“A Quiet Tear For A Rocket Man [Una Lagrima Quieta Para Un Hombre Cohete] by ELTON JOHN Vs. HERB ALPERT & THE TIJUANA BRASS

Posted on December 31, 2017 by sungmokoo

Alpert John
To say my Spanish is atrocious is like saying the President of the United States, Trump, is greedy, in that there is a definite shred of truth, yet unnecessary to state out loud. Redundancy, as in a waste of breath just to hear the sound of your own stupid voice. 2017 is finally coming to a close, and it is safe to say that history will look back at this time, and pinpoint the exact time America gave up the right to use the word dignity.

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Stan’s Soapbox: Yes Virginia, There Is A Santa Claus!

Posted on December 30, 2017 by sungmokoo

In September 1897, Virginia O’Hanlon wrote the following letter:

Dear Editor,

I am 8 years old. Some of my friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, “If you see in the Sun, it’s so.” Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?

Virginia O’Hanlon

Stan Lee, Marvel Editor-In-Chief and blowhard 1975.

In 1975, the letter found it’s way to Stan Lee, the editor of Marvel Comics.

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It’s A Wonderful Life, Mr. Potter

Posted on December 30, 2017 by sungmokoo

Lionel_Barrymore_as_Mr._Potter.jpg

He could have led a more extravagant life if he really wanted to, but Mr. Potter was a miser through and through. His motto was simple: in order to retain wealth, one must retain wealth. You keep it, you horde it, because you never know what will come along. Finally, that opportunity of a lifetime came along. After months of nickel and dime-ing with shady Nazi businessmen, Mr. Potter acquired a pill that would allow him to live forever.

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‘Twas The Night After Christmas

Posted on December 29, 2017 by sungmokoo

Ed Emshwiller Galaxy Science Fiction.jpg

Santa’s bungalow was warm and cozy. By warm, it was loud and obnoxious from Santa’s thunderous snore. By cozy, it reeked to high heaven. Stink lines exuded from every possible orifice of St. Nick sleeping hard on the recliner. Surrounding the chair, three empty bottles of Wild Turkey, a fourth bottle one-third full clenched in his hand, resting on his enormous belly.

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