There's Raisins In My Toast

By Marlowe, Official Old Coot of and Envoy to Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island

There’s raisins in my toast.

What the hell you want? My story? My story’s ain’t none of your goddamn business. Here’s my name:

Me and Pete Rose were borne in a nest and raised by a pair of Bald Eagles, named Sassy and Dexter. Of course, those were the days before Sassy and Dexter morphed into Edward and Cassy Havens. They can change back whenever they want. They’re witches, you see. Witches! Witches of Eastwick!

Wicks.

You don’t see a lot of candles anymore. Now it’s all about the goldarn light bulbs. Light bulbs! Anybody else notice how much light bulbs look like swastikas? That’s because the Japs and the Krauts want us to rest easy. I knew me a Jap back in the war, and I know he’d never bow over with two atomic bombs. Have you seen Japanese pornography? Them peoples are fearless!

What about the war? Yeah, I fought. I was a Confederate. No, I ain’t racist! I love all races and creeds, ‘cept the Catholics. They always talk about the slavery and the state’s rights. They forget the third issue. Age of consent! Why do you think the Confederates got so many people backing them? 470,000 at Gettysburg! It was because they didn’t look down on you if you buggered a fourteen year old. And brother, you haven’t lived until you’ve buggered a thirteen year old.

Anyway, back to mah story.

Me, the Lindberg Baby, and Heddy Lamar all joined in the 20th Ontario and marched on Berlin in 1932. Of course, back in those days, it was called Constantinople. We laid siege to the city, and ended up putting the Kaiser in his place. Afterward, we went home, where we all got rimmed out by Betty Davis. Of course, in those days, rimmed out meant… well, that ain’t really changed.

You know, mud ain’t nothin’ but wet dirt.

Anywho, after I came home from the war I became a world-famous singer. I was the guy who wrote "Papa Don’t Preach" by Madonna. You’re welcome.

But I ain’t this mainland Marlowe! Never could be! Because I decided writin’ makes you a wussy. A big, fat wussy. Big and fat like the picture on the first picture you see at his newsblog!

I think that’s wrong. Misrepresenting somebody with a dig like that. It ain’t like an elaborate satire, it’s a cruel joke that is just going to hurt somebody’s feelings, rather than make other folks laugh. I mean, how can you do that to poor Ralphie May? Bryan Bishop is much fatter than that. He’s a big, fat guy. A big, fat, sweaty guy who’s pants bunch up and cut off the circulation to his legs! The kind of guy who can’t get an erection unless he eats him a big bag of pasta!

For shame, other Marlowe. You should have the class to find somebody as fat as Bryan Bishop as his stand in. Like Taft or Yokozuna or…

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Robert E. Marlowe was executed on the morning of March 6, 2007.