Planetback Profane *#!@&*#!@&
PLEASE READ THIS FIRST:
Planetback is a web site for people of all ages though we can't imagine four-year-olds enjoying it much. (Maybe
40-year-olds don't either.) But on this page we strongly prefer you be closer to 40 than four. Or, we prefer at least
that you be old enough to see an "R" movie. We hope this page isn't exactly "profane" as its title suggests but this is
the page where we don't worry about being a potty mouth. They are words, just words, and sometimes we like to use
four-letter ones. That's it. If this type of thing isn't your cup of tea, then fine, we hope you won't hold it against us and
will continue to visit the rest of the site where we try to keep it clean. But if you want to live on the Richard
Pryor-Buddy Hackett side of things once in a while with us, then you can do so here. And please, if you're not old
enough to look at this page, don't. It's not nice to fool your elders.
PLEASE READ THIS FIRST:
Planetback is a web site for people of all ages though we can't imagine four-year-olds enjoying it much. (Maybe
40-year-olds don't either.) But on this page we strongly prefer you be closer to 40 than four. Or, we prefer at least
that you be old enough to see an "R" movie. We hope this page isn't exactly "profane" as its title suggests but this is
the page where we don't worry about being a potty mouth. They are words, just words, and sometimes we like to use
four-letter ones. That's it. If this type of thing isn't your cup of tea, then fine, we hope you won't hold it against us and
will continue to visit the rest of the site where we try to keep it clean. But if you want to live on the Richard
Pryor-Buddy Hackett side of things once in a while with us, then you can do so here. And please, if you're not old
enough to look at this page, don't. It's not nice to fool your elders.
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The Girl or the Cheeseburger?
Imagine Jennifer Aniston, wearing nothing but a man’s dress shirt holding a cheeseburger, piping hot
and fresh, with the perfect amount of lettuce, tomato, pickles, onions, ketchup and mustard....
Imagine Jennifer Aniston, wearing nothing but a man’s dress shirt holding a cheeseburger, piping hot
and fresh, with the perfect amount of lettuce, tomato, pickles, onions, ketchup and mustard....
The Last Halloween
We’d always been told not go trick-or-treating at old man Cheney’s house because it was said he’d
only give you a small box of raisins or maybe a spent grenade. There was also the story about him
throwing a potato at a boy who was dressed as Vic Wertz.
Ding-dong.
“Trick-or-treat!”
“Go fuck yourself.”
We’d always been told not to go trick-or-treating at old man Cheney’s House. --TK
We’d always been told not go trick-or-treating at old man Cheney’s house because it was said he’d
only give you a small box of raisins or maybe a spent grenade. There was also the story about him
throwing a potato at a boy who was dressed as Vic Wertz.
Ding-dong.
“Trick-or-treat!”
“Go fuck yourself.”
We’d always been told not to go trick-or-treating at old man Cheney’s House. --TK
Morning
Sugar awoke on the bathroom floor and found God lying next
to her.
“How long,” Sugar asked God, “have we been passed out in
here?”
“Eight billion years,” God said, “but it doesn’t seem that long,
does it?”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t.”
God got up off the floor and took a piss and Sugar tried to fall
back asleep. --TK
Sugar awoke on the bathroom floor and found God lying next
to her.
“How long,” Sugar asked God, “have we been passed out in
here?”
“Eight billion years,” God said, “but it doesn’t seem that long,
does it?”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t.”
God got up off the floor and took a piss and Sugar tried to fall
back asleep. --TK
The Long Goodbye
I have come here to say goodbye. Goodbye to all things. Goodbye to apples, goodbye to giraffes, goodbye
to kittens named Moses.... (to read more click here)
I have come here to say goodbye. Goodbye to all things. Goodbye to apples, goodbye to giraffes, goodbye
to kittens named Moses.... (to read more click here)
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Elvis Once Told Me To Fuck Off. – by Paul Heinz
Elvis once told me to fuck off. It’s true. If I were on a witness stand, I could say this without perjuring
myself, and I don’t even think I could be held in contempt for disrespecting the court because I’d simply
be stating the truth, not interjecting any of my own profanity, though not for lack of want.
Of course, any good cross examination by the defense could find holes in my claim.
“Mr. Heinz, are you saying that the Elvis – Elvis Presley – told you to fuck off?”
“Well…”
Okay, so in the interest of full-disclosure, I should note that when someone says the words Elvis and
The King in a sentence, I automatically think Elvis Costello. And it’s not just because the latter is clearly
superior to the former. Good old Declan Patrick MacManus made the claim himself in those little black
and white checkered squares on the cover of his debut album, My Aim Is True, in 1977 (the year the
other Elvis died). Look closely. They read, “Elvis is King. Elvis is King. Elvis is King.” Pretty ballsy,
even for an angry Irish guy.
“So in fact, Elvis Presley did not tell you to fuck off.”
“No, but…”
“Just answer the question, Mr. Heinz.”
“Your honor, the defense is badgering the witness.” I knew I could trust this guy – he came highly
recommended.
“Overruled. Answer the question, Mr. Heinz.”
“Can you repeat the question?”
“Was it in fact Elvis Presley who told you to fuck off.”
“No,” I answer. Under my breath I add, “But he’s not the real King of Rock and Roll, anyway,” but I don’t
think anyone hears me. Not even the cute jurist in seat ten. I wonder which Elvis she prefers, and then
wonder about a few of her other preferences that I wouldn’t mind accommodating. I go on to explain that
it was in fact Elvis Costello who told me to fuck off. And this is the God’s honest truth.
“Was Mr. Costello angry with you?”
“Apparently.”
“Had you done something to make him angry?”
“No, unless you consider purchasing fifteen of his albums and paying to see him live five times
provocative.”
An audible gasp echoes throughout the courtroom, and my attorney nods and smiles. We’ve got ‘em
right where we want them. The judge is forced to quiet down those in attendance.
“Order! Order in the court!”
The defense attorney, clearly shaken by the impact of my last remark, loosens his tie and continues.
“So you’re saying, Mr. Heinz, that Mr. Costello told you to fuck off for absolutely no good reason.”
“Well, he seemed to be taken aback for me liking a song.”
“A song?”
So Elvis didn’t exactly tell me personally to fuck off. It’s not as if he yelled into the mic, “Hey, Heinz, fuck
off!” Bur rather, he told me and 3000 other people to fuck off at the Chicago Theater on October 19,
2002. He seemed rather miffed that some of his fans liked a song he wrote, albeit one he coauthored
with a former member of the Fab Four.
“If you want to hear Veronica,” Elvis told the audience, “you can fuck off right now.”
Do you think Diana Krall takes that kind of lip from her man? Christ, I hope not.
Someone in the audience replied to Elvis’s derogatory remark, “Fuck you, Elvis,” but the rest of us just
sat in our seats and wondered what else we could have done with our fifty bucks. Get Don Rickles to
ridicule us for an hour, probably.
The King, unfazed by his one fan’s dissent, resumed his Irish rant through a pulsing set of angry rock
anthems. I’d say it was a great show. But I won’t.
So you see, Elvis did in fact tell me to fuck off. And guess what else? I haven’t given his hairy white
Irish ass another cent of my money since! Take that, Declan!
“Mr. Heinz, the court finds you in contempt. Bailiff, take him away.”
--Paul Heinz
Elvis once told me to fuck off. It’s true. If I were on a witness stand, I could say this without perjuring
myself, and I don’t even think I could be held in contempt for disrespecting the court because I’d simply
be stating the truth, not interjecting any of my own profanity, though not for lack of want.
Of course, any good cross examination by the defense could find holes in my claim.
“Mr. Heinz, are you saying that the Elvis – Elvis Presley – told you to fuck off?”
“Well…”
Okay, so in the interest of full-disclosure, I should note that when someone says the words Elvis and
The King in a sentence, I automatically think Elvis Costello. And it’s not just because the latter is clearly
superior to the former. Good old Declan Patrick MacManus made the claim himself in those little black
and white checkered squares on the cover of his debut album, My Aim Is True, in 1977 (the year the
other Elvis died). Look closely. They read, “Elvis is King. Elvis is King. Elvis is King.” Pretty ballsy,
even for an angry Irish guy.
“So in fact, Elvis Presley did not tell you to fuck off.”
“No, but…”
“Just answer the question, Mr. Heinz.”
“Your honor, the defense is badgering the witness.” I knew I could trust this guy – he came highly
recommended.
“Overruled. Answer the question, Mr. Heinz.”
“Can you repeat the question?”
“Was it in fact Elvis Presley who told you to fuck off.”
“No,” I answer. Under my breath I add, “But he’s not the real King of Rock and Roll, anyway,” but I don’t
think anyone hears me. Not even the cute jurist in seat ten. I wonder which Elvis she prefers, and then
wonder about a few of her other preferences that I wouldn’t mind accommodating. I go on to explain that
it was in fact Elvis Costello who told me to fuck off. And this is the God’s honest truth.
“Was Mr. Costello angry with you?”
“Apparently.”
“Had you done something to make him angry?”
“No, unless you consider purchasing fifteen of his albums and paying to see him live five times
provocative.”
An audible gasp echoes throughout the courtroom, and my attorney nods and smiles. We’ve got ‘em
right where we want them. The judge is forced to quiet down those in attendance.
“Order! Order in the court!”
The defense attorney, clearly shaken by the impact of my last remark, loosens his tie and continues.
“So you’re saying, Mr. Heinz, that Mr. Costello told you to fuck off for absolutely no good reason.”
“Well, he seemed to be taken aback for me liking a song.”
“A song?”
So Elvis didn’t exactly tell me personally to fuck off. It’s not as if he yelled into the mic, “Hey, Heinz, fuck
off!” Bur rather, he told me and 3000 other people to fuck off at the Chicago Theater on October 19,
2002. He seemed rather miffed that some of his fans liked a song he wrote, albeit one he coauthored
with a former member of the Fab Four.
“If you want to hear Veronica,” Elvis told the audience, “you can fuck off right now.”
Do you think Diana Krall takes that kind of lip from her man? Christ, I hope not.
Someone in the audience replied to Elvis’s derogatory remark, “Fuck you, Elvis,” but the rest of us just
sat in our seats and wondered what else we could have done with our fifty bucks. Get Don Rickles to
ridicule us for an hour, probably.
The King, unfazed by his one fan’s dissent, resumed his Irish rant through a pulsing set of angry rock
anthems. I’d say it was a great show. But I won’t.
So you see, Elvis did in fact tell me to fuck off. And guess what else? I haven’t given his hairy white
Irish ass another cent of my money since! Take that, Declan!
“Mr. Heinz, the court finds you in contempt. Bailiff, take him away.”
--Paul Heinz
Thanksgiving Thankfuls - November, 2008
As the last turkey hobbles into the tunnel toward the locker room while the sun sets slowly over the rickety
wooden bleachers to the applause of adults and laughter of children it occurs to me how cruel it is to make
fat, dumb birds play football against men armed with hatchets. (Read more)
As the last turkey hobbles into the tunnel toward the locker room while the sun sets slowly over the rickety
wooden bleachers to the applause of adults and laughter of children it occurs to me how cruel it is to make
fat, dumb birds play football against men armed with hatchets. (Read more)
December, 2008
Bedford Falls, Christmas Day
George Bailey awakes and wipes the sleep from his eyes and sees his lovely wife, Mary, dozing
next to him completely naked except for Zuzu’s petals on her nipples and Bert the cop’s holster
around her waist. George smiles, thankful that Mr. Martini’s cheap wine fueled a night of
lovemaking without making anyone blind. If Mary is pregnant, they’ll name the child Clarence if it’s
a boy, Mr. Gower if it’s a girl.
G. Bailey drags his naked self out of bed and staggers to the window, tripping over his brother,
Harry, who is curled up on the floor holding one of Violet Biggs’ shoes. “Should have let you
drown,” George murmurs as he peers out the window and sees an unusually shaped mound of
snow. Uncle Billy!
George throws on Mary’s robe and races downstairs, nearly tripping over several liquor bottles. In
the living room, he sees Cousin Tilly pinned beneath the toppled Christmas tree. George waves
his copy of “Tom Sawyer” over Tilly’s face until she starts breathing. George runs outside and digs
out Uncle Billy who still clutches a gin bottle as George drags him inside and puts him by the
fireplace. Tilly moans loudly and George laughs. Tilly says it’s not funny and George realizes he
needs a cup of coffee.
In the kitchen, George brews a pot and, for some reason, thinks about the guy who was hitting on
Mary at the dance and opened the gym floor making them fall into the pool all those years before.
Holy crap, that was Alfalfa! This has nothing to do with Christmas, but it saddens George knowing
he has often referred to his own children as “little rascals” and also, after a few belts, “big
mistakes.” Still, those rascals will be awake soon and looking for Santa’s presents.
George goes to the pantry, thinking Mary has hidden the presents from “Santa” there. Instead,
George only discovers his father’s skeleton. George hears screams and runs to the living room to
see that Uncle Billy is thawing out nicely, creating a large puddle which is approaching Cousin
Tilly. George asks Tilly if she knows where Mary hides Santa’s presents and Tilly pleads for help.
George insists she’ll have to wait and this leads to a brief but heated exchange involving the words
“cock” and “Mennonite.”
George should have known this Christmas would be different. After all, Zuzu actually went to
school on Christmas Eve. Zuzu doesn’t even like school and rarely attends unless there’s a
stickball game against those hicks from Elmira. Perhaps Mrs. Welch is a witch. No wonder her
husband is a drunk who dresses like an extra from “Captain’s Courageous.”
Loud hoops and hollers grab George’s attention and he steps outside and sees Ernie Bishop’s cab
turning the corner, dragging Mr. Potter’s wheelchair. George unleashes a vengeful, maniacal
cackle. Back inside, George thinks he’ll get Harry boozed up on New Year’s Eve and force him to
fight Mr. Welch which would top the average Bedford Falls New Year’s of shouting encouragement
as Uncle Billy dances for beer money. Speaking of money, where the hell is that stash from last
night? It was piled on the table, everyone was singing, they were standing by the tree…Tilly!
George runs into the living room where Uncle Billy’s thawing has created a river which has nearly
engulfed Cousin Tilly. George lifts up the tree and lets it fall on Uncle Billy who was just beginning
to regain consciousness. Tilly spits pine needles into George’s face as he asks where the money
is. Tilly at first says “what money?” George begins to cry. Tilly laughs and pulls a wad of bills from
her girdle.
George sticks the cash in his pocket and thinks again about the Christmas presents and then
remembers for the first time the entire holiday season that he is Jewish. So why did they have the
Christmas tree and decorations? Oh yeah, they were trying to fit in. Bedford Falls, George knows,
can be tough for outsiders as he recalls when the townspeople drove out the Amish. George has
known such fear, remembering the previous night when that angel with silly underwear took him to
a cemetery. The old boy scared the bejeebees out of him. And sometimes, George supposes
while watching Cousin Tilly and Uncle Billy wrestle in front of the fireplace, that’s what friends are
for.
Bedford Falls, Christmas Day
George Bailey awakes and wipes the sleep from his eyes and sees his lovely wife, Mary, dozing
next to him completely naked except for Zuzu’s petals on her nipples and Bert the cop’s holster
around her waist. George smiles, thankful that Mr. Martini’s cheap wine fueled a night of
lovemaking without making anyone blind. If Mary is pregnant, they’ll name the child Clarence if it’s
a boy, Mr. Gower if it’s a girl.
G. Bailey drags his naked self out of bed and staggers to the window, tripping over his brother,
Harry, who is curled up on the floor holding one of Violet Biggs’ shoes. “Should have let you
drown,” George murmurs as he peers out the window and sees an unusually shaped mound of
snow. Uncle Billy!
George throws on Mary’s robe and races downstairs, nearly tripping over several liquor bottles. In
the living room, he sees Cousin Tilly pinned beneath the toppled Christmas tree. George waves
his copy of “Tom Sawyer” over Tilly’s face until she starts breathing. George runs outside and digs
out Uncle Billy who still clutches a gin bottle as George drags him inside and puts him by the
fireplace. Tilly moans loudly and George laughs. Tilly says it’s not funny and George realizes he
needs a cup of coffee.
In the kitchen, George brews a pot and, for some reason, thinks about the guy who was hitting on
Mary at the dance and opened the gym floor making them fall into the pool all those years before.
Holy crap, that was Alfalfa! This has nothing to do with Christmas, but it saddens George knowing
he has often referred to his own children as “little rascals” and also, after a few belts, “big
mistakes.” Still, those rascals will be awake soon and looking for Santa’s presents.
George goes to the pantry, thinking Mary has hidden the presents from “Santa” there. Instead,
George only discovers his father’s skeleton. George hears screams and runs to the living room to
see that Uncle Billy is thawing out nicely, creating a large puddle which is approaching Cousin
Tilly. George asks Tilly if she knows where Mary hides Santa’s presents and Tilly pleads for help.
George insists she’ll have to wait and this leads to a brief but heated exchange involving the words
“cock” and “Mennonite.”
George should have known this Christmas would be different. After all, Zuzu actually went to
school on Christmas Eve. Zuzu doesn’t even like school and rarely attends unless there’s a
stickball game against those hicks from Elmira. Perhaps Mrs. Welch is a witch. No wonder her
husband is a drunk who dresses like an extra from “Captain’s Courageous.”
Loud hoops and hollers grab George’s attention and he steps outside and sees Ernie Bishop’s cab
turning the corner, dragging Mr. Potter’s wheelchair. George unleashes a vengeful, maniacal
cackle. Back inside, George thinks he’ll get Harry boozed up on New Year’s Eve and force him to
fight Mr. Welch which would top the average Bedford Falls New Year’s of shouting encouragement
as Uncle Billy dances for beer money. Speaking of money, where the hell is that stash from last
night? It was piled on the table, everyone was singing, they were standing by the tree…Tilly!
George runs into the living room where Uncle Billy’s thawing has created a river which has nearly
engulfed Cousin Tilly. George lifts up the tree and lets it fall on Uncle Billy who was just beginning
to regain consciousness. Tilly spits pine needles into George’s face as he asks where the money
is. Tilly at first says “what money?” George begins to cry. Tilly laughs and pulls a wad of bills from
her girdle.
George sticks the cash in his pocket and thinks again about the Christmas presents and then
remembers for the first time the entire holiday season that he is Jewish. So why did they have the
Christmas tree and decorations? Oh yeah, they were trying to fit in. Bedford Falls, George knows,
can be tough for outsiders as he recalls when the townspeople drove out the Amish. George has
known such fear, remembering the previous night when that angel with silly underwear took him to
a cemetery. The old boy scared the bejeebees out of him. And sometimes, George supposes
while watching Cousin Tilly and Uncle Billy wrestle in front of the fireplace, that’s what friends are
for.