There's a dark secret I've been hiding all these years. Back in the early 80's, Cathy Mitchell (the elderly infomercial foul temptress) and I had a torrid love affair.
I was tender, impressionable youngin. God-damnit! Those were my sticky buns! But alas, she was only emboldened by my sexual naivete. She had the finely tuned instincts of a sage grandmother and the gaseous estrogen of a stampeding wildebeest in heat.
She groomed me with a Bar Mitzvah gift. That's right! A vintage Ready-Set-Go skillet sealed the deal. And the coup de gras --- I opened the present and discovered a mystery envelope: a $100 Krogers gift certificate accompanied with a note that cryptically read...
For the love of god, she was using food as a weapon. Much like the Somali warlords in the movie Blackhawk Down.
Strange tangent: Last week I was having lunch with friends Mark and Ted. I had just eaten breakfast, so TJ's Sportsgarden seemed like an ideal choice. TJ's uses food as a weapon too. I ended up just getting a side salad so I wasn't sitting there looking like a complete douchebag. The salad was marginally acceptable if you're hip on a gulag of drenched iceberg.
Anyway, somehow we got on the subject of Bar Mitzvahs. Ted asked me how much I pocketed off mine. Normally, I'd exercise a little more discretion with content like this, but I think someone actually might find the precise dollar amount to be interest. Safe to say, I've seen far more controversial content on the internet.
Remember, this is a "Jewboychick" from Wheeling, West Virginia circa 1983. Not too shabby.
I can't recollect the exact breakdown. But if memory serves me correct...
$500 savings bond from my godfather (incredibly wealthy individual from Philly - Cadillac dealerships). Roughly another $750 or so in other misc. savings bonds from about 10 different relatives. And a slew of personal checks and cash ranging in amounts of $20 - $50 (mostly from congregation members and friends of my parents).
Ironically, the most prized gift was from my neighbors across the street. They gave me a year's subscription to 2 different pro wrestling magazines (Inside Wrestling and The Wrestler). Mere words cannot describe my joy. I expound further on this in the prologue of my auto-biography.
One other anecdote and I'll drop the subject, or Torah, if you will. Because if you drop a Torah I think you have to go without food and water for 40 days. Just punishment for an acne-covered teen in the latter stages of puberty.
In addition to the $500 savings bond (an ungodly sum for a 13 year old in 1982), he also sent me an autographed football from the entire 1982 Philadelphia Eagles football team. Ron Jaworski, Tony Franklin (the barefoot kicker), Wilbur Montgomery and my hero at the time (defensive lineman Frank LeMasters - only because I saw a highlight reel of him recovering a fumble and running it in for a game-winning touchdown). Anyway, when I got the football, me and my neighbor friends Dave and Matt went outside and started punting and throwing it around. While this was happening, my godfather called and asked my mother if I'd received the gift. Glancing out the kitchen window, she was casually like... "Oh yeah, they're all in the backyard playing with it right now!" Of course he shrieked, "Jesus Christ! That's a collector's item!" Two decades later, he passed.
I kept the football until shortly after 9/11. Gave it to my buddy who's a big Eagles fan. It's all beaten to hell, deflated and badly scuffed. Sucked. End of story.
Now onto more important matters. And that's CATHY MITCHELL and her "DUMP CAKE" infomercial.
I love these guys. Total real-world, dorm room infomercial pioneers w/ just a subtle touch of Beavis and Butthead. I watch it three times. I cried (which is rare).
Some background here is critical. If you do a google search on "cathy mitchell," a blog I wrote back in 2009 appears on the MAIN PAGE. Now keep in mind, this is GOOGLE we're talkin' about. Not Lycos or some Alta Vista shit. My blog shows up in the first 10 fucking entries! In my opinion, that's kinda crazy! After all, a search on the words "cathy mitchell" is pretty generic stuff.
The best part is the comment section. I truly believe it's the real Cathy Mitchell who weighs in. My best advice is to read actual blog and make your own determination. In the past decade of personal blogging, this one easily stands out. I normally don't plug my past writings (except the book), but this one's actually worth it. Relatively harsh but kind of amusing. The comment section is what makes it.
Four years later, Cathy Mitchell has baked her way back into my life. Now if I was legitimately baked (stoned), it would be one thing. But I assure you, I'm completely sober. Hell... such a typed internet admission can get you fined and/or imprisoned in the current West Virginia police state.
So Saf, what the hell is your problem with her "Dump Cakes?" You're probably thinking: I happen to enjoy a moist pound cake from time to time. Well... not to be overly prudish, but don't most people equate the word "dump" with "taking a dump?" Isn't it comparable to the vernacular of "taking a shit?" I can't be the only one out there who thinks this. Personally speaking, if I were to announce the movement of my bowels, here's my preference in descending order.
I'm going to...
1) Take a shit
2) Go poop
3) Take a crap
4) Take a dump
5) Pinch a loaf
Even worse (as if it can get any worse from a fecal marketing perspective), isn't a "dump" the slang term for the city landfill? You know, the final depository for medical waste, used prophylactics and discarded mush from any Long John Silvers.
Cathy is so blatantly proud of her dump cakes. Her repetitive use of the word "dump" throws the viewer into some kind of "scatlike-trance." When she pours in the can of diet soda, for a second I thought she might say, "If you want, you can substitute pee-pee."
Furthermore, I really don't have a clear cut understanding of what she's actually selling. Is it her kindergarten recipes? Is it the no-stick skillet? Is it the fucking cake batter mix? Aside from the gross sexual imposition in 1983, why does this woman haunt me in my dreams?
Alright, I'm Cathy Mitchelled out. So let's close it off with 2 Super Bowl predictions.
The first -
There will not be an artificially generated stampede.
The second -
It has been reported that the Red Hot Chili Peppers will be joining Bruno Mars (the secret love child of Erik Estrada and Penelope Cruz). An aside --- Gigi's friend Carla wishes to fornicate with Bruno Mars. Back to the prediction. I'm going way out on a limb with this one. Flea, the annoying RHCP bassist, has a penchant for going commando or occasionally wearing a diaper. So without further adieu, here's the boldest prognostication in the history of Halftime Super Bowl entertainment.
Remember, it's going to be sub-zero temps. So strutting around on stage naked seems appropriate.
Flea will be wearing a codpiece - similar to this.
(But don't confuse the two. Flea isn't fit to wear Blackie Lawless' jock... let alone his codpiece).
So here it is --- When he takes the stage, Flea will have a bedazzled, sparkling jeweled butt plug pre-inserted into his ass. At the conclusion of a rocking "Give it Away," Flea will rip out the marital aid and literally give it away by tossing it into the audience. This move will instantly replace the Miley Cyrus perpendicular tongue "twerk jerk." Flea will follow it up with a late night after party tweet. He'll regale the world with photos of his cock and the aforementioned Doc Johnson device.
This historic moment and impending social media craze will be hailed from 2014 onward as
"tweet your meat." It will cement the Chili Peppers in the "anals" of halftime history. And if you don't like it, you can suck on Janet Jackson's fake nipple.
Incidentally, I got a letter today from "congressional watchdog" Henry Waxman (D-CA). He thinks I should take up my artificially generated stampede concerns with the California Department of Public Health. Suffice to say, I was totally unprepared for that one. Not joking. I can see why the California population values his commitment to public service.
Okay. We're done here. Final Superbowl prediction.
But I'll be rooting for the Seahawks. A friend of mine refers to Peyton Manning as "he-who-must-not-be-named." I'm beginning to see the wisdom. I don't want that pristine yokel uttering those celebratory words... "I'm going to Disneyland." I'd prefer it if he said, "I'm going to watch Cathy Mitchell take a dump!"