Travel on December 9, 2011 by paulboylan

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A Grim Fairy Tale: BUMPKIN THE COUNTRY PUMPKIN

Posted in And now the snorting starts, Family and Friends, Food, Grim Fairy Tales, Isnt nature wonderful?, Mordor, Rotwang, The Great State of Montana!, The Wilhelm Scream, USA! USA! USA!, What are you sick or something?, Why do people in other countries talk funny? on October 29, 2011 by paulboylan

So I am sitting in this tavern in Melbourne with my mates Flinthart, Banger, Melbo, Mayhem and Catty, eating and drinking and otherwise faffing up a storm, exploring the random furphy and otherwise having a grand time, when the topic of writing comes up.

I mentioned the inappropriate series of children’s stories I wrote many years ago told by my alter-ego, an evil old man named Brother Grim.

One of my dining companions actually encouraged me to post those awful stories here. I think all of them are secretly laughing at me.  Australians are inscrutable.  I can’t think of any way they can be scruted. But, what the heck, it is nearly Halloween, so why not trot out Bumpkin the Country Pumpkin – posted a couple of years ago at the Mini Burger.  I’ve added illustrations.  I recommend that all of you read it to your children, the younger the better.

So, ladies and gentlemen, I give you

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BUMPKIN THE COUNTRY PUMPKIN

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Once upon a time there was a little pumpkin named Bumpkin.

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He lived in the country, far away from the Big City, on the side of the road next to the pumpkin patch.  He was a bit scrawny and small.  He began as a stray seed that accidentally flew to the roadside to sprout and grow without the benefit of regular water, fertilizer and pesticides. 

So he sat by the side of the road, watching the pumpkins in the pumpkin patch grow big and orange and proud.

“We are Halloween pumpkins!” the pumpkin patch pumpkins would say to Bumpkin.  “Children will buy us and make us into Jack-o-lanterns for Halloween!” they bragged shamelessly.

Bumpkin wished he, too, could be a Jack-O-Lantern for Halloween, but the pumpkin patch pumpkins laughed when he confessed his deepest desire.

“We are big and orange,” they would point out.  “We will be picked at harvest and taken to the supermarket where we will be examined and fawned over and picked by children, who will carve us into scary and silly faces.  We will be illuminated by flickering candles, glowing yellow out from our carved eyes.  We will be remembered forever by children who grow into adults, who will take their children in turn to the supermarket to pick a Halloween pumpkin.”

“Maybe I will become a Jack-o-lantern too!” Bumpkin squeaked from the roadside, interrupting the litany of self-admiration.

“You?” the other pumpkins sneered. “Who would pick you?  You are funny-looking, and besides, you are growing out by the roadside, away from the pumpkin patch.  You will never be harvested and taken to the supermarket.”

When harvest came, Bumpkins saw that it was true.  The truck loads of migrant workers were paid by the pound, so they concentrated on the bigger, oranger pumpkins in the pumpkin patch.  They didn’t even notice little, scrawny, misshaped Bumpkin.

But then one of the workers, for reasons unknown, and to the righteous shock of the finer pumpkins, reached out and picked Bumpkin and placed him on the pile with the other pumpkins.

And so Bumpkin was taken to the supermarket and placed on display. 

But no one picked him.  Many children came and looked.  Some touched and weighed, some seriously considered, but they all ended up choosing the bigger, oranger pumpkins.

On Halloween Eve Bumpkin found himself all alone on the wooden display sitting between two rotting pumpkins.  He felt it was all over when he heard a woman’s voice ask:

“How much for the pumpkins?”

“I’ll give you all three for a penny a piece,” the voice of the produce manager said.

And so the woman bought Bumpkin and the two rotting pumpkins and brought them to her home.

The woman lived in a bad neighborhood in a small appartment near a busy street.  When she got home, she took all three pumpkins out of the bag and began cutting and cleaning the two rotting pumpkins, who had died from despair many days earlier.

“I guess I’m going to be a pie,” Bumpkin said to himself in bitter disappointment. 

But then a little boy walked into the kitchen.  His name was Timmy, and Timmy wanted – more than anything in the world – to carve a jack-o-lantern for Halloween.  He saw Bumpkin lying on the counter beside the sink, and Timmy fell in love.  Bumpkin was the most beautiful pumpkin Timmy had ever seen.

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“Please, Mamma. Please, can I have that little pumpkin?” he asked.

“No,” his mother said.  “We are very poor, and we need these pumpkins for food.  It is wrong to play with food.”

“Oh, please Mamma!  If you give me the pumpkin, I promise to get a job and work real hard to earn enough money to buy another pumpkin so you can cook it!  Please!”  Timmy said, and began to cry, because he knew full well that there were no jobs for poor little boys like him.

His mother knew it, too, but she gave Timmy the little pumpkin anyway. She really didn’t want to cook it.  She was suspicious of Bumpkin’s sickly color and odd shape.  She thought Bumpkin might be diseased.  So she gave it to Timmy.

“Make sure to wash your hands afterwards,” Timmy’s mother instructed.

Timmy didn’t care what Bumpkin looked like or the risk of pathogen contamination associated with cutting into Bumpkin’s flesh.  Timmy was overjoyed.

And Bumpkin was overjoyed.  He was going to be a jack-o-lantern!  At last, his dream was coming true.

Bumpkin became a little hesitant when he saw Timmy spread some newspaper on the floor and take hold of a long carving knife.

 

And it hurt a lot when Timmy clumsily stabbed into Bumpkin’s flesh, cutting a hole in Bumpkin’s top and reaching in to scoop out Bumpkin’s guts.

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Bumpkin fainted more than once.  And, as Timmy’s little hand scooped out Bumpkin’s insides, reaching in over and over again,  Bumpkin screamed over and over again, screams that only other pumpkins could hear – as well as the occasional banana squash.

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Between fainting and screaming, Bumpkin could hear, out in the black night, the howling screams of the bigger, oranger pumpkins who, like Bumpkin, were being eviscerated by smiling, laughing children, as well as the occasional perverted adult.

After what seemed to be a timeless eternity of suffering without end, Bumpkin was transformed into a jack-o-lantern.  Timmy beamed as he placed a candle in Bumpkin, lit the candle and set Bumpkin in front of the apartment door.

Bumpkin’s pride overshadowed his excruciating pain.  He looked up and down the street at the other jack-o-lanterns carved from the fine, cultivated pumpkins.   Bumpkin could feel their surprise – and a little outrage – when they noticed him.  Bumpkin decided that he was just as good as any of them.  And he was.

The magic of that night went on and on.  Bumpkin watched as the costumed children went door to door yelling “trick or treat!” holding out their bags for candy.

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And then it was Timmy’s turn.  Bumpkin watched as Timmy and his mother left the apartment to go trick or treating.

“Isn’t my jack-o-lantern beautiful?” Timmy beamed.

“Yes, dear,” his mother said, and they walked off.

It wasn’t long before more children came to the door.  But no one was home to give them candy, and the children walked away, dissappointed. Some of them said foul and impolite things, angered by the lack of candy caused by Timmy and his mother’s absence.   Then one group of boys came by who weren’t dressed in costumes.

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When no one responded to their baritone cries of “trick or treat!,” the boys threw eggs at Timmy’s apartment and wrote rude remarks with bars of soap on the apartment windows.  Then they picked up Bumpkin and ran off.

Bumpkin remained with those terrible boys through the night.  He was with them when they threw more eggs, sprayed shaving cream, and frightened other children.  The boys even used Bumpkin to terrify the littlest kids.  The boys would thrust Bumpkin into the faces of children and yell “boo!”  The little kids would look at Bumpkin, scream and run away crying.

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Just before midnight, the boys climbed to the top of a building, ran over to the edge of the roof and threw Bumpkin down to the pavement below.  Bumpkin smashed into a million pieces.

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But he didn’t die. 

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In the morning someone swept up the pieces of Bumpkin and threw them into a garbage can.

As the pieces of Bumpkin lay there in the dark, smelly garbage can, Bumpkin heard a little boy crying.  It was Timmy, and he was crying because someone had stolen his first and most favorite jack-o-lantern.  Timmy’s mother came to comfort him.

“Don’t cry, dear. It was only a vegetable,” she said.

And then, alone in the trash, Bumpkin died.  

THE END

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HEADLINE – Scarlett Johansson cellphone pictures aren’t all that smart phone hackers are after

Posted in bilim adamları, Headline, Headlines, Is that really Ellie Goulding?, Isnt nature wonderful?, News, скарлетт йоханссон, ученые, Photography, rimshot wav download, Rotwang, The Wilhelm Scream, טילים on September 30, 2011 by paulboylan

Actress Scarlett Johansson

SANTA MONICA, California – Hackers who broke into movie star Scarlett Johansson’s cellphone and stole nude photos of her admit that they want more than just pictures showing Johansson naked.

“We also want to have sex with her,” admits Ted Hinklehoffer, hacker spokesperson.

Hinklehoffer provided the statement from his secret lair in his mother’s basement.

Source:  http://news.yahoo.com/scarlett-johansson-cellphone-pictures-arent-smart-phone-hackers-164343913.html

HEADLINE – Daily activities could trigger an aneurysms

Posted in French Impressionistic Knock-Knock Jokes, German Reformation Knock-Knock Jokes (1520-1553), Headline, Headlines, Humor, News, Photography, Rotwang, The Wilhelm Scream, The Wrath of God, Victorian Era Knock-Knock Jokes, Why do people in other countries talk funny? on May 6, 2011 by paulboylan

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They are the things adults do on any given day: exercise, drink coffee, breathe, stand up, sit down, blink, urinate, scratch, eat.

They can also be the very things that cause a lurking brain aneurysm to rupture.

Researchers at the Institute for the Promotion of Irrational Fears and Anxieties in the Netherlands asked patients with brain aneurysms what they were doing shortly before those weakened and bulging blood vessels burst.

They found relatively mundane things like drinking soda, blowing one’s nose, exercising, drinking coffee, breathing, standing up, sitting down, blinking, urinating, scratching or eating often preceded the rupture.

“Anything can cause bad things,” explains Dr. Tad Greenblat.


Greenblat recommends minimizing your risk of suffering a brain aneurysm by doing nothing. ” Don’t exercise, don’t drink soda, don’t drink coffee, don’t breathe, don’t stand up, don’t sit down, don’t blink, don’t urinate, don’t scratch and most definitely don’t eat. Eating is very dangerous,” Greenblat said moving as little as possible.

“Avoiding an aneurysm may mean dying of starvation, but at least a blood vessel won’t explode in your head,” Greenblat concluded.


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Source:  http://www.kob.com/article/stories/html

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