The Fop

Mr. David Chappelle and Sir Axl Rose

A mental affliction has recently befallen Mr. David Chappelle, a negro farceur, and he has retreated deep into the dark heart of the African continent. To little surprise, Henry Wigglesworth and his journalist peers have seized upon the man's misfortune as an occasion for celebration: They splash his frightened face upon the pages of their wretched penny dailies each morning, and rejoice in surmising upon the cause of the man's dementia. Do they not see that it is by their very own handiwork that this now-mournful jester has been sent fleeing to his ancestral lands?

The crucifixion of a man of social standing is a daily occurence in the social pages, yet the plight of poor Mr. Chappelle has affected me most profoundly. For his current woes bring forth in my mind another tragedy of years past, one which I had hoped to abolish from my memory forever... that of Sir Axl Rose. In the late years of an earlier century, Sir Rose's ballads played softly in many a young lad's ears. His verses were ardent, and his cherubic voice the perfect channel for them -- particularly when accompanied by the strumming hand of a fellow virtuoso. In my youth, I had occasion to attend one of Sir Rose's recitals, but declined for fear that a fellow concertgoer might visit violence upon me. It is a decision that haunts me to this day, for shortly thereafter, the editors at the penny dailies set about dismantling the man's life -- just as they are assaulting Mr. Chappelle's today!

I will not dwell upon the sordid details of Sir Rose's demise; to do so would be too arduous for you and I both, dear reader. Instead, let us take comfort in the knowledge that, though now estranged from the fame and renown due onto him, Sir Rose has found some solace in things otherworldly. I have learned that he is a student of the Arcos Cielos Research Center, where, under the tutelage of Dr. Elliott Maynard (an alumnus of the University of the Trees), he is learning of the Hundredth Monkey Phenomenon and the Magnificent Engines of Gaia. Mr. Chappelle, take heed! For though Henry Wigglesworth and his minions have set their claws upon you, they have no claim over your social rank and the proximity to the spiritual that comes with it. Sir Axl Rose and Kirk Cameron both have found refuge in piety; I implore you to do the same.

Ms. Rosie O'Donnell, wordsmith

I shall confess that I was at one time wary of Rosie O'Donnell; the prefix in her surname suggested to me that the woman was of poor stock. Her performances, however, have revealed this Celtic satirist's true character. I now acknowledge that I was grossly erroneous in my judgement -- Ms. O'Donnell is in fact very well bred, and a wonderfully perceptive and enlightened creature. Her intellectual prowess was most evident during the recent elections in the colonies, when Ms. O'Donnell's oratorical skills and strength of leadership came to the fore in her eloquent attacks upon a candidate.

Given this burgeoning admiration, I was positively giddy to discover that Ms. O'Donnell keeps a personal missive of her own! We are truly blessed to be privy to this delicate being's intimate reflections, and I have come to learn much of her complex character. Were you aware that, in addition to being a great orator, Ms. O'Donnell is a gifted poet? It is true -- she is as skilled with the pen as she is with the tongue. Witness these stanzas from her poem, a piece entitled "hollywood still":

"today in the paper
baby bush - mr “gays suck”
was holding hands
with the crown prince of saudi arabia
nearly all the 9 -11 hijackers
were saudis
and we are killing people daily
in iraq"

It is a wonderful bit of verse -- both pointed and poignant -- and it suspends me in a state of meditation which I imagine Mr. Wordsworth approached while looking down upon Tintern Abbey. One can only hope that Ms. O'Donnell will someday compile her works in a volume, bound and gilded so as to match the exquisitiness of the words held within. 

Kirk Cameron: A true man of the cloth

In my moments of tearful despondency, when I find myself being lashed by father's tongue or the object of ridicule in the social pages, I find solace in the spiritual. No, I shan't attend mass, for there is a terrible draft inside the church and I can't stomach the stench of the lepers huddled on the front steps. Instead, I seek comfort in the words of my pious peers.   

In matters of religious reverence, my esteemed colleague Kirk Cameron is unparalleled. His warm words on his personal missive, The Way Of The Master, have guided me through many a dark valley, and I have no doubt that Mr. Cameron's elevated place on the social scale has brought him closer to the otherworldly. Tonight, I am lost in such a valley -- give me strength, mon cher abbé! 

The talents of Tony Danza

Mr. Tony Danza's tremendous abilities as a player have always been evident. Yet it wasn't until I witnessed his delightful satirical performance as "Italian Ice" at a gala some years back that I became conscious of the man's acerbic wit! And were you aware that Mr. Danza is also in possession of a rich baritone voice? You will swoon at the sound of it!

We are so fortunate to have entertainers who  generously share  all their talents. And to think that my churlish father dismissed Mr. Danza as a dago bricklayer!

 

An open plea to Melanie Griffith's captors

In my ongoing battles against the Henry Wigglesworths of the world, Mrs. Melanie Griffith has proved her invaluable ally. She has been a vigiliant watchdog of the press, swift to expose their vicious lies in the "For The Record" section of her own daily, www.MelanieGriffith.com. When the beasts at The National Enquirer suggested that her husband was losing his luxurious Latin locks, Mrs. Griffith proved herself as cherished a wife as she is a player, coming to the poor lamb's defense. And when the witch Jeanette Walls cast her barbs at the Mrs. Griffith herself, accusing her of an uncontrollable affinity for diet pills, she handled the matter in a courteous fashion, completing Ms. Walls' research for her -- it was the effect of painkillers that demanded a brief sojourn for recovery, not diet pills at all!

So imagine my dismay to discover that Mrs. Griffith has not published a clarification in "For the Record" for more than two years (my own prolonged ignorance of this fact can be attributed to an unexpected romance while voyaging in the colonies). Has she resigned herself to the role of pariah among the writers at the penny dailies? Or has she, as my dear chum Crispin Devonshire supposes, found herself distracted -- nay, subsumed -- by her mate's Catalan charms? Neither, I fear.  I have come to the dreadful conclusion that more sinister forces are at work here; that Mrs. Griffith has been SILENCED, most likely kidnapped. And so it befalls me to relay a message to her captors: You have quieted but one voice among many!

Please leave me...  I must gather myself.