The Richmond State – Page 2

The Choice of a Weird Generation

By Paul Caputo and Jeffrey Carl

The Richmond State, or at least the closest I could find to it — The Richmond State, February 1 1996

The Richmond State was a plucky upstart alternative newspaper (not that kind of “alternative”) that challenged the editorial might of the stodgy Richmond Times-Dispatch beginning in 1994. It folded in 1996 and left so little of a legacy that there is a grand total of one search result for it in all of the Googles, which is a link to the Library of Congress where you can find which libraries have copies on microfiche. At the time, Paul Caputo and I thought this was our ticket to comedy stardom. We were exceptionally stupid.

Hi. We are Jeff and Paul … Tonight, on a very special episode of “Blossom.”

A TRUE STORY OF THE SUPERNATURAL:

Paul was driving on the Powhite Parkway (“Like the Road to Hell, but With Tolls”) when a song by a band called “Sponge Monkeys” or something came on the radio. Simultaneously, miles away, Jeff, sitting in a meeting at work, suddenly reached without thinking to change the station, accidentally twisting off the nose of the person next to him. “Psychic connection” … or “total crap?” Perhaps. But think about this: “Medium heat for 15 minutes, then stir in frozen weasel extract. Serves twelve.”

Wait … no, no, no. Don’t think about that. We meant think about this: Immediately afterwards, the same mysterious thought occured to both of them at exactly the same time.

This SUCKS, they thought. I hate work … wait a second!

We’ll run for MAYOR!

And so with that thought and this column, we, Jeff and Paul, Officially Announce Our Candidacy for the Mayorship of the City of Richmond. We would also like to announce that a new study reveals that improper use of rubber cement can cause hair loss or, in some cases, mild death.

Many of you are no doubt wondering, “But what do geese think about this?” Well, you people are sick.

The rest of you are probably wondering, “Why should I vote for two people when it’s only half the calories to vote for one?” or “Wouldn’t two mayors cause problems with easily-confused TV news reporters, who might not know whom to interview and end up talking to a chair?” Or even “What?”

These questions are all valid, albeit incoherent. But consider the benefits of having two mayors:

• Always on call: If one of us were sick and could not lead the city that day, the other one would always be there to say, “Who cares?” and get drunk.

• It would be like having your mayor “Super-Sized.”

• One of us could actually attend City Council meetings instead of (like some mayors we know) sending a life-size cardboard cut-out.

• We would almost certainly get to be in one of those “double your pleasure” chewing gum commercials with the really cute twins in green bathing suits.

We cannot fully explain our platform because 1.) there are bubbles in the Magic 8-Ball right now; and 2.) boy, are we making this up as we go along. But here for you – Good and Wise State Reader – is a sneak peek.

If elected, we promise the following immediate changes:

• We would officially change the spelling of “Richmond” to “Funky Tøwn,” although it would still be pronounced the same. “Henrico” would be spelled “Hönkyville,” but pronounced “Toad Suck, Arkansas.”

• “The Mosque” would be renamed “The Diamond.” “The Diamond” would be renamed “What The HELL Is That Thing With An Indian Stickin’ Out The Side?”

• Monument Avenue, as a compromise, would feature a statue of Andre Agassi on a horse.

•To demonstrate how much our city RULES!, we would declare war on Amelia County and beat all of its inhabitants with hockey sticks. After the invasion, we would give out free “We Invaded Amelia! We RULE!” bumper stickers and T-Shirts to everyone in the city.

• We would eliminate the “four-by-four” versus “seven-period” school scheduling controversy by ignoring it completely. Students, instead of saying the Pledge of Allegiance, would recite the lyrics to “Stairway to Heaven.” Metal detectors in schools would be replaced with Snickers candy bar detectors. To improve saftey, we would then personally eat all the Snickers bars.

• We would hold a contest to decide what kind of facial hair Police Chief Jerry Oliver should have.

• The Baltimore Stallions of the “Canadian Football League” – currently (True Fact!) considering moving here – would officially be told to “Bite us.” We want nothing to do with any league that has an annual (True Fact!) Most “Valuable” “Canadian” Award.

• So that you don’t have to remember two long, expensive, time-consuming names, we would shorten “Jeff Carl” and “Paul Caputo” into one name, like “Puff Carpluto.”

• As mayors, we promise never to appear on local TV news commenting at length on “what a horrible tragedy this shooting was, or how awful that hurricane was, blah blah blah.” We know that actual news has NO PLACE in local television and it only interferes with the stories you really want to see, like the one about the surfing kitten, the Radical Lesbian Transvestite Chapter of “Jews for Jesus” or the 83-year-old nun who plays for the Renegades. Therefore, we promise to spend our entire tenure doing nothing but going to events with free food.

• Just for the heck of it, we would add to Monument Avenue a statue of Kermit the Frog. On horseback. With a tennis racket.

• Our City cabinet would comprise entirely newspaper columnists. For example, Dave Barry would be our Secretary of Booger Jokes. George Will would be our Official Long-Words-Talkin’-Guy. Ross Mackenzie of the Times-Dispatch would be our Footstool.

• VCU students with pierced noses would have them filled with Silly Putty. Anyone found in coffeeshops wearing black talking about angst (German for “fish?” We don’t know.) would be burned at the stake.

• To improve their disposition and efficiency, City Hall and DMV workers would be replaced by Cocker Spaniels.

• We would eliminate the City Meals Tax, Personal Property Tax, Thumb Tax, etc. We would make up the money by declaring a Civil War Reconstruction Tax, paid for by giving $800 speeding tickets to everybody who drove through town on I-95 with a Yankee license plate, claiming that “We need the money to fix all the damage you guys did the last time you were here.”

• To further establish our position as the Bitchin’-est City in the State, we would beat up Charlottesville and take its lunch money.

• City council decisions would all be decided by a game of Hungry Hungry Hippos, or possibly Twister. Council members would be required to take drugs so we could win.

• We would cut Richmond electric bills by sneaking over at night and plugging an enormous extension cord into Norfolk. If they complained, we would retaliate by claiming that they were trying to siphon the energy out of OUR appliances and INTO their walls. That’ll confuse ‘em.

• The Richmond Symphony would be forced at gunpoint to play nothing but “Def Leppard” songs.

• K-9 Police units would be equipped with Small Yipping Poodles, to make criminals giggle hysterically until they wet themselves and surrender.

• We would change the confusing street address numbering system in the city back (?) to the Dewey Decimal System.

• You, the Average Taxpayer, could always have an appoinment with the Mayor, as long as you brought the beer.

Best of all – we’re not kidding – if enough people send in contributions to The State earmarked for our campaign fund to pay for the filing fee, we will ACTUALLY REGISTER TO RUN FOR MAYOR! No jive! For real! Call the State and ask about it! Also, stop by and pick up your Amelia Invasion bumper sticker!

And if we win, we will personally mow the lawn of everyone who sent us money.

Can anyone else promise that? Besides your yard guy, if he’s running, too.

And so we proudly proclaim some of our campaign slogans: “We’ll paint any car for just $99.95!” or “Vote for us or you’ll learn a new meaning of Pain as you are slowly digested in the Belly of the Great Sarlacc for a Thousand Years!” Or “Or whatever!”

General Disassembly, Part Two

By Paul Caputo and Jeffrey Carl

We faced the critical issue – covered up by the “mainstream” media, we still think – that THERE IS NAKED BOOTY ON THE VIRGINIA STATE SEAL. Although our understanding of the term “booty” was limited at the time and depending on how you look at it may have been inaccurate. That would still be very “on brand” for us, though, so whatever.

Hi. We are Jeff and Paul. We have walked in the Halls of Power, stood on the Steps of Greatness, scuffed our feet on the Carpet of Destiny, and we were bored to tears.

Last week, we examined (“made fun of”) the Big Issues facing the General Assembly this term. This week, we actually went there to see them in “action.” We found that it was around about as much fun as pounding sand with your forehead. This is how it went:

To get to the State Capitol, we walked up a series of terraced steps (identified by a sign that said “Terraced Steps”) that were designed perfectly for the rythmic walking pleasure of every Virginian who is either three or nine feet tall. Inside the Capitol, which Thomas Jefferson built with a Colonial Style Lego™ Set when he was eight years old, there were countless statues of Virginian heroes, ranging from Jefferson “Highway” Davis to John Marshall (famous for being History’s Ugliest Person, Ever) to one we think was Orville Reddenbacher, who was no bathing beauty himself.

The Capitol is elegant, from the tasteful bland carpeting to the stately statues of Famous Dead Guys™, whose expressions made it seem as if constipation had been mandatory until the 20th century. The Official Seal of Virginia was embossed everywhere, including Dick Cranwell’s forehead. We noticed upon close inspection that the woman depicted on the Seal has her toga open. We don’t wish to alarm you, but THERE IS NAKED BOOTY ON THE STATE SEAL. We predict that within months, this grossly immoral influence will lead to teenage pregnancy, “Juggs” magazine becoming a school textbook, and heretofore good citizens taking drugs, dressing up like clowns and eating main courses with the salad fork.

Don’t say we didn’t warn you.

After minutes of sightseeing (“being lost”), we walked upstairs to the State Senate’s gallery, and sat down in a section marked “Press.” We were ejected when the doorkeeper, whose job it is to hate people, told us that we had to be from a real newspaper to sit there. In fact, when we said we were from The Richmond State, she gave us a look like we had said “the Slothburg (Wisconsin) Times-Hernia” or “USA Today.” So we sat in the section marked “Regular Schmucks,” which was crowded with spectators, excitedly blinking and twitching.

From the spectators’ balcony we could see the whole room, majestic yet very frumpy. The Speaker is seated atop a raised platform, flanked by three or four billion clerks, hurriedly filing Important Documents (“Bill 867.5309: To make Shrimp Newberg the state’s official Zesty Seafood Dish”).

The scene on the floor was just as we had imagined, except that there were no naked dancing girls and the senators did not wear togas. Actually, the Senate comprised entirely old white guys, some of whom were very lifelike. Lieutenant Governor Don “King” Beyer, acting as Speaker, efficiently conducted the proceedings, speaking at such a rapid-fire pace that: 1.) we couldn’t understand what was going on (good), and 2.) we thought we had accidentally wandered into a mannequin auction (bad). In fact, Paul went to scratch his nose and accidentally bought Fairfax County.

The edges of the room were ringed with Senate pages, ranging in age from ten to ten-and-a-half, trying hard not to pick their noses in front of daddy’s friends. Occasionally, a group of them would go off to review legislation or play “Spin the Bottle.” Most of the time, though, the pages waited to take lunch orders of Chinese food and live rodents for the legislators, who were busy discussing (True Fact!) lighting regulations while trying to brush hair onto their bald spots.

The GA had a full day ahead of it: the Senate calendar for the day was several bajillion pages long, filled completely with abstracts of bills that looked like this:

S.B. 193.6 A BILL to amend § 9-6.141 of the Code of Virginia, relating to Improper pH Balances in Fish Tanks.

Patrons – McGargle and Fishbein

Reported from Committee to Help the Little Fishies with amendments (14-Y, 0-N, 3-D — You Sunk My Battleship)

Amendments adopted by Senate January 16, 3 -5 p.m. BYOB

AMENDMENTS:

1. Page 4, line 11, after 7B:

strike

Regulations

insert

Death Penalty

2. Page 4, line 19, I before E except after C:

strike

Three

insert

Coin

YEAS — Colgan, Saslaw, The Pointer Sisters, Your Mom, Fishburne —7

NAYS — 0

ABSTENTIONS — That Creepy Guy in the Back — 1

Committee Vote: 16Y, 42N, UFO 54-40

Cubs 16W 48L 35GB

20 If A$=“Oatmeal” then goto 40

Neutral-Chaotic Magic User, +20 HP, AC -7

Do Not Back Up; Serious Tire Damage Will Occur

Soylent Green is made from people

…and so on.

We ran into a Well-Known Richmond News Correspondent, who was busy interviewing a senator about a bill on (True Fact!) whether Virginia should require warning labels on marriage licenses (“Warning: Do Not Marry Roseanne Barr.”) After greeting him in the manner of the Secret Brotherhood of Newsguys, (Password: “Why do you all have a liberal bias?” Countersign: “Because we’re all poor.”) we asked him where to find something interesting to write about. He suggested a certain financial committee wherein “pimply-faced Allen appointees” were regularly grilled by committee members, then served over rice in a light wine sauce.

We sat in on the meeting that afternoon, and took our seats expecting a knock-down, drag-out Legislative Tag-Team Grudge Match. What we got was an old guy with no pimples who began droning on interminably about how money was good, or something. The committee members nodded politely and sank into deep comas.

The old guy talked for a while, then began to liven up. He began using sweeping arm gestures and ringing, lyrical phrases to describe Phased Capital Investment. Then he leapt onto the podium and started a musical number, describing Leveraged Interest Rates to the tune of “Jesus Christ, Superstar.” The delegates behind him formed a kickline, using some sizzlingly daring modern jazz choreography; and the number ended with a scantily-clad lady stenographer lowered from the ceiling on a trapeze, juggling chainsaws.

Sorry, that was the dream Jeff had when he fell asleep. Actually what happened was Paul woke Jeff up and we left in the middle to get Chinese food.

After lunch, we paid a visit to the House of Delegates, the busy schedule of which included extending Official Stately Commendations to (True Fact!) the Stonewall Jackson High School Golf Team, (Yet Another True Fact!) the American Automobile Association of Tidewater and (We Couldn’t Make This Up!) the Haunted Crack House, Inc. In fact, the only three people in the state who weren’t commended for something were Jeff, Paul, and you. But check tomorrow’s schedule; you may get lucky. There was also a long list of Memorial Resolutions: so many, in fact, that the schedule read like the Times-Dispatch Obituary Section, except better written.

The business of governing a state is a very dull thing: amending the Endangered Dirt Protection Act, appointing Junior Assistant Vice-Undersecretaries of Irritating Lottery Radio Commercials, and saying “Kudos!” to the field hockey team from the Hampton School for Abnormally-Masculine Girls. If we have learned one thing from this column, and we’re pretty sure we didn’t, it’s the same lesson that’s taught in an old story you’ve probably heard. One day, a father decides his son should learn how to fish. So they went on a trip to the woods, where they were devoured by rabid ferrets. Actually, we’re not sure what the Hell that means.

Maybe it’s this: politics is not all fast cars and fast women. In fact, it’s more like ‘53 DeSotos and Bea Arthur.

Better them than us.

General Disassembly, Part One

By Paul Caputo and Jeffrey Carl

At the time, the Virginia General Assembly was looking for a new state song to replace its old one, (which was, according to Paul, “Skull-crunchingly offensive and racist,”) the classic Civil War-era tune “Let’s Subjugate the Non-Whites.” This was the first part of our hard-hitting look at what the General Assembly actually does, which was “not much.” Paul and I presented our suggested replacement, which I think unfairly lost because it didn’t have music and we never officially submitted it.

Hi. We are Jeff and Paul, as enforcable by article 7-D, section 423 of the Virginia State Code.

We all know that there are certain places downtown that decent people just don’t go to at night. Like the General Assembly.

Virginia’s General Assembly is back in “action.” Each day, our wacky legislative pals perform that miraculous process (Photosynthesis? We’re not sure.) whereby a Bill is suggested, sings to children on the courthouse steps, then Becomes a Law. At least that’s the way it worked on “Schoolhouse Rock.”

But what do we really know about our state legislature? What do they do all day? And why does it cost so much? Raise your hand if you can name more than two people in the General Assembly. Any guesses? No, “Catfish Hunter” was a relief pitcher for the Yankees. Can anybody do it? Does anybody want to?

Well,we don’t know anybody in the GA either. You could have named “I. P. Freely” and “Oliver Closeoff” and we wouldn’t have been able to correct you. But the point remains that we simply need to know more about our state legislature. As Thomas Jefferson probably said, “Ignorance of one’s legislature threatens democracy, and causes nausea and swollen lymph nodes in some cases.”

Well, fortunately for you – and your lymph nodes – we, Jeff and Paul, intrepid reporters, non-award-winning columnists and congenital smart-asses, are here to find out about the legislature, so you don’t have to. This saves you, the reader, valuable Intellectual Effort points which can be redeemed at the end of the show for valuable prizes and little ceramic gnome statues.

So this is the nub of our gist, if we’re allowed to use that expression in a family newspaper: this column is the first of a two-part investigative series on the Virginia General Assembly. In the first part (“Part One”), we review the vital matters currently facing the GA. In the second part (“The Second Part”), we will actually spend a day at the legislature, and presumably live to tell the tale.

There are many important and extremely serious issues facing the Commonwealth of Virginia. This is why the GA spends more than nine months out of every year arguing about what the Official State Song should be.

The current State Song , “God Bless White People” (or something like that) is seen by some as being somewhat “out of date,” or perhaps even “skull-crunchingly offensive and racist.” The more neutral proposed replacement, “O Virginia, Home of Many Kinds of Trees and Shrubs,” has actually bored several legislators to death. We think this recommends the song highly. But the rest of us might eventually have to hear it, which would be bad. Take as evidence the following lyrics from the song’s second verse (but don’t take them if you’re operating heavy machinery):

“O state of ours, you are also in grass quite wealthy/

Some of which is crab grass, which you should pull/

To keep your lawn’s root structures healthy/

And O dear Virginia keep thy weed-sprayer full.”

With only these two possibilities from which to choose, it’s no wonder that the General Assembly always is forced to put aside the serious issues (1. Who am I taking to the Legislative Prom? and 2. What would a grade school teacher do with more than $8,000 a year?) to discuss The State Song.

In lieu of our original plan (offering the Buttsteak song “Lint-Lover’s Pizza” as an alternative), we decided to write our own State Song. We did this and were very proud of our achievement until someone told us that the tune we used was exactly the same as the J. Geils Band’s “Hot Cross Buns.” Also, the lyrics were all stolen from the theme song to “The Dukes of Hazzard.”

We made a list of all the things we think make Virginia great (or that would at least sound good in a song). The list we came up with (1. There are lots of mountains in it, and 2. It’s not New Jersey.) didn’t have enough rhyming words in it, so we decided to leave it and come back to it.

Among the important issues facing the GA are (True Fact!) whether to allow judges to carry concealed weapons, whether to raise the legal driving age from 16 to 17 (Also A True Fact!), whether to raise the highway speed limit from 65 miles per hour to 70 (Still True!), and whether Keanu Reeves should be named the Official State Fruit (True In An Absract Sort of Way!). A recent NewsChannel 6 poll about these issues revealed that most Richmonders were watching another station.

Of course, the idea of allowing judges to carried concealed weapons is perfectly logical. It worked really well in “Judge Dredd.” Judges constantly have to worry about the seedy unscrupulous types who frequent their court rooms every day. Also, they deal with a lot of criminals.

LAWYER: Your honor, I object!

JUDGE: Would counsel please approach the bench?

LAWYER: Yes, your honor?

JUDGE: Object to this, scumball! BLAM! BLAM!

The resulting increase in dead lawyers could be offset by importing leeches from swamps in Florida.

The most intriguing possibilities facing the GA are the ones concerning driving. Apparently, the state legislature figures that since more than half of the people in state have figured out that you shouldn’t drive in reverse in the left lane on highways, and that “Yield” does not actually mean “Slam on your brakes! Do it now!!!,” Virginians should be allowed more automotive freedom.

While this seems fine at first glance, you should keep in mind that Virginians are the same people who thought that the best way to handle the road conditions during the Blizzard of ‘96 was to park their cars on top of each other sideways in the middle of Broad Street, and call Channel 12 for a ride to the grocery store.

Incidentally, we are in favor of raising the speed limit to 70, although we would also recommend introducing the Death Penalty for people who drive too slow.

We decided to incorporate all of this into our proposed state song. Why? We’re still not sure. At any rate, here it is:

“Virginia: First In Our Hearts, But Fifth To Last in the Alphabet.”

(sung to the tune of “The Addams Family”)

The ham is in the kitchen/

The R-Braves, they are pitchin’/

Virginia, you are bitchin’/

And this is your state song.

The judges, they are packin’/

The murder rate is slackin’/

The legislature’s backin’/

Virginia’s new state song!

Da da da dum (snap snap)

Great folks!

Da da da dum (snap snap)

Phillip Morris smokes!

Da da da dum, da da da dum! snap snap)

No joke!

O “Yield” does not mean stoppin’/

Speed limits, they ain’t droppin’/

At Ukrop’s we are shoppin’/

Virginia really rules!

We’re trying to put a band together to record this song, so if you’re interested and you don’t play the accordion, contact us c/o The State. We’d like to make a demo tape for the legislature. We’re confident that, with a little luck, it will top the charts in Belgium.

ACHTUNG! JEFF UND PAUL ARE ON DER INTERNET AT http://www.pluginc.com!

Mudslinging with a Catapult

By Paul Caputo and Jeffrey Carl

With Richmond mayoral elections coming up, we threw our hat in the ring. Even though we both voted, we only received one vote. I suspect it was Paul. Anyway, the column was still pretty funny albeit littered with ultra-topical humor that has aged like room-temperature milk.

Hi. We are Jeff and Paul. As they say, life in politics is Hell. As we say, so is watching “Mama’s Family.”

When we, Jeff Carl and Paul Caputo, announced that we were running for mayor (as the composite candidate “Puff Carpluto”), we promised to take on the Tough Issues. Of course, we thought the Tough Issues were “Should I ‘Super-Size’ that Value Meal™ or not?” and “Should Keanu Reeves be executed immediately, or be tortured first? You know?”

Well, it turns out that there really are Tough Issues, like how a great place like Taco Bell could produce something as putrescently vile as “Pintos and Cheese” – and, of course, the matter of Dirty Politics. It is a sad fact that political campaigns are sometimes waged with a ferocity normally reserved for Nuclear War and Fast-Pitch Softball. It’s ugly, but it can’t be ignored, just like Roseanne.

We have discovered that our only competing candidate, Richmond Mayor Leonidas Young, has engaged in a sinister plot to be totally unaware of our existence. It’s underhanded dealing like this that really gets our dander up, whatever that means. We wanted to run a nice, clean campaign – one where each candidate would be judged on his/her/their merits, like their ability to play Whiffle Ball. But NOOOOOOO. Well, “Reverend” “Leonidas” Young – if that is your real name – have it your way. The gloves are off, and this time the hand is on the other foot, Mr. Mayor-Type Person.

Through our investigave journalism techniques (watching “Seinfeld” and drinking Mountain Dew until our eyeballs explode), we have discovered a copy of the script for Oliver Stone’s next movie. (Somebody wrapped a rock around it and threw it through Paul’s car windshield.) Stone, as you may know unless you’re from Outer Space, or possibly Canada, is famous for controversial films (such as “JFK,” which revealed that Kennedy was assassinated by the CIA, Fidel Castro and “Barney the Dinosaur;” and “Nixon,” which revealed that Nixon was a “jerk.”) Stone’s next target is the sordid and sinister career of RICHMOND’S OWN LEONIDAS YOUNG. Wow, right?! You know?

So, anyway, here are highlights from the upcoming movie:

“LEONIDAS”

an Oliver Stone film

brought to you by Jiffy Lube, National Public Radio, Girl Scout Troop #327, and the letter “Q”

The movie begins with young candidate Leonidas Young (played by James Earl Jones) accepting campaign contributions from a shadowy representative of a “big, out-of-town company” that wants to “build a major facility” in the Richmond “area.” Reporters discover that the representative is Darth Vader (also played by James Earl Jones). His plans to build a third “Death Star,” just north of Chippenham Parkway, are scrapped when he proposes a new Toll Road to access it.

Threatened by a news story revealing his shadowy years as a “Foxy Boxing” promoter, Young blackmails NewsChannel 6 anchor Charles Fishburne (David Hasselhoff), threatening to reveal that Fishburne is actually a Muppet. Young (J. Earle Dunford) blackmails the other major stations as well (threatening to reveal Lisa Schaffner’s role in the movie “Prison Girls, Part 7” and Gene Cox’s days as a KGB telemarketer). Fox-35 gets the story but boldly decides to “bump” it for a story about a surfing nun who is a “close personal friend” of several Space Aliens (Prince).

Newly-elected Mayor Young (Scorpio) plots against a political rival (Steve Guttenberg), and strikes a deal with members of an underworld “family” (the Pointer Sisters) known only as “Allen, Allen, Allen, Allen, Allen & Allen.” The next day, his political opponent is speaking at a rally when an unknown assailant in the crowd brutally sues him.

The mayor’s popularity surges when he announces his plans to change Richmond’s motto from “Richmond: Gunshot Flesh Wound Capital of the World” to “Richmond: Many of Us are Still Alive,” and hires Police Chief Jerry Oliver (Wesley Snipes) to improve the city’s crime rate (Jimmy “J.J.” Walker). At a year-end press conference, he gloats over the mere 118 murders (TRUE FACT! That’s only one every three days!) in the city in 1995.

“Hey,” he says, “That’s pretty damn good, especially compared to other large cities, like Sarajevo.”

Young’s popularity peaks when Richmond sculptor Paul “But is it Art?” DiPasquale (Joe Pesci) presents plans for a sculpture of Young (see page 137) to be placed on Monument Avenue. Young is pictured holding a tennis racket, riding on a horse (John Goodman), and, inexplicably, eating a Pop-Tart (Madonna) (Get it? It’s witty. “Pop” … “Tart?” Aw, Hell with it.) But his empire soon begins to crumble.

Richmond Times-Dispatch Editor Ross McKenzie (Satan) attacks the statue (Kevin Costner) in the paper’s editorial, saying, “Maybe we could have a special place for statues of black people … like someone’s basement. Furthermore, Bill Clinton is fat.”

Young tries to pressure the Times-Dispatch (Steven Seagal), threatening to reveal all those calls they made to the “George Allen Fantasy Chat Line.” For a time, it appears to work: two Times-Dispatch reporters (Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman) investigating Young’s story mysteriously decide to quit their jobs, saying that their newspaper is “a pile of crap.” Actually, that’s not mysterious at all. Two Style Weekly reporters (Pauly Shore and ALF) investigating the same story are stonewalled, because nobody will believe they work for a real newspaper.

Days later, as Young (BA ‘67, MBA ‘74) is leaving church, TV news reporter Biff McNamara (Patrick Swayze) rushes up to the mayor, claiming to have have uncovered the shocking secret that he “was getting some serious ‘second-base action’ with former U.N. Ambassador Jeane Kirkpatrick (Gary Coleman).” Young (4 Grammy Nominations), cool under fire, escapes the veteran reporter by pointing behind him and shouting, “Wow! Isn’t that ‘Sir Woofs-a-Lot,’ the talking dog?” and running away. The reporter is discovered several days later in the same place, asking passersby if they have seen a talking dog, and then getting punched.

Young is disturbed that reporters have found the ugly secret truth (Roseanne, see above). But who is the “leak” on the inside?

We don’t want to ruin the movie for you, but since it doesn’t actually exist (Mary-Kate and Ashley Olson), why not? The leak turns out to be the Pope, who is involved with a conspiracy implicating the Cubans (Paul Rodriguez and Manny Mota), Gerald Ford (Chevy Chase) and most of the 1973 Philadelphia Flyers.

In the most dramatic moment in any movie ever – except maybe the shower scene from “Stripes” – Young (Neutral-Chaotic Magic User, +20 HP) holds a press conference, blaming his problems on “cholesterol addiction.” He resigns,and travels the country,getting paid Two Bajillion dollars an hour to speak at graduations and Bar Mitzvahs.

Now you know the real story, except for most of it, which was “totally false.” Furthermore, if Young can come up with anything more outlandish about us, we promise not to deny it. Now that’s fair politics.

Hey! Check out Jeff and Paul (Waldorf and Statler) on the Internet at http://www.pluginc.com

1995 Review: Shame Ahoy!

By Paul Caputo and Jeffrey Carl

You’ll note that “ahoy!” is one of the funniest words in existence. This column’s highlight was probably the stoning of David Hasselhoff by angry reporters. I think at the time “gay” and “Richard Simmons” were still words that could get a cheap laugh just by mentioning them, or at least that’s the only explanation for how often we went out of our way to keep telling people we weren’t gay. Which we aren’t. Or, you know what, you can ask Paul since I don’t want to speak for him.

Hi. We are “Jeff and Paul.” Just like famed magicians “Siegfried and Roy,” except we don’t do magic tricks, we don’t have any huge invisible tigers and we aren’t gay.

Well, 1995 is over, except for those of you still on Daylight Savings Time. It’s time to dump Old Man ‘95 in the Matlock Memorial Nursing Home of Time and pluck Baby ‘96 from the Stroller of Hope. But before we move on to 1996 (“The Year of the Poodle”), it’s time to reflect upon 1995 (“The Year of Lots of Fish.”) History will certainly remember 1995 as having been “after 1994, and before 1996.” And that’s important. Unless you’re on Daylight Savings Time, in which case 1995 comes after 316 B.C., and in the Mountain Time Zone there are 36 days in October.

It is said that “Those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it, unless they bribe, sleep with, or shoot their teacher.” Well, there are no bribes for the Great Teacher of Time, who calls the Roll of History, assigns the Homework of Experience, gives the Detention of Global Warming, gets sick and is replaced by the Substitue Teacher of Unregulated Interstate Commerce, and is sometimes Drunk in Class, which results in Leap Years and the weather formation known as “El Niño.”

We must study the mistakes of 1995, like the government shutdowns and Waterworld (also known as “Fishtar”), if we are to avoid repeating them. We gaze back upon the Major Events of 1995, and wonder, “Where did the time go? What the Hell was I thinking? Was I drunk or something? And why did somebody give me Tube Socks for Christmas? Who the Hell wants socks?”

1995, Or Whatever

January 4: Baywatch becomes the most popular TV show in the history of the universe. Star David Hasselhoff, in a special celebratory press conference at his Austrian mountain retreat (der Hasselhäus) inexplicably sings “Send in the Clowns” in German, but only gets as far as the second verse before he is stoned by angry reporters.

January 13: The Richmond City Council rejects the idea of Riverboat gambling on the Annabel Lee, saying, “Wow! Try some of these red pills!”

February 6: It’s really cold.

March 12: Investors cheer as the Dow Jones Average breaks the high of 4000, allowing them to enter their initials on the High Score Board.

March 15: Gen. Douglas MacArthur signs the treaty ending World War II. Um, well, we’re pretty sure something like that happened last year.

March 20: Hundreds are killed in Japan after the maniacal Aum Shinrikyo cult plants deadly bombs in subways that release concentrated doses of Jeff Foxworthy’s “You Might Be A Redneck If…” CD.

April 2: The Major League Baseball strike ends when ABC, in place of baseball, broadcasts documentaries on “Our Wacky Friend the Lemur” and “The Mystery and Magic of Sand.” Ratings go up.

May 24-31: We don’t remember what happened here. Paul was out of town and Jeff was drunk.

June 21: 28-year-old Nicholas Leeson manages to single-handedly wreck the entire British Barings Bank after losing $1.2 billion of England’s money. He later claims he “just lost it under the cushions of his car seats.”

July 7: The worst drought in years kills every plant in the state, making Virginia’s leading crop “Thatch.”

July 30: The worst floods ever to hit Virginia wash away all of the state’s freshly-harvested thatch crop, making the new leading cash crop “Gravel.”

August 2: The “Unabomber” threatens to blow up somebody unless The Washington Post prints his 35,000-word treatise on the evils of Static Cling.

August 12: Plucky but brain-damaged Peter McNeely announces he will fight Mike Tyson. Hopeful children gather outside the arena to catch McNeely’s head as it comes out over the left-field fence.

August 19: Plucky but porcine Shannon Faulkner quits The Citadel. Hundreds of cadets celebrate jubilantly, saying “Boy are we sure glad there’s no GIRLS around anymore! It’s just us GUYS, hanging out in sailor suits and getting sweaty doing push-ups! Yaaayyyy!”

Later that afternoon: Richard Simmons applies to The Citadel.

August 27: Citizens of Quebec vote narrowly to support the referendum stating that “Playing ice hockey and speaking French just don’t seem to go together.” It is a terrible defeat for the ultra-nationalist Passez les Croissants Party, but they vow to continue their fight “by any means necessary.”

September 3: Shannon Faulkner knocks out Peter McNeely in 91 seconds.

September 21: A pack of ruthless Quebeçois terrorists from the PLC Party sneak into a crowded shopping mall at mid-day, and savagely hand out leaflets explaining their position.

October 3: O. J. Simpson is found “Not Guilty.” Angry upper-middle-class whites riot, looting BMW dealerships and setting several Starbucks Coffee stores ablaze.

October 7: Colin Powell announces that he won’t run for president, but is thinking of getting a part-time job.

October 9: In a commercial, Peter McNeely is (True Fact!) knocked out by a greasy piece of pizza.

October 12: Under renewed threats of mail-bombing attempts, The Richmond State publishes a 35,000-word treatise on how to survive after college.Our weekly column is born.

October 15: Hurricane (Real Name!) Opal hits the east coast, resulting in one tree falling over and three hundred surfers appearing on the local news talking about how “Bitchin’!” the waves are.

October 16: The Million-Man March in Washington D.C. attracts, according to the U.S. Park Service, 400,000 marchers and 514,000 reporters. March organizer Louis Farrakhan claims attendance was under-counted because “the white man insists on placing several numbers between 3 and 8.”

October 17: Terrorists bomb France, endangering the world’s supply of berets and pretentiousness. A special U.N. peacekeeping force moves into Paris, but retreats after being ambushed by a pack of surly French waiters.

October 28: A seriously overexcited Atlanta Braves fan, doing “The Tomahawk Chop” during the World Series, cracks the skull of Jane Fonda, sitting in front of him. Millions applaud.

November 14: The government wages a campaign to force the restaurant “Hooters” to hire male waitresses. Keep in mind that your tax dollars paid for this.

November 15: In an official statement, men world-wide announce, “Yech.”

November 19: Part one of ABC’s Beatles Anthology airs, surprising even the most die-hard fans when it reveals that Ringo was once the leader of the Gestapo.

November 21: President Clinton meets with Bosnian and Serbian leaders in similarly war-torn Ohio, where they agree to give the Bosnians control of Board Walk and Park Place, and give the Serbs the “War in Bosnia” Home Game and a lifetime supply of Turtle Wax.

November 23: In part 3 of the landmark Beatles Anthology, Ringo knocks out Peter McNeely in 18 seconds.

November 30: Peter McNeely announces plans to fight a rock. Oddsmakers give him 15 seconds.

December 3: Rome invades Carthage, beginning the third Punic War.

December 9: The first American troops, the 103rd Airborne (“The Screaming Weasels”), arrive in the war-torn Balkans. They decide it is “no fun” and just go invade Luxembourg.

December 12: David Hasselhoff, in a bizarre stage-diving accident during a concert in Düsseldorf, knocks out Peter McNeely.

December 25: Paul gets Tube Socks for Christmas. Jeff gets coal and a “Slippy, the Christmas Weasel” necktie.

December 31: In Times Square, ten seconds before midnight, a wild-eyed and obviously drunk Dick Clark rings in the new year by knocking out Peter McNeely. McNeely, dazed, yells “Happy Hallowe’en!” and is then crushed to death by the huge dropping ball.

Check out Jeff and Paul on the Internet at http://www.pluginc.com!

A New Weasel for Christmas

By Paul Caputo and Jeffrey Carl

The Richmond State was a plucky upstart alternative newspaper (not that kind of “alternative”) that challenged the editorial might of the stodgy Hands down, our funniest column ever and maybe the funniest thing I’ve ever been involved in writing. Paul’s “INTERNATIONAL COMMUNISM IN YOUR CHIMNEY RIGHT NOW” line was fantastic. The line “with a wink and a nod and a wet, hacking cough, ‘Slippy’ would be off to the next house to spread Holiday Joy and Large Ticks” was mine, and it was just plain f***ing hilarious. Anyway, just read it.

Hi. We are Jeff and Paul. We are the Two Wise Guys, and we bring Frankincense, Myrrh, and … uh … Cool Whip.

Slippy the Christmas Weasel, our finest creation for The Richmond State.

As mayoral candidates, we face the TOUGH issues. Like Santa Claus.

Isn’t it about time we re-examined “Santa Claus,” alias “Kris Kringle,” alias “Father Christmas,” alias “Uncle Jesse?” This reputedly jolly, obviously corpulent mystery man has held a monopoly on the Christmas Mascot business for hundreds of years. And while he has been breaking and entering into millions of homes, supposedly delivering “gifts,” what do we really know about him? And why does he look so much like the late Jerry Garcia? Nobody knows who this “Santa” (if that is his real name) is, where he is from – aside from an obviously fraudulent “North Pole” P.O. Box address – or even what his motivation is. We figure he’s doing community service for an Elfnappingconviction.

And his clothes … We don’t want to alarm you, but his blatantly “red” garb seems to smack slightly of INTERNATIONAL COMMUNISM IN YOUR CHIMNEY RIGHT NOW.

Furthermore, how did he become the symbol of a holiday intended to celebrate a very serious religious event? Perhaps some people are disturbed at the thought of their children in a Olde Towne Centre Malle sitting on the lap of a Major Religious Figure. At any rate – since it is probably too demeaning to imagine Jesus having Elves instead of Apostles – Santa Claus was substituted to make the holiday seem less religious, and more oriented toward obese people and flying deer.

Santa’s record has been rocky at best. He faced bad press after breaking an Elf Strike by threatening to move the franchise from the North Pole to Baltimore. “60 Minutes” exposed his habit of feeding Rudolph only Jack Daniel’s to make his nose red and that the white cuffs on his red suit and cap are made from the fur of baby seals he clubbed himself.

Santa was almost shot down by the Canadian Air Force in 1983, when they mistook him for a flock of Soviet geese. His recent court appearance on a charge of Sleighing Under the Influence did not help matters, nor did his short-lived “TundraVision” cable network fiasco.

Santa reportedly turned to drinking after all of the water in his “Santa-Land North-Pole Water-Slide Fun-Park” froze and 38 children were encased in ice. Not long thereafter, a USA Today poll revealed – in a weather map-shaped graph – that everything west of the Missippi is a bizarre shade of orange. The poll also showed that only 3% of children believe in Santa. The kids didn’t believe in Gerald Ford either, but that didn’t help Santa’s mood any.

Also, as a White Male Oppressor who hires midgets so he can claim them as tax write-offs, Santa is blatantly Politically Incorrect. He has also drawn fire for his policy among the elves of “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” This is an enlightened era and so-called-Santa’s little “Reindeer Games” are over. Please consider, Cheery Holiday State Reader, our comprehensive list of Alternate Christmas Mascots:

• Kathy Ireland in a Victoria’s Secret Mistletoe Negligeé: it would look much better on Coke glasses. We’d like to be on her “naughty” list.

• Frosty the Snowman: a longtime “Yuletide” (Swedish for “fish?” We don’t know.) favorite, he could come to the houses of good children everywhere, then melt on the carpet. Disgusting.

• Erik Estrada, the Out-of-Work Actor: well, he needs a job.

• The Easter Bunny: tired of playing second-fiddle to some tubby guy with pint-sized laborers and a stable of airborne Norwegian mammals, he steps into his own. He hops all over the world on Christmas Eve, and becomes very tired and bitter. Then he throws his eggs at people’s houses, or leaves rabbit droppings in the stockings of bad children.

• David Hasselhoff: the good German kids who bought his albums would get the best presents. Anyone who actually bought the David Hasselhoff “They Love Me In Germany” Box Set would get one of the “Baywatch” Girls with Silicone Breasts “Action” Figures.

• Mopey, the Manic-Depressive Elf: for people who think all this seasonal happiness is a bunch of crapola. Mopey would dress in black, come through the front window in his ‘63 Dodge DeSoto, completely drunk, and leave a note about how he sold the toys to pay his analyst. Then he would slip some Prozac in your stocking.

• A Big Inanimate Pile of Fruitcakes: a reminder that sometimes you don’t get what you wanted for Christmas. In fact, sometimes you get fruitcakes, which nobody likes. If fruitcakes could shoot themselves, they would.

• Creepy, the Clown Dentist: he’s not really suited to Christmas, but he would scare the HELL out of bad children.

• Waldheim, the Non-Flying Reindeer: jealous of his cousin Blitzen’s success, he would acquire Santa in a leveraged-buyout and have the other reindeer sold as Puppy Chow. Also, he’s an ex-Nazi.

• And our personal favorite, “Slippy the Christmas Weasel.” Slippy is a total degenerate. He drinks. He smokes. Furthermore, he’s a weasel. But he’s still cutesy enough for merchandising. On Christmas Eve, Slippy would lather himself up with vaseline and travel from house to house through sewage pipes, arriving at houses through toilets and shower heads, delivering sugar plums, shiny new toy trucks and oozing globs of sewer scum he picked up along the way. He would leave little puddles of Zesty Ranch Dressing in the childrens’ stockings, whether they were bad or good or whatever. He’s too drunk to care.

Imagine the joy of countless children, waiting up on Christmas Eve, staring maniacally at the chimney – only to discover “Slippy” slithering up through the drainpipes with his bag of Mutant Holiday Treats. Imagine their peals of childish laughter and joy: “AIIIEEEEEEEEEE!” Parents would greet this Bearer of Good Will, Gifts, and Infectious Diseases with a joyful “MY GOD, what is that THING?” while the young ‘uns delightedly called out, “DADDY, PLEASE SHOOT IT!!!” and “Slippy” playfully retched all over their carpet and passed out in a drunken stupor.

Then, with a wink and a nod and a wet, hacking cough, “Slippy” would be off to the next house to spread Holiday Joy and Large Ticks.

Of course, there are drawbacks: “Slippy” could not use the sleigh and traditional reindeer, because he would try to eat them. And it would be tough to replace Santa’s jolly “Ho ho ho” with “Slippy’s” irritating high-pitched squeal. Most importantly, “Slippy” is still a weasel. And that’s disgusting. But with somebody named “Newt” in congress, who will notice?

In conclusion: wake up and smell the fruitcake, America! Write your congressperson or congressweasel today and urge them to cut Santa’s federal appropriations. End this senseless holiday discrimination against vermin. Santa’s day is done; let someone – or, someTHING – else take a shot at it. Otherwise, after writing this, we’re getting coal in their stockings.

Merry Christmas, everybody.

HEY! Check out Jeff and Paul on the Internet at http://www.pluginc.com

Hey! Culture!

By Paul Caputo and Jeffrey Carl

Lots of people thought Richmond was just full of uncultured redneck whitebread crackers. In our review of the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, we proved them right. (You can tell by Paul’s overuse of the hackneyed cliche “WHOOO DOGGIES!.” It’s worth noting that, at the time, my sophisticated appreciation of modernist art was roughly on par with my appreciation of food that did not come in a wrapper or styrofoam container.

Hi. We are Jeff and Paul™ Culture Ahoy!

Culture: what is it? How was it created? How did it get there? Will it cost you 39 cents extra (41 with tax)? Is it bigger than a breadbox? Do you serve red or white wine with it? Does it go with tan or navy slacks? Will it change your life? Do you have to change your underwear?

These are the questions that we will answer for you, valued State reader (yes, both of you) in our landmark one-part series:

“Hey! CULTURE!”

Among prolific and respected historians, Dr. James Vünderthise is one of the least prolific or respected. This notwithstanding, it is Vünderthise who is responsible for what many consider the universe’s most worthwhile definition of “Culture.” In his book, Ancient Greece, Modern Scotland and other Cross-Dressing Cultures, Vünderthise defines Culture as “objects which are æsthetically pleasing, morally uplifting, and not nearly as interesting as ‘Knight Rider’ reruns on the USA Network.”

For any serious Art Critic, or even us, this definition of Culture leaves several problems. First, according to this, objects such as Action Figures and Taco Bell’s Bacon Cheeseburger Burrito classify as Culture. The second is that Dr. Vünderthise does not specify which “Knight Rider” episode he’s thinking of. For instance, the episode where KITT ends up in the Hicksville to save the Hick Woman from the Hick Mob is not even close to being as interesting the episode in which KITT’s evil twin, KARR, tries to kill David Hasselhoff. Incidentally, we applaud this idea.

In our relentless, almost maniacal pursuit of Culture, we selected the its nearest local purveyor, the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts. We figured we have exactly what it takes to be Professional Art Critics: Free Time. As Famous Mayoral Candidates – where we were greeted with a humongous wave of total apathy – we had the requisite Free Time to go to the museum and select several objets d’art (French for “objects of – duh – art”), review them and give them a Culture Rating in stars (or something), so you – wise State reader – will know which will give you Culture and which you can skip, saving valuable minutes of inconvenient and expensive walking.

The Suggested Donation Rating: FIVE STARS

The first display as you enter the building, it is a striking example of Modern Art. “The Suggested Donation” portrays a small wad of crumpled bills and change, encased in glass, mounted (and we use this word in its classy, artistic way) on a wooden stand. Its meaning, like much of Modern Art, is open to interpretation. Some say it represents class struggle; some call it an indictment of materialism; others call it a comic, satiric piece. Most critics admit that it shouldn’t be taken seriously.

Anyway, entrance to the museum is free.

Big Scary African Masks Rating: TWELVE STARS

This section of the museum contained a bunch of HUUUUUUUGE African masks designed to SCARE THE LIVING CRAP OUT OF various Wussy Belgian Explorers who came to conquer the continent. These masks were great: about eight feet high, 12,000 pounds and shaped like buffaloes or Republicans. Either way, they were Huge And Cool-Shaped, obviously designed by smart African Tribesmen to be distributed to archæologists, rather than to be Actually Worn, because they bear tiny African inscriptions saying: FOR IDIOT AMERICAN ARCHAEOLOGISTS ONLY! WEAR ONLY IN CASE OF HURRICANES!, of which there are obviously none in Africa.

English hunting pictures Rating: TWO HORSES AND ONE COCKER SPANIEL

This is an actual section of the museum. We saw it on the free museum map and thought that maybe there would be pictures of gored animals or crazed, gored Englishmen hunting wild bison. This is not what was there.

We said, “Look! A horse! Standing!” And, “Look! Another horse in a very similar pose!” And, “Look, a DIFFERENT horse.” And, “Hey! A horse jumping!” And, “Hmm … here is a horse NOT jumping.” And, “Oh. It’s a horse.” And, “Ha ha, how amusing, the same horse from a different angle.” And, eventually, “PLEASE DEAR GOD NO MORE HORSE PICTURES!”

The whole section looked like vacation pictures from Sea World, if Sea World had fat horses instead of dolphins and they drained all the water out. There were pictures of Englishpeople (exciting!) standing by horses, riding on horses, and … um, standing by horses.

Did our tax dollars buy this?

If you were to rank all of the parts of the museum (and why would you, since we’re doing it for you?) according to the level of interest they arouse, the English hunting section would come in just above Andy Warhol, and just below the floors tiles and parking lot.

The Enormous Head in the Arts Café Garden Rating: NEGATIVE 7 STARS

On loan from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, this sculpture is one of the most unsettling pieces in or even near the museum. In fact, it is so unsettling, they put it outside the building just so it wouldn’t spook the horses in the English Hunting Art section. The sculpture itself is an enormous disembodied old man’s head, positioned just up a small hill from several tables where patrons eat and relax in the Arts Café Garden.

Of course, it’s impossible to eat or relax because there is this … huge … HEAD. Watching you. It looks like a cross between God and Mr. Magoo. Creepy.

A Bunch of Elvises, by Andy Warhol Rating: TWO THUMBS JAMMED UP YOUR (censored)

Okay. It’s a bunch of colored pictures of Elvis. True, it serves as an important precursor to the Velvet Elvis Period in American art. Warhol supposedly popularized “Pop Art,” which sounds like soda stains and looks worse. But … oh, come on. Andy, your 15 minutes are up.

Dégas ballerina Rating: WHOOOOOOO DOGGY!

Don’t you think this guy was a bit too interested in little girls in leotards?

Something I Just Did in a Hurry, by Vincent “Vinnie” Van Gogh Rating: THREE GROSS SEVERED EARS

We guess every museum has to have a Van Gogh. But the VMFA’s is sort of a “Van Gogh Lite” – one of the less expensive ones that The Louvre uses for napkins. It is the size of a large postage stamp, and looks like the kind of thing Van Gogh used for a game of Pictionary. Still, it’s a Van Gogh, even if he DID sneeze all over it.

On the whole, the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts has a lot going for it, and, while the “cool” kids these days might not think it’s “hip” to “hang out” there, that’s okay, because you “young people” are “idiots.”

If you are a classy, educated individual, which clearly you are not because you are reading this column, the art museum is a place to revel in the glories of Culture and fine art. If you are a cretin or a derelict (which is fine, if you like that sort of thing), the art museum is a great place to vomit in while the Art Museum Elite Strike Force Guards glare menacingly at you. Or whatever.

As you leave the art museum after your next visit, do not rub the giant golden bunny’s head for good luck.

They hate that.

Theater Review: WWF Monday Night RAW!

By Paul Caputo and Jeffrey Carl

Our first Theatre review, on the appearance of WWF Raw! at the Richmond Coliseum. Most exquisite abstract-art theatre. Actually, I think this was our second-funniest column ever. But I don’t remember this event. In retrospect, it’s entirely possible that only Paul actually ever went to WWF RAW and that I just wrote my parts based on snarky preconceived notions about wresting and its fans. In fact, most of my writing in this period is slathered with contempt for people who were socioeconomically different from me. So, if this is/was you, I apologize in advance.

Hi. We are Jeff “The Berserk Weasel” Carl and Paul “The Mollusk” Caputo. And we RULE!

The touring company of “WWF Monday Night RAW!” recently came to Richmond for a one-night-only performance. And these two reviewers have never seen a show that could compare to its power, energy and sheer number of times people were kicked in the face.

Wrestling has been part of High Culture since the first Olympics in 4 Trillion B.C., when Fabius “The Human Phalanx” Celsius defeated Brutus “The Dagger” Omnibus Cum Laude. Brutus’s manager, Aristotle “The Brain” Socrates then challenged Celsius to the first Pay-Per-View Grudge Match.

Things were different then: everyone was Greek, and also they may not have been faking it. But today, wrestling is the finest avant-garde (Serbian for “avocado gourd”) theater in the world. The modern wrestlers’ performances last Monday night were savage in their post-modernist sarcasm. The Heroes – tragic anti-heroes, really – were garbed in costumes of such astonishing tackiness that it looked as if someone had stuck a peacock in a blender, then stapled the purée to Spandex. The Bad Guys were equally vile, reminescent of Keanu Reeves in Little Buddha. Especially notable was Gary Ramirez in a cameo role as The No-Name Guy Who Gets the Holy Bejeezus Beat Out of Him by One of the Stars.

The first sign that Professional Wrestling is artificial is that it was sponsored in part by “News Channel” 6. If you have ever watched Channel 6, you know that their reporters are made out of a semi-realistic foam rubber compound. The part of “Charles Fishburne” is played by a clever trained weasel.

The most brilliant part of the performance was that when we arrived, the seats were already filled with “fans” there to make it look like an Actual Sporting Event. Their portrayal of rabidly overexcited Drooling Zombies was brilliant. We’re sure they were actors, because they couldn’t have been real. There were several brilliantly-timed lines from these performers, like “C’mon Ref!” “Now git ‘im this time!” and “If I eat one more Blue Icey Treat, I’m going to throw up!” Okay, that last one was Paul.

The choreography was brilliantly chaotic, savagely modérne, a cross between Bob Fosse and “Godzilla versus Mothra.” It was like a grand ballet, except you kick people in the face.

At the end of matches, the “fans” would rush, like a swarm of crazed bees with “Love Me Some Skoal” tattoos, to line the corridor where the next wrestler would appear. They apparently sensed when to do this with special chromosomes that the rest of us don’t have … or maybe it’s the other way around. For a moment, we were convinced that we were at an Actual Sporting Event, albeit one in Hell.

Paul lost a coin flip and had to go interview some Actual Wrestling Fans. They said inspiring things like “Benny ‘The Flying Carp’ Zambesi RULES!” and “Whooooo!”

The WWF “fans” demonstrated their manic enthusiasm by breaking out the crayons and making signs to hold up in case they got on TV. The Coliseum was filled with colorful if unintelligible signs: “Richmond Likes it RAW!” “Gorrilla Monsoon For President!” and “News Channel 6: ‘Coverage You Can Count On!’”

Some “fans” were particularly compelling. In the third row there was a grotesquely obese man wearing (True Fact!) a cardboard Burger King crown, who whistled to the wrestlers and danced sometimes. A truly brutal commentary on Materialism and Greed. Jeff has never been so disturbed in his entire life.

Also, there were two really cute girls holding up signs. They weren’t a comment on anything, but we spent a lot of time watching them, just in case.

Whenever the “fans’” “favorite” “wrestlers” appeared, thousands cheered wildy, and hundreds of otherwise-dormant brain cells leapt into action. The critique of totalitarian socialism was savage. The entire arena looked like a horde of Berserk Redneck Mongolian Warlords, dredged from the shallow end of the gene pool and oozing lumpily up the walls of the Coliseum.

The Coliseum Staff was in on the act as well, giving us a thrill-packed adventure before the match when we tried to pick up our press passes. The Sluglike Woman (a brilliant cameo!) in the Box Office told us to go to the Lower Concourse. (The scenery downstairs involved a lone befuddled guard sitting amidst whistling wind and tumbleweeds in a vast, open, entirely press pass-less space. A bit overdone. Really.) The Lower Concourse Office told us to go upstairs. The Upstairs Office told us to go to the Box Office. The Box Office told us to go to Hell.

Eventually we pestered Slug Woman (and her sidekick, Sloth Cashier) to call a Box Office Manager, so that she could go back to her other valuable work, cracking walnuts with her skull. We think they never found our press reservations – the Manager just gave us tickets so we would go away.

We wonder if they do this stuff to the Times-Dispatch.

But the really moving performances were in the ring. The Referee was vital: he was Everyman; he was blind Justice; he was obviously drunk. The “rules” are strict: whenever ANYONE breaks even a tiny rule, the referee MUST grimace and MAKE A STERN GESTURE imitating the infraction, then stare at the ceiling and PICK HIS NOSE while one wrestler’s manager beats the other wrestler SENSELESS with a POLO MALLET.

The first match was Enormous Fat Man (played by Chris Farley) and his Flamboyant Manager (Elton John) versus Flamboyant Wrestler (An Overgrown Mutated Weasel) and his Enormous Fat Manager (the late Orson Welles). The wrestlers’ repertoires included a wide range of professional wrestling moves, such as the Almost-A-Punch, the Flying Buttress, the Body Slam, the Denny’s Combo Melt Slam! and the ubiquitous Clutch-Your-Face-When-The-Other-Guy-Pretends-To-Punch-You.

WWF Heavyweight Champion Brett “The Large Intestine” Harte gave a stirring soliloquiy. Unfortunately, he gave it in a high-pitched yell, about half an inch from the microphone, so what the audience heard was “BLAPHT SZZGRBL kill PHLORGM! NRZBT “WWF” LIPPY-GORPLER! Minnesota Timberwolves GRLOOOMP!! FNNGVLST MRDLUNHGP existentialism PHLURG quantum physics HNFF fin-de-síecle London GNRKLTNDFMG Super Size McBHRLTLTHOKKKK!!!!!” Still, it was pretty inspiring.

One wrestler, who we think was named “Mister Savage,” or possibly “Bert,” appeared in a cloud of smoke and walked directly toward his first opponent, “USA Network Camera Man.” Savage Guy (or whatever) intimidated Camera Guy by screaming at him unintelligibly and covering him with spittle, often in large gobs. Then he got in the ring and kicked somebody in the face.

One wrestler was really hurt during the performance – the Martha Graham Dance Company also faces many such injuries during a season – and the WWF Emergency Medical Response Team (four fat guys with a stethoscope) sprang into action several beers later. This must have been very reassuring to the injured man (“Don’t worry! There are FAT MEN coming to help you!”), since he lay motionless and didn’t try to crawl to a hospital. Delicious satire on health-care reform.

The show’s climax is the GREATEST EVENT IN THE HISTORY OF THE UNIVERSE. The three-hour web of intrigue and colorful Underoos™ that the cast had been weaving all night drew to a Shakespearean finale of Faustian conflict, Herculean effort and kicking people in the face. It was, uh … well … you know. Okay, so we left early.

What conclusions can we draw from all this?

On the Bad Side, the utterly seamless performance may have left some viewers with the misapprehension that it was real. Plus some people may be allergic to bizarrely-costumed homoeroticism.

On the Good Side, we were getting paid for this.

Thanksgiving Special

By Paul Caputo and Jeffrey Carl

Our special editorial on what we were and weren’t thankful for, including Miracle Whip, happy Golden Retrievers and girlfriends who hadn’t dumped us. Written with all the pathos and earnestness that two callow 22-year-olds could muster at the time, which is frankly not much. But still kind of touching, actually.

Hi. We are Jeff and Paul. And just what are yams anyway?

Thanksgiving is as much a part of American culture as baseball and David Hasselhoff. It is a time to give thanks, (Get it? Thanks … give … ing? Clever.), a time to revel in the warmth of family, a time to reflect, a time to eat so much that you feel like you will NEVER EAT EVER AGAIN, until tomorrow when Taco Bell unveils its Border Light Leftover Turkey Soft Tacos.

It is a time for brotherhood and stuffing. Not necessarily in that order.

To truly understand Thanksgiving, we must go back to the story of the First Thanksgiving. Some historians (all right, one historian) believe that Thanksgiving was invented by aliens from the planet Pong. Another scholar (Rush Limbaugh) believes that Thanksgiving came into existence for bleeding-heart cry-baby liberals who wanted more turkey. (Although, Limbaugh doesn’t need any more turkey himself, if you know what we mean.) Both of these theories, while believeable, are, as the Norwegians say, “Wrong.”

If we recall our 17th Century History correctly – which we almost certainly don’t – the Pilgrims, seeking freedom and larger belt buckles, sailed to America, the Land of Opportunity, Freedom and “Miracle Whip.” They endured many harsh winters, caused by, um … Canada and the Treaty of Ghent. Just to keep warm , they had to burn witches. Then they met the Indians and wrote the Magna Carta. One Indian, Squanto, taught them how to plant “maize,” or margarine. This made them so happy that they arranged for a great feast, invited all the Indians and then shot them — including Squanto, whom they blamed for the terrible margarine harvest. This process (shooting Indians, not planting margarine) continued for several hundred years. We’re not sure what that means but we’re glad the pilgrims aren’t shooting us.

This theory may be “factually correct,” but it too is wrong. Actually, Thanksgiving originated when the first Indians played the first Cowboys in NFL football.

Perhaps we can understand Thanksgiving through our modern, updated observance rituals.

Modern Americans celebrate Thanksgiving by dressing their children in ugly pastel dress-up clothes and gathering at the ugly house of ugly Aunt Helen, who “hasn’t seen you since you were only knee-high to a weasel and ooooh how you’ve grown!” The men drink beer and watch football in the living room while the young cousins sneak outside with the enormous pot of Uncle Bert’s “special” mashed potatoes and play “Spackle Tag” in the yard. The women congregate in the kitchen, where they drink cooking sherry and talk about how thankful they are that football is on so that the men don’t try to help out with the food.

Football has always been a part of Thanksgiving because without it people would be forced to speak to “relatives,” people who are apparently, through no fault of their own, related to them. If men did not have the haven of televised Detroit Lions games, there would be endless violent arguments about silly family matters like who hates whose family and whose kids painted whose cars with cranberry sauce, blah blah blah.. With football, though, men can argue about important matters, such as why only an idiot would run straight up the middle on third and goal on the four yard line.

In most familes, there is a tradition in which the leading male figure (the male with the least hair) slices, or “trims” (Turkish for “hacks the crap out of”) the turkey that Aunt Helen has had in the oven since, roughly, last February. This tradition is allows males to be a part of it all without screwing up something that would ruin the entire holiday. In Paul’s family (True Fact!) it is his job to open the jars of olives (black and green). And he’s damn good at it.

Despite the fact that Thanksgiving’s mascot is the stupidest animal in the universe (turkeys often score less than powdered donuts and wood paneling on the SATs), it carries a serious message.

It is not our custom to be serious. In fact, Jeff has never done it before, and the only time Paul ever tried it he couldn’t eat solid foods for three weeks. However, we do have a lot to be thankful for.

We are thankful that our girlfriends have not yet dumped us even after reading several of our columns.

We are thankful for baseball fields on Sunday afternoons, for finding a decent song on the radio, for backrubs from the aforementioned girlfriends, and for the way that golden retrievers just seem to be happy about everything. We are thankful that you are reading this column, when you could be watching “Baywatch.”

Nonetheless, we are thankful for “Baywatch.”

We are thankful for Extra Value Meals.

We are thankful that Super-Sizing them costs only 39 cents (plus tax).

We are thankful for the Chinese food at Beijing Café.

We are not thankful that Bob Saget is still alive.

We are thankful that we live in a country where smart-asses like us can make fun of everything.

We are thankful that we all have so much to be grateful for – whether we realize it or not. And we are thankful that you are here with us to say “thanks.”

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone, from everyone at the State. And save your wishbones for us. All of us. Or we’re coming after you.

The Guide To Richmond Radio

By Paul Caputo and Jeffrey Carl

The complete guide to Richmond Virginia radio stations in late 1995. At the time, this was hilarious. Unfortunately, even I don’t remember why it was funny at the time. Still, I think it’s funny that we said one ‘Lite Rock’ station’s motto was “It’s like never leaving the elevator.” That line was Paul’s, but I consistently take credit for it.

Hi. We are Jeff and Paul. But sometimes we fight crime in our secret identities of “Captain Gravel” and his sidekick, “Fish Boy.”

Welcome to part 7 of our seemingly never-ending series, “The Decline and Fall of Basically Everything.” Our previous chapters examined the Richmond Marathon, the Martha Graham Dance Company, turnpikes, cancer and the evidence linking Style Weekly to Satan. This week’s installment is …. what’s that? You missed the last six? We submitted them, but we suppose they were “bumped” to make room for the STATE’s special editorial pull-out section last week on “Why Poor People Should Be Shot.” Oh, well.

If you have never heard the expression “A city is made in its airwaves,” it is probably because it is one we just made up for the purposes of this column. However, were this an actual expression instead of an invention of what can only be described as “warped journalism,” it would serve as a great introduction to this column, which just happens to be about radio in the city of Richmond.

Recent changes have put Richmond’s music on the “cutting edge,” bringing it to the “forefront” of the “musical scene,” making it “fashionably late for dinner.” While the changes can only be “positive” for the simple reason that the Richmond “radio scene” sucked “a lot” before the changes, it should be noted that, after the changes, radio in Richmond still “bites itself.”

Now, in studying the subtle nuances of radio in Richmond we must first discount all country music.. The reason for this can be summed up by the following remark by a noted music critic: “AIEEEEEEEE! OK I’ll talk! Please God, don’t make me listen to that!”

His thoughts can be understood better by analyzing the following lyrics from what is almost certainly an actual country music song:

Aaaah love mah truck/

And aaaaaah luv mah Maaaa/

But aaah jest found out/

Mah Maaa run off with maaaah dawg (chorus)

Moving along to what the hip kids these days call “rock ‘n’ roll,” we all know that the life of every radio-listening Richmonder changed when Redneck Rock giant 104.7 WSUX switched its format from its original country to its current 106.5 WVGO.

Wait.

No, that’s not right. 104.7, which now calls itself “The BUZZ” switched from its former country music format to its current “alternative” (“alternative” implying that it’s not your first choice) grunge music format. “Grunge” is a mysterious West Coast term that, for all we know, means “a light chicken gravy.” You can tell that these “alternative” bands are very progressive and cutting-edge because they have an out-of-context verb or noun name like “Suck” or “Dogbowl” that was apparently chosen at random.

A typical lyric from one of these songs (True Fact!) by “Pearl Jam” seems to be, as best we can figure it out:

She dog lick fits sponge bone/

I bong the wink, scoop poke Nerf zone/

She slurp funk tick gourd (unintelligible)/

I gills wig snort, stink clambake drone (guitar solo)

Right now we should mention, for the benefit of those who disagree with us and are preparing to write nasty letters written in flaming dog-doo stuck to the STATE’s door with a knife, that Paul and Jeff’s music tastes are not “cool” to begin with. Paul still thinks that “They Might Be Giants” is neat, and Jeff is certifiably the only 22-year-old in the world who listens to “Gilbert and Sullivan.” So you can a.) like it, or b.) lump it.

In response to 104.7’s maneuvering, WVGO 106.5 switched from its old alternative format to its new exactly-the-same but differently-named modern rock format. Also, WVGO retired (“fired like a cruise missile”) its old morning show hosts, Mike, Meg, Weav (short for “weevil?”), Bob, Yoda, and Ringo. They then picked up Howard Stern, who fills a longtime gap in Richmond radio, namely that there weren’t enough “penis” jokes.

Not to be lost in the shuffle, XL102 did not change its format, or even rename of its old format. Instead, they put up huge billboards saying “Don’t Fake It,” and pictures of what must be some woman being tortured by police after trying to use a fake ID. We applaud XL102’s stand on teenage civic responsibility.

Or … wait a second. Oh, she’s supposed to be faking an orgasm. That makes sense, because radio … orgasms … um … okay, we don’t know what the Hell that’s supposed to be about. If someone finds out, please write to us, care of this newspaper.

XL102 also plays some “Heavy Metal” music. It can be distinguished by its lyrics, which are something like this:

I am very angry about something!!!!!/

I am really very angry about something!!!!!/

My life is unpleasant, and I am angry about this!!!!!!!/

Now let’s all worship Satan. (guitar solo)

Or at least that’s what we heard.

Meanwhile, B103.7, which at any given point during the day, has up to four people listening to it, recently joined the radio battle by switching its motto from “The best of the 70s, 80s and 90s” to the harder edged, more direct, “All Phil Collins, All the Time.” Its strategy also seems to be to play the theme song from the TV show “Friends” at least every three songs and sometimes up to twice per every song, and then again during commercials. 103.7’s most direct competition, Lite 98.1, combatted the recent movement on the radio dial by switching its motto from its old “Like Lite beer, but worse” to its new “It’s Like Never Leaving the Elevator.”

In a refreshing display of either stubbornness or apathy, the new WLEE 96.5 seems to be going out of its way to discourage listeners from tuning in. The most striking evidence of this is their occasional use of the motto, (True Fact!) “Keeping the ‘70s alive.”

Our message: LET THEM DIE!

Apparently, someone in the WLEE advertising department thought it would be really great if everybody out there in Listener Land imagined that the 96.5 deejays all had big muttonchop facial hair and were wearing plaid bell-bottom pants and tight satin button-down shirts. This is cool enough. But then they actually have to play the music that people were listening to back then, which seems to have been nothing but “Steely Dan.”

At the far left end of the dial, we have the steering column. (Important note: There is only one actual functioning non-digital radio dial left in the country. So, unless you are actually in Jeff’s car while you are reading this, you’ll just have to imagine.) On the far “left,” we have Q94.5. We should probably mention that we would listen to Q94 even if its entire music library consisted of old Menudo 8-Tracks for one simple reason: They keep saying they might call us and offer us $1,000.

Can you imagine? A thousand drachmas! We could super-size it every time! We’d be living the good life, baby!

Then there is “Power 93,” which, according to their commercials, “JAMZ!!!!” There are many people in the commercials dancing around and waving their fingers to demonstrate how happy this makes them. At the other end of the dial, there is NPR, National Public Radio, which has all the excitement of Public Television, plus it doesn’t have pictures. Paaaaarrrttyyyy! Lyrics for a typical NPR song go like this:

Dum dum da dee dum/

Dum da da da da/

Dum doop de doop doo/

Let’s all go worship Satan. (flute solo)

Well, not really. But it would be much cooler if it did.

At this point, we’ll open the discussion to questions from the audience.

Q: Do any of these stations play “The Beatles?”

A: No.

Q: So, then, they all stink, right?

A: Yes.

Perhaps we have been too harsh: these stations all have their good points. For example, B103.7 plays cool cheesy ‘80s stuff. WVGO is great to start your day with that first penis joke of the morning. XL102 must have a sense of humor, for broadcasting “KISS Unplugged” on Halloween. “The BUZZ” must be good for entertaining mutants and VCU students. Lite 98 keeps Michael Bolton off welfare.

Therefore, our scientifically-tested recommendation is to listen to whatever station offers to pay you the most money. God knows somebody should pay people for listening.

Or whatever.