American Strip: The Blondes

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Tom Russell Tonight @ The Palms!

TOM RUSSELL LIVE

PALMS PLAYHOUSE
13 MAIN STREET
WINTERS CA 95695

530-795-1825

8 P.M.

DECEMBER 12, 2009

See MYSTERY ISLAND MAGAZINE for more info on Tom Russell, including his book of interviews with Charles Bukowski.

Fuck You, Tiger Woods

Some news you can’t avoid. Especially if you listen to morning news radio, the “famous people fucking up” stories always carry a lot of weight.

I have never given Tiger Woods any thought whatsoever. However, this morning, as he issued his “apology” for having sex with multiple bottom-feeding gutter sluts while married … I did find one thing particularly interesting in his statement.

He referred to himself as an “athlete.” Of course he also begged to be left alone and that he’s sorry for his “transgressions,” but athlete?

He’s a golfer, right?

Ed McMahon and Dom Deluise were good golfers. Were they athletes too?

Just checking. But it seems to me that fat white people have been playing golf since day one – and possibly the gayest “sport” since ping-pong – but they’ve been doing just fine. Until of course a person came along and worked out as if they were trying out for the decathlon in order to beat the fat white people at their own game and therefore talk about what a great athlete he is …

And the money. Lots of it … in games.

Fucking games. And golf is a kid’s game at best.

But enough about golf, let’s talk about having affairs. Woods says he should be left alone, that even though he is a famous athlete, we should give him his privacy.

The notion of privacy was the hot debate on the radio this morning. Should the paparazzi leave Tiger Woods alone?

Should they? Why should they?

As long as we actually allow the jackals of the tabloid press to live freely in our society – why the hell should Tiger Woods be granted yet another executive privilege that our most popular actors don’t receive? In this case, the razzi are actually performing a public service, the best method we have of throwing a person to the lions.

However, despite Woods obviously deserving the negative attention he’s brought unto himself, fans kept calling the radio stations agreeing that Woods should be left alone. “He said he was sorry,” they said. “He’s a great golfer,” they said. “He’s a great father,” they said.

Really? Yeah, he might be a great golfer, and that’s pretty much, you know, gay, but a great father?

Any man that cheats on his wife, cheats on his children. They grow up knowing their father cannot be trusted. He is a liar. He has no honor. Is this then truly a great role model?

Whether Tiger Woods likes it or not, (and I think he actually does like it) he, as a public and very popular “athlete,” is in fact a role model. And hey, when people pay you millions of dollars to play a goddamned children’s game – you can just suck it up that you’ve also taken on a responsibility to not be a public prick.

Kids have grown up for decades now with these intellectual weaklings and spiritual failures flexing their temporary popularity and laughing all the way to the big bank. Despite the fact that they are grossly overpaid for what they do, they indulge in illegal drugs and pump up their blood with steroids, illegally gamble within their own industry, and worst of all – they think they deserve the frat boy privilege of treating women like disposable sweat socks.

Of course it’s the ladies who are ultimately to blame for offering their bodies to be worn like sweat socks, but that’s another issue.

I’m just here to say: Fuck you, Tiger Woods. You deserve whatever shit storm comes your way. Your wife should in fact divorce your ass and take whatever she can get. Let’s face it, she’s already paid her dues by marrying a golfer, right?


This editorial brought to you by: Bradley Mason Hamlin from the shores of Mystery Island.

MYSTERYISLAND.NET
http://mysteryisland.net

Mystery Island Thankgiving Day Parade Coverage!

[All photos on this post by BMH. All rights reserved].

The fire's blazing in the family room and the coffee and hot chocoolate is hot.

Of course the Parade is the first crazy ritual of any good American Thanksgiving, and therefore, keep checking back here for our live coverage by Secret Society operative "Alcoholman."

I'm still not sure why John Stamos gets work in New York. Wasn't it bad enough when he pretended to be a Californian, wore a mullet, and had the gayest band on television? Well, ladies beware, I'm pretty sure Johnny's performance (and imitation of Dick Van Dyke) of "Put on a Happy Face" officially makes him "gay."

Yay!

Okay, unless you missed the fact that the donkey in Shrek was a black man, just tune in folks for the worst rendition of "I'm a Believer" I have ever heard sung by a furry.

Oh! I forgot to comment on the Hair musical singers ... Apparently their message is that white people were even more challenged in terms of dressing during the hippy era. Have they so soon forgotten Michelle Phillips? Okay, "Papa" John was a pig, but she was hot!



Thank you Big Bird ... for reminding me ... I'm over 40 years old.

Well, so far the coolest thing in the parade has been Cyndi Lauper in a pink castle. But hey, Cyndi, ya think you could sung a better song? You only have millions of viewers watching. Bust out a lil' rock & roll, damn.



The girls on the blog made me miss my Spongebob photo op ...

Missed the Mach 5 ...

Went to the rest room and missed Buzz Lightyear ...

But what would the world be like without Mickey Mouse?



Answer: kinda lamer.



Check out this cool psychedelic freak out pic of Hello Killy fading out to some boring blind guy singing.



Smurf!



The Pillsbury Doughboy (otherwise named the White Dough Man by the Mystery Island kids)! Did you know the Pillsbury Doughboy was created by Marty Nodell, creator of the original Green Lantern?



And Santa closes the show with not a Super Jesus balloon in sight ...

HAPPY THANKSGIVING from MYSTERY ISLAND!

Girl in a Coma Interview

Click picture for GIRL IN A COMA interviewed at MYSTERY ISLAND MAGAZINE!

Happy Birthday, Alcoholman!

Love,

Lucy

Holy 13

for Frigga


Endorsed by the Roman Catholic church, until inconvenient to do so, they wore white tunics bearing red crosses into battle, Christian soldiers marching onto war, but secretly knew where Jesus slept.

They managed their money wisely, powerfully, and well enough to have the government take it all away. Even the stupid King [Phillip] owed the Templars cash, certainly bad luck for them, should have broken his legs first or won that goddamned Holy War, but can your heart truly be divine for the killing when you know the motivations are lies, lies, lies?

Maybe.

I mean, the Crusades are still in action, right? Killing Arabs is so vogue, always has been. Christianity forcing the crucifix of horror against all other faiths as if the non-Christians were the vampires and not they. But hell, the Muslims have their own lies to worry about.

More importantly, the Templars knew we had abandoned Thor, and therefore, we were vulnerable and deserving of whatever undead horrors lay ahead. What could be done? Bend your knees for the bearded demon on the astrological cross?

Secretly they prayed to Baphomet for wisdom as the perverted King touched the knee of the perverted Pope. “Kill them,” they whispered into each other’s mouths. “Our pawns have failed us. Let’s take it all. Strip them naked. Tie them to spits and roast them alive over public fires. They will confess. Dirty. Heretic. Homosexuality. Heathenism. Everything we really stand for. Yes, we’ll fuck them good and tight.”

But didn’t they deserve it – for working for Evil in the first place? Didn’t they deserve it for turning their backs on Odin and spilling Scandinavian blood for King and country, religion, land, money, power, and secrets …

Yes, they knew where Jesus slept, and on the 13th Friday of October 1307 King Phillip ordered the arrest of all Templar Knights and the exquisite torturing began.

Unlucky, sure. Is this then where the dread of Friday the 13th comes from? Should we feel empathy for the fallen Order of "poor" Knights?

Maybe … not.

The real crime, the real rub of bad luck was born of spiritual slavery. When Norse and Germanic tribes “converted” (as in governmentally-forced) to Christianity, out of guilt and shame, Frigga, the goddess of love and fertility, Queen of the Heavens, was banished to a mountaintop and labeled a witch, as she could never double-cross her own pantheon, could never accept the liar’s cross.

She collected around herself a coven of eleven girls and one devil, to form a Witch’s Sabbath in order to lovingly combat the ills of Christianity on every Friday. Therefore, F-13 was chosen, symbolically to slay the Knights, but it’s not Frigga’s fault the Christians keep stealing themes; it’s what they do.

So don’t worry yourself about ladders or black cats, and definitely don’t cry for the ghost Templars -- or long dead Christians fed to lions, for that matter. It’s Frigga and her witches you’ve got to lose sleep about, because they’re coming back, and the good Goddess has had a lot of time to get pissed off.

The cauldron on Mystery Island is bubbling, the Satan is rising … the girls are gathering, and Frigga, we call your name.




Bradley Mason Hamlin
Friday the 13th, 2009

Alcoholman Christmas

CLICK FOR AN ALCOHOLMAN CHRISTMAS

Presented by Mystery Island's SECRET SOCIETY.

Seaman Hamlin USN 1980 to 1984

Here's a funny photo of Bradley Mason Hamlin on the bridge of the USS Mobile LKA-115 circa 1984. We were underway for the Philippines when Seaman Recruit Blake Rutledge illegally took this photo – shot from the port lookout position.

The photo is a funny admixture of duty and rebellion. Obviously, as my wife has already noted, I look “unkempt.” Yet, you have to realize we worked a duty roster of 4 hours on, 4 hours off –- while out to sea. This meant that at no time did you get more than 3 or 3 and ½ hours sleep.

As goofy as I look, I was a “master helmsmen,” thereby available to roll out of my rack at any hour to take the helm if needed for any reason; weather, difficult passage, or just a nervous recruit giving the helm too much rudder.

Therefore, when taking such an important position, one would think you’d be dressed properly for the occasion. However, my role as a boatswain’s mate wasn’t all about the exciting life of an “assault boat coxswain” or a “master helmsmen.” We worked the decks and dangerous line-handling crews, chipped paint and busted rust and greased wire rope – all in the midst of trying to maintain at least one clean uniform in our sea locker. Good luck.

The utility hat I’m wearing is supposed to have an adjustable piece on the back. It’s broken and missing. Most obvious of errors is my un-tucked shirt – right on the bridge! Yes, they must have had some small measure of faith in me to put up with that madness, but even I cannot justify that 70’s-era comb sticking out of the back pocket of my dungarees.

Well, at least I look like I’ve recently shaved, often not the case. In addition, my hair seems reasonably butchered by the ship’s barber, a nervous-fingered fellow named Minot.

Yet, the best part of viewing this time-machine photo is that I feel thankful looking back, happy to have experienced military service – despite how disagreeable it sometimes felt. I was 17 to 20 in my time of service, just a kid. A rebel without any known causes, other than maybe not liking to get bossed around, but I did learn in the Navy. I learned a good deal about growing up – even if much of that growth would take place outside of service. It, the military life, helped prepare me for the obstacles I would later face.

It is not an easy thing to do to serve your country, and you don’t even have to like it when you do it, but even if you don’t know it – at the time – you’re a part of something larger than yourself. And in the summer of 1984 that kid with the comb in his back pocket helped take the Mobile where it needed to go, not on a job, but on an adventure.

May the adventure continue.


Bradley Mason Hamlin
Assault Boat Coxswain
USS Mobile LKA-115

Happy Birthday, Malibu Stacy!