A delicious concoction of tasty morsels of thought, epiphany and general anger management

 
"Hold me closer, Tony Danza." Tony Danza by Elton John

It is a difficult task to upset me so deeply that I become enraged. In fact, many people approach me daily to about my openmindedness and acceptance of those who are clearly inferior to me. They are correct. I am remarkably tolerant of the people and dogs that I run into daily. As a writer of great talent and superb ability, I feel it my duty to do what I can to soothe their mind with my euphonious words and the sweet inhale of the magical marijuana. You might find yourself asking what is it that makes me so angry? What, you say, has awakened the slumber giant within me that I call my ire? What is it that has my inner being all wound up like a Chinese prosititute?

I'll tell you. While I sat behind my computer last night, feasting my eyes on the wide array of pornographic sites, I was shacked, outraged, dismayed to find that there is no Tony Danza Fan Club. There were many fan sites, but no "club" as it were. I was mortified. How could no one think to honor the genius that is Tony Danza? To truly know the man, you must recongize his genius, you must soak in the virility of his man, you must hear him bellow, "Angela! Samantha! Mona!" For Buddha's sake, even that no talent hack Tom Hanks has a fan club. Do not misinterpret me. I do not mean to insult Tom Hanks. Tom Hanks is a dear friend of mine. I recall the days that I spent as an assistant writer on that most hilarious and poignant of comedies, Bosom Buddies. Tom Hanks and I would spend hours laughing and gorging ourselves on the free spread that was offered to cast and crew. We'd take Cheerios, throw them at the back of Donna Dixon's head and then duck behind the director's chair. In the spring, we'd frolic in the pasture of greener acres. Those were the salad days. Once again, I digress.

I ask you, friends, to show your support for Tony Danza. He deserves the international acclaim that an internet based fan club would provide for him. Please, indulge me. I am willing to make the sacrifice. If you'd like to make passionate love under the pal moonlight, I must do what needs to be done. I will not, however, be held accountable to the life altering change you will go through after indulging in the my flesh. Pease, friends, love Tony Danza!

posted by G.Wo at 8:34 AM

 
E-mail from my adoring fans:

Subj: Fruit Salad's latest post is incredibly offensive.
Date: Tue, 2 Jul 2002 11:40:27 AM Eastern Standard Time
From: 'James Durbin'
To: gwol4020@aol.com
Cc:
Sent from the Internet (Details)

Truly disgusting, the vile way in which Mr Wohlinetz attempts to corrupt his reader with sexual double entendres and racial humor. It is as if he suffers from a dyspeptic diarrhea of the mind, spewing filth from his orifice like a sewage pipe into a stream upriver from a children's
playground.

Observe, in the first sentence, the depravity of a corporate automaton.

The bright sun penetrates the hazy New York day.

Obsessed with penile verbs, the sentence speaks with rhymes and words that elicit religious imagery and mortal sin, setting the stage for a Freudian dream of sex-mother-child. "The bright sun (an obvious reference to son, as in male child) penetrates (a'hem) the hazy New York Day.

New York as we all know, is the Big Apple, as in the original sin and the perfidy of Eve. How duplicit is the author? His subconscious tells us
all. Big Apple Day. B..A..D. He knows what he does is wrong.

The look and feel of the summer sky

He could as easily say the "lustful gaze" and the "sensuous touch." His obsession with the senses proves his disassociation with godliness and the
lewdness inherent in "The Fall from Grace." remind me all too vividly of my grandmother's cataracts and I shudder, despite the heat.

Oedipal fantasies of impregnating your mother and having her bear your child are more fit for Greek tragedy than a summer's walk in the park. Here he wishes to turn his mother into a grandmother, and the dirtiness, the murky fate that awaits him (signified by cataracts), makes him "shudder" in pleasure, despite the"heat" that awaits him in the fiery depths. He also manages a sideswipe at the Asian community with his double use of the word, "cataracts," an obvious reference to a joke about Asians
not able to pronounce an "ell" sound, and this driving "Rincons, and Cadaracs." One would assume his poor experience in rub and tug parlors, getting soapies from underage Thai girls has driven him from polite society.

The mercury reads 98. Well, not so much the "mercury" as the clock at Uncle Louie's Savings, Loan & Critters.

Here he mocks us with his education, referencing Greek culture under a Roman guise. Mercury of course is Hermes, the God Of Commerce and Critters.

Sweat glistens off of my body and I am naked. Emotionally naked, that is.

Now he mocks Tully, vainly decrying his sexual impotence with burning visions of his glistening, nakedness, only to throw in the caveat that his personality is stripped bare for Greg to see, not his manhood.

I rub my eyes in disbelief, much like a cartoon character who has seen Bugs Bunny masquerading as a lady bunny,

The next jibe is unclear - is he trying to tell us that Drag Queens are funny, popular, or acceptable?

although my eyes do not pop out of my head. As I gaze lazily across the street, I am shocked into action. I rise from the lawn chair that I have set up on the sidewalk and move slowly across the street, my gait trammeled by the immobilizing brace that I sport.

Here he jokes about people with lazy eyes and corneal problems, then proceeds to poke fun at the mentally slow. Why doesn't he ask what's better than winning a medal in the Special Olympics?

Mr Wohlinetz, while clever in his phrases, then goes on to blatantly steal a scene from the popular children's show, SpongeBob SquarePants, apparently copying verbatim his day in the park with Lesbians, Ice Cream and Kim Novak from episode #87, " SpongeBob spooges in Times Square, pants, a trip to New York."

In short, sir, I am disgusted. In being caught up in debunking your so-called, story, I have indeed soiled myself, without the itinerant intergalactic communication promised and also copied from popular culture, (Amazing Stores, vol iii, "Dropping some kids off on the curb, talking to aliens, drinking a Bud," p.62).

I demand an apology, in the form of a 14 foot statue of Doug's ass, entirely created from Nilla wafers and adorned with nose hair from an unmated Giant Panda.

Good Day Sir.

posted by G.Wo at 1:11 PM

 
The bright sun penetrates the hazy New York day. The look and feel of the summer sky remind me all too vividly of my grandmother's cataracts and I shudder, despite the heat. The mercury reads 98. Well, not so much the "mercury" as the clock at Uncle Louie's Savings, Loan & Critters. Sweat glistens off of my body and I am naked. Emotionally naked, that is. I rub my eyes in disbelief, much like a cartoon character who has seen Bugs Bunny masquerading as a lady bunny, although my eyes do not pop out of my head. As I gaze lazily across the street, I am shocked into action. I rise from the lawn chair that I have set up on the sidewalk and move slowly across the street, my gait trammeled by the immobilizing brace that I sport.

After stopping for a quick Red Bull to replenish my depleted energy supply, I make my way to Central Park, that most central of parks, to view the wide cast of characters that patrols the inner circle of lunacy. My first encounter is with a man who sports a scraggly beard. His face is swathed in dirt. He informed me that a one-armed Guatemalan named Carl is going to furnish my apartment free of charge. I informed him that he had soiled his pants. He told me that this was not what had happened. The soiling of his pants allowed him to receive messages from the Zerphlag galaxy. I told him that shit could not function in that capacity and bid him good day.

My next encounter was with a woman who kept offering sexual favors. This is not out of the ordinary for me, as I frequently spend days receiving and relenting to such demands. This woman looked remarkably familiar. I scanned the recesses of my mind and decided she looked like a young Kim Novak. I do not mean to insult Kim Novak. She is a dear friend of mine and a very exciting woman. Kim Novak and I used to stroll the beaches of the French Riviera, drinking the finest wines and laughing at the Maurice Chevalier-like accents of the locals.. It was there that we would frolic, sometimes nude, for hours upon hours. In the salad days of the late 1960's, Kim Novak and I would spend hours ingesting LSD then laughing at the seagulls. Later, when she spent time on the prime time soap opera Falcon Crest, we would reall those days of grandeur. We lived the high life and then some. I have no regrets. Once more, I digress.

My day in the park nearly complete, I join in a pick up softball game on the side of the Lesbian Jewelers and we defeat our mortal foes, the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers. President Edwin D. Hill struck out on a 3-2 changeup to end the game. I purchase drugs from the ice cream man, fruit from the drug pusher and ice cream from the fruit guy. Sated and intoxicated, I return home, pleased with my adventures in the park.

posted by G.Wo at 8:12 AM

 
I sit, once again at my behind my desk at a major media company, my face tender and red from the penetrating ultraviolet rays of that star which functions as our giver of life, and I am morose. No, not morose. I am plaintive. I am plainitve because yesterday, as I sat at my dining room table pounding the keys of my Gateway EV 500 computer which I purchased via the Internet at a very reasonable price, I was struck with the television sounds that floated melodically into my all-too-sagely ears. For on the television, was the 1993 Daniel Stern directed classic, Rookie of the Year. In this film, 12 year old Henry Rowengartner (portrayed by the astounding Thomas Ian Nicholas) recovers from an arm injury with the ability to throw a baseball at remarkable speed. He is recruited by the evil nephew of the owner of his beloved Chicago Cubs to pitch in the Major Leagues. Naturally, hilarity ensues. It is an hysterical romp. If you have not seen this film, do yourself a favor and purchase the greatest sports related film in the history of the world.

Rookie of the Year always reminds me of my brief yet successful stint as a Major League baseball player. In the days of my puissant youth, I displayed my clear superiority on the Elysian fields of my heroes. Then, as now, I was a finely tuned specimen. My arms bulged with rippling strength, like the legs of a Siamese whore that could latch on and give you the roll of your lifetime. My legs were as firm and taut as the breasts of Kirsten Dunst. I mean no offense to Kirsten Dunst. She is a dear friend of mine and a wonderful lady. She attended the worldwide premiere of my critically acclaimed pornographic documentary, Sexual Coma. You can read all about it in my new book, How Kirsten Dunst Attended My Worldwide Movie Premiere, available in bookstores this fall. Once again, I digress.

I played the game of baseball with a voracious hunger, like a wolverine devouring a gazelle in the heartlands of the African continent. Offers for my services abounded, as did the offers for women, booze, parties and nightlife. Ultimately, I chose to play for the Montreal Expos, due in part to their mascot YouppI!, with whom I had a brief but illicit affair. Additionally, Les Expos would provide me with ample opportunity to show off my skill as they were generally considered the laughingstock of the National League. Not to mention my proficence in all of the Romance languages would allow me to dazzle the French Canadian women. I chose to pitch, since the National League mandated that pitchers bat for themselves. My debut was a stunning success, as I scattered 4 hits over 7 1/3 innings, striking out 11 and walking none. I also went 3 for 4 that day with two doubles and a home run. My presence in the clubhouse was positive as well. By early August, my beloved Les Expos sat atop the Natioanl League's East Division, due in large part to my tremendous ability. In the dugout, I saw Larry Walker and John Wetteland perform the "Naked Tango," that is, they danced the tango completely naked. In my penultimate start, I came within two outs of performing pitching's most indomitable feat a perfect game. Ultimately, I was given my outright release my management, as they refused to relent to my "unreasonable demands." To supplement the bucket of animal crackers I received each week, I demanded that I be allowed to masturbate on the mural of Rusty Staub prior to each game, in an homage to Le Grand Orange. 55,000 people watched my final start, a 6-1 win against the Cincinnati Reds. My career had come to an end, for the time being, but I would be back.

It was a glorious trip to that most major of leagues. My memories will last a lifetime, like so many lifelong memories do. Thank you, Daniel Stern. Thank you, indeed.

posted by G.Wo at 7:35 AM