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.

The Old Gray Mare, She Ain't What She Used To Be

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

In my day, they didn’t have these fancy little countries. We had three countries! Russia, Prussia, and Mexico. That was it. And we didn’t have a problem with it. And we went to war all the time without the belly-achin’. It wasn’t ‘cause Taft could persuade us or nothin’. We just liked fightin! Unlike these kids today. Bunch of goddamn pussies!

Chuck Norris is on the TV again. She’s a handsome woman. If I was thirty years younger, I tell you what.

In my day, penny candy only cost a nickel. Cletus Walker and the Hang the Blacks Band was the hottest jazz ensemble in America. And every night, we would gather around the phonograph to hear the delightful sounds of Ma Rainey, who might have been a niggress. I ain’t certain. It was a simpler time, you see.

Little Billy Shatner. I remember him.

They named their currency after me. Know why? ‘Cause I invented the Monkees, that’s why. That was me. Don’t you pick up no newfangled history books and try to prove it wrong, ‘cause it ain’t. I saved Davey Jones from a wolf-man. We had wolf-men in those days. Mainly from Prussia. That’s how we had our monsters! Wolf-men in Prussia, and Frankensteins in Mexico. Russia was full of the Blob. I remember my first sight of it; it was just before Rudyard Kipling molested me.

Where’s my applesauce?

Johnny Appleseed was a commie. You could tell because he wanted to give every apples, even the blacks and the stupid, unwashed Slovakians. I killed me a Slovakian back in aught ‘25. I ain’t ashamed of it. He cried like a woman and begged for his life.

Confounded bushes won’t stay away from my driveway. Now they’re outside my house. The birds that come to my birdfeeder are too small to kill with a shotgun. All of my socks are too itchy. I blame Woodrow Wilson. He was a bull-dyke and a pinko.

Mussolini was innocent. It was a frame-job from Johnny Kennedy’s pappy.

My favorite song was “She’ll be Coming ‘Round the Mountain.” Few people know it was a campaign song used to make fun of Eleanor Roosevelt. There’s lots of mountains in Prussia, and we knew it was a matter of time until Eleanor just let all of those pointy-helmeted bastards in our front door, where they would sodomize our livestock and feed our children unpleasant meals.

I think Gladys shat in my wheelchair again. No, wait, that was me. Maybe someday, though. Well, least it’s warm for a little bit.

In my day, monkeys didn’t throw feces. They behaved. It was that goddamn Elvis Presley, riling all of them up, makin’ ‘em horny and whatnot. Him gyratin’, takin’ his tallywacker out on stage and wavin’ it around, it ain’t no good for nobody!

My family’s comin’ to pick me up any day now, and we’re all gonna eat pancakes and go hang some Indians. Goddamn Indians, stealin’ my cookware!

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Marlowe is a victim of the very rare “stage eight” of Alzheimer’s.