Land of the T’s, Home of the A’s

Wasn’t it just yesterday that I, Pinky Tourette – font of wisdom, knowledge, and inebriation – reached blindly into the mailbag to pull forth reader queries as springboards from which to impart unto mine audience a cornucopia of cathartic and transformative blasts of white-hot learning? Have the calendar leaves turned that quickly? More to the point, does anyone still use calendars with leaves? Seriously, that’s the first question? I have this miniscule amount of blogspace in which to share my treasured bursts of brainy luminosity and you want to throw it away with questions like that? You should be ashamed of yourself.

Pete S. asks: If I had a hammer, should I hammer in the morning or hammer in the evening?

Personally, Pete, I’m an afternoon hammerer. Although I sometimes get hammered in the evening.

Pete T. asks: Tommy can you hear me?

As I stated up top, Pete, this is a BLOG. I cannot hear you. You can stop shouting. Jeez, how old are you, anyway?

Pete S. asks: Where have all the flowers gone?

Wait, I have a question before we go any further. Is everybody here named Pete? Or is this a ruse? Buncha guys all insisting they’re Pete and chortling into their bongs behind the 7-11. The answer to your question, re-Pete, is The Netherlands. All the flowers have gone to The Netherlands. Research indicates that flowers naturally migrate to areas with liberal drug laws and legalized prostitution.

Elvis C. asks: What’s so funny ‘bout peace, love, and understanding?

Thee Tourettes were on tour years ago, I don’t remember where exactly, some place out in the sweaty heartland in the midst of an endless series of one-night gigs, and we pulled over for a pit stop and some grub at this cockeyed roadhouse. Inside were some of the most peculiar and memorable characters we ever came across (and vice versa). Among them were these singing Siamese triplets who went by the names Peace, Love, and Understanding. Lemme tell you, there was nothing funny about those gals. They could coax money outta wallets the way Moroccan snake charmers raise cobras from baskets. Doc and Dopey wrote about the place in “House of Confusion.” You should check it out.

Elvis P. asks: Are you lonesome tonight?

Great, we exit the Pete ghetto and now we’re in Elvisville. Not that it’s any of your business, El, but I’m not in the least bit lonesome tonight. I’ve got my Roku and my takeout from the Greasy D and there’s a very good chance I’m gonna get hammered. So there.

Bo D. asks: Who do you love?

Another personal question. I could say that I love everyone, Bo, but that would be a despicable lie. I don’t think even the Dalai Lama or the Buddha or Jesus could love everyone nowadays. So many people really stink, you know what I mean? I guess I could say I love myself. That’s true at least some of the time, when I don’t hate myself for reasons too petty to enumerate. I could single out certain individuals I love but then you get into the whole Oscar acceptance speech thing: you know you’re gonna leave somebody out and they’ll never forgive you. So I guess the answer is nobody. I don’t love nobody.

Berry G. asks: Do you love me?

Were you not paying attention last question, Berry? What kind of name is Berry, anyway? Are you a breakfast cereal?

Rod S. asks: Do ya think I’m sexy?

Alright, we escaped the Petes and Elvises, now we’re in some creepy zone of insecurity and longing. Sure, Rod, you’re totally sexy. I especially like that tribble on your head.

Gerry G. & Carole K. ask: Will you still love me tomorrow?

Damn, some of you fans are really needy. Let’s just say I’ll love you as much tomorrow, Gerry and Carole, as I do today. Just for the record, though, I’m not really that into threesomes. Now foursomes with Siamese triplets, that’s a whole ‘nother story.

Until we meet again, I remain, Pinky Tourette. (After that, who knows.)