“http://www.youtube.com/v/UrlSpNS5lRg&hl=en_US&fs=1&”></param><param ram><param  “http://www.youtube.com/v/UrlSpNS5lRg&hl=en_US&fs=1

Shows with lawyers and doctors and women who try to act and talk tough. Shows that because they lack imagination try to shock you with tepid hinted at sexual innuendo.

It’s sh..‘t.

We don’t need writers anyway.

Let’s go all the way. I’ve got an idea for a TV show so vulgar, so vile, so tasteless, it will be a smash hit. Once again. Bring back the Little Rascals. In prime time.

In case you haven’t heard of them, the Little Rascals were a bunch of child actors in comedies in the 1930s. The show, under the guise of cute comedy, featured every type of disgusting perversion. It was X rated and at the time, nobody knew it. It was just as bad as anything you see on TV today. But it had going for it both pedophilia and butt fetishism.

I’m not kidding.

Alfalfa is always hitting on Darla (Hood).

The beautiful little brunette coquette. It’s an on-again off-again case of the hots. At various times, Darla is interested in studious educated Waldo,

but also the neighborhood bully Butch.

She can’t make up her mind whether she’s into muscle (Alfalfa) or poetry (Waldo). She’s into all of it. She’s a nymphomaniac. She’s having it with all of them.

This goes beyond a ménage a trois. This is a five-a-trios.

Butch is always trying to beat up Alfalfa. He’s the neighborhood sadist. But Alfalfa always wins thanks to the help of Porky and Buckwheat. During a wrestling match between Alfalfa and Butch, they strip Butch’s trunks off.

Nudity is always funny.

And Spanky.

What about him. Why is he named Spanky? What’s up with that? A little SM action? A little bondage?

Spanky is dressed as a Roman soldier reciting Shakespeare on stage while naughty kids in the front row pelt his butt with pea shooters. The grand finale has the stage curtain rise and accidentally strip his mother’s dress off.

This is a perverted show.

Come to think of it. Buckwheat and Porky.

You ever notice how they spend all their time together? What’s with that? A little homosexual interracial action going on there? Huh? Buckwheat, an African American kid, used to be a protégée of the older Farina (another black kid). Evidently, he threw him over for Porky, a white kid, with his cute dimple.

And what about Porky? Why is he named Porky? A little pig action maybe. I mean, what will other kids do to a kid named Porky?

It’s no secret that one of the child actors was named Little Dickie Moore.

His real name was actually John. Why call him Little Dickie? I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.

These people are sick. SICK!

Back to Spanky. He puts firecrackers down Alfalfa’s back pocket and sets them off while Alfalfa isn’t looking. Alfalfa runs around with his butt on fire screaming. This is funny? You bet it is.

Hal Roach, the producer of these shorts, I think was a pedophile with a butt fetish. He also discovered and produced Laurel and Hardy. In one episode, the skinny guy (Laurel) lights the fat guy’s (Hardy’s) butt on fire, and then the fat guy runs around and screams and jumps down a well to put the fire out. Roach also got off on fat bodies. Obesity (Hardy) Funny! Funny!

Another time, Darla’s father is dressed up in an ape suit and a tiny girl takes a bow and arrow and fires the arrow into his butt. He runs around in an ape suit with an arrow sticking out of his butt.

In yet another episode, the boys form a “Woman Haters Club,” and paddle any member’s butt with a big paddle who has any relations with a woman (girl).

This is obviously a gay leather group into paddling. Kinky!

You think I’m kidding? Watch these shows. There’s also a lot of cross dressing, mostly Alfalfa and Spanky.

Alfalfa dresses up like a girl and croons a song.

Another time it’s Buckwheat who dons a blonde wig and plays Juliet on the balcony to Alfalfa’s Romeo.

I think these shows simply reflect the psycho sexual homo erotic bondage discipline pyro fantasies of the producer (Roach – he‘s aptly named), and his cronies.

With a little updating, the show could be just as relevant today as it was back then.

I’d like to see George Bush as Alfalfa, and Dick Cheney as Porky.

Copyright 2010 Sammonsays.

Here I am with J.D. Hall in the Scorpio Rising Theater production of Void Where Prohibited in Los Angeles. I’m playing a sadistic cop once more. Obviously, J.D. gets the drop on me and my hapless assistant. J.D. Hall went on to a sucessful character actor career in Hollywood and provided the voice for the Incredible Hulk movie.

Logan’s wife Anne was also an actor and played Mama in Throw Mama from the Train with Billy Crystal and Danny DeVito.

The Chicago Conspiracy Trial is still a legend in equity waiver (less than 90 seats) production in Los Angeles. It boasted a fine cast including George Murdock, a semi-regular on the Barney Miller Show whose endless credits go all the way back to the Twilight Zone in 1960.

Such brilliant actors and the play recreating the trial of the Chicago 7 fascinated the public. Lines stretched around the block to get in, and the play was a sold-out smash with critical raves that lasted for over a year. It became a live performance record album and was later restaged with a different cast.

Most of the town names are funny only because the English language keeps evolving and words are discontinued or their meaning changes. The classic American example: “This is a gay party. Queer that Charles isn’t here. Can you light my fag?”

As I read and chuckled like “Beavis and Butthead”™ I noticed that a good majority contained the word “lick”. Why I wondered.

Our first clue is in the definition of lick.

Lick
n ” Lick” is a place where salt is found on the surface of the earth, to which wild animals resort to lick it up; — often, but not always, near salt springs.

So now we have a basis for understanding.

As an example, Paint Lick, Kentucky reputedly derived its name from settlers’ descriptions of the peeled tree trunks that served as a means of marking the salt licks along the creek by Native Americans.

However, understanding the origins does not make it any less humorous to the juvenile part of my brain. So allow me to present to you…

“The Large List of Lick Towns”

We begin first with the purist of the “Lick Towns”

Lick (Missouri), Lick (Ohio) and Lick (Illinois).

Then we gain a little momentum with Licking (Missouri), Licking (Indiana), Licking (Illinois), Licking (W. Virginia) and Licking (Pennsylvania).

Now let’s go large with Big Lick (Tennessee), Big Lick (North Carolina), Big Lick (Virginia) and Lick Mountain (Arkansas).

Let’s add a little color with Black Lick (Pennsylvania) Blacklick (Ohio) Blue Lick (Kentucky) Blue Lick (Indiana) and Red Lick (Texas)

How about some cooking utensils like: Lickskillet (Ohio), Lick Skillet (Virginia)  Lick Fork (Virginia) and Lick Fork (Kentucky).

Now for the animals. There is: Otter Lick (W. Virginia) Lizard Lick (N. Carolina) Beaver Lick (Missouri) Beaver Lick (Kentucky) and not to be outdone, Big Beaver Lick also in Kentucky

While on that subject lets ad French Lick (Indiana), Lickinghole (Virginia), Knob Lick (Missouri) and Big Bone Lick (Kentucky).

Here are some stragglers that didn’t seem to fit anywhere else. Lick Creek (Illinois)  Slate Lick (Pennsylvania) Boones’ Lick (Missouri) Loutre Lick (Missouri) and Lick Branch (W. Virginia).

Now after seeing this list you should have made at least two observations. First, most of the “Lick Towns” seem to be in Southern States, and the majority of those are in Kentucky.

What does it mean?

I haven’t the foggiest.

Here are all the “Lick Towns” (that I know of) in Kentucky:

• Grants Lick
• Lick Fork
• Lick Creek
• Mud Lick
• Spring Lick
• Salt Lick
• Flat Lick
• Paint Lick
• Blue Lick
• Knob Lick
• Big Bone Lick
• Beaver Lick
• Big Beaver Lick
• Even Bigger Beaver Lick (just joking)
• Plumb Lick
• Mays Lick
• Lickburg
• Elk Lick
• Slate Lick
• Bullitt Lick
• Salt Lick
• Sand Lick

Because of so many “Lick Towns” in Kentucky I guess it comes as no surprise that Colonel Sanders came up with the slogan he did for KFC (for those of you who remember the Good-Old-Days that would be Kentucky Fried Chicken)  You know, “It’s Finger Lickin Good”.

I’m now thinking of writing an article about “Suck Towns”.

I think I’ll begin with Toad Suck (Arkansas).

As far as I’m concerned, whatever you want to do in the privacy of your own bedroom is your business. Certainly, warmth, companionship and happiness are elemental to the human condition. Sex is good when it’s good, but like the symbolic cigarette afterwards, is a totally unremarkable act.

Almost everybody does it.

A homosexual activist would put on a positive spin, saying the parade is an expression of pride in who I am, that I have a right to be, “who I am.”

Fine! But do you have a right to be so trivial? I could never be proud of simply getting my jollies. You need something to be proud of above bump and grind.

How about a parade featuring only homosexuals with IQ’s over 162, or homosexuals who’ve won the Olympic Decathlon, or homosexuals who’ve served as mayors of small rural cities, or homosexuals who have climbed Mount Everest?

Parades in the past used to celebrate truly important things, like the winning of a war, the first man to fly across the Atlantic in a monoplane, opening up the possibilities of flight, or the World Series-winning baseball team.

A parade celebrating any sexual persuasion is like a holiday honoring the ability to go to the bathroom. I’m not trying to be cynical. Bowel movement is just as important as sex, and relieving yourself in the john can be every bit as satisfying as a mediocre roll in the hay.

If it wasn’t for this marvelous internal plumbing, you’d be full of crap.

Here’s the bottom line. If you die and go up to heaven and tell God you’re a homosexual, and God frowns, don’t call God a homophobe, don’t even try. It won’t do you any good. If you die and go up to heaven and tell God you’re a heterosexual and God frowns—blame your parents.

Held every year, the convention promotes the hunting of exotic game, animals you may never of heard of, because they’re so rare. I’m not necessarily against hunting, the dinner table of the frontier, pioneer American heritage and all that.

But I was totally unprepared for the sickening spectacle of two famous men shadowed by a crowd of 200 sycophants, security officers and members of the media, including myself. Wherever Bush and Schwarzkopf went, that’s where we followed, like a pack of hungry hyenas.

The heads of exotic animals were mounted all over the walls of the cavernous hall.

In a display booth was a picture of a guy leaning down, posing with a rare ibex he had just shot at the 14,000-foot level of some Andean peak. This had to be the last ibex left anywhere in the Southern Hemisphere, and he had shot it and was evidently proud. The guy looked like one of those rich, Spanish men of leisure who would have a name such as, Alehandro de la vega el centro Jules.

I came to the conclusion he was either a phony using his money to play Ernest Hemingway, or had a kinky sexual hang-up about shooting and mounting rare heads.

This was obviously a rich man’s sport. In limp justification, a sign announced that some of the meat taken would be donated to the poor. When was the last time you were offered an ibex hamburger?

Bush and Norman were tight-lipped, exchanging a few stilted pleasantries with hucksters at their booths. From one we learned we could hunt a rare hedgehog on an island called K-12 in the Andaman Sea, wherever that is, if we’re willing to pay thousands of dollars.

“Hi general.” I inched closer. “Do you like to hunt?”

Schwarzkopf turned and peered at me, seeming surprised. “Sometimes,” he answered quietly.

A dopey-looking, baby-faced punk security guard in a uniform with a badge, who bore a resemblance to Richie Cunningham on the old Happy Days TV show, angrily pushed forward and said, “you’re not supposed to ask for comments.”

“I just did,” I replied with contempt.

I believe that Richie, a low-ranking convention cop enraptured by imagined power, wanted to summarily arrest me, throw me in a cell, and whip me about the face with a length of hose. But this wasn’t Bolivia (another favored hunting place). He couldn’t do it. So he stood by impotent, and fumed.

I didn’t push my luck. I never dared talk to Bush.

I felt sorry for Bush and Norman, recipients of fame, but also prisoners of it, their every word and move subject to scrutiny, paraded around like a couple of freaks. Rather than hunt rare animals, I thought they ought to stay home and take up chess.

Okay, so Saving Private Ryan was a good movie. I’m sure Hanks is well-intended, a nice guy and a talented actor. But his struggle to make it in Hollywood represents the opposite of what military service entails.

Last Veteran’s Day, we were treated to the spectacle of Hanks and Bill Clinton, a notorious draft dodger, helping an elderly lady veteran to her chair during the observances. I had to run to the bathroom before I got sick. That little old lady has got more guts than the two of them put together.

I don’t have anything personal against either man. Clinton’s out of office. But why do we have a spokesman for veterans who’s never served? You’ll never get rich, digging a ditch (serving in the military). I don’t believe Hanks or Clinton ever deviated once from thinking of career first, number one, numero uno.

It’s everybody’s right to pursue a career and get rich.

And yet, making one movie qualifies Hanks to be a spokesman. I’ll admit, starring in a movie about World War II can be dangerous. Watch out. You might trip over the camera equipment.

You may be saying, Sammon’s just jealous. You’re damn right I am! Why can’t I be a spokesman for vets? I served five years of my life, attaining the exalted rank of corporal. At one point, I made the stupendous sum of $150 a month, plus $75 combat pay.

I could be the unknown spokesman.

Hanks probably received fifteen million for his on-screen heroics.

Where’s Audie Murphy when you need him? In case you tecky yuppies out there don’t know, Murphy was an actor like Hanks, but unlike Private Ryan, was a real vet, the most decorated soldier of World War II. Today, we not only have imitation vegetables grown with hormones, we get fake vets. I haven’t been this upset since Sylvester Stalone portrayed himself single-handedly winning the Vietnam War (Rambo).

I know why I can’t be a spokesman. I’m not a famous big shot with a lot of money. It’s that simple. Granted, I’d look stiffer, older, and more awkward on camera than Hanks does. Even Hanks is stiffer than he usually is in these TV spots because he has to appear solemn and respectful.

Praising the heroism of World War II vets is fine. If it wasn’t for their sacrifice, guys like Hanks and Clinton and millions of others would never of had the luxury of thinking of their own self-interest first.