That Hoodoo That You Do So Well
Dr. Gene Scott’s widow, Pastor Melissa Scott, has like a cobra hoodooing a bird in order to strike it dead and swallow it down while it’s still warm, bloody, and squirming with gutsy gravy hoodooed my weak ass, and has me struck down and excitingly every night I wait for her to come on at midnight on the channel that used to belong to the citizens of New York City except dumbass, self-serving Rudi “Goombah” Guiliani sold it to Larry Paxton, an old pal, for 92 million bucks, which disappeared from the books the very next day after the sale. Paxton turned this city channel into a hypocritical network of Ron-Popeil-type teevee junk hustlers during the high infomercial sales hours--afternoons when the frazzled, daydreaming, left-at-home wives or worn-dry mothers are sitting like suckers at a medicine show in front of their idiot boxes or in prime time at nights, where they don't have a chance in heaven or hell, they give you homemade sitcoms like the horrible Doc (I think it's bit the dust by now) or—old geezer David Orick hustling his crap during the high-rate hours then going over to Jesus around midnight for an hour of good holy drenching.
So, ‘round midnight, on Channel 31 here in NYC every night, here comes Melissa Scott, oops, I’m sorry, where’s my respect, PASTOR Melissa Scott in all her smart-ass splendor. Melissa starts growling immediately and she growls non-stop for one whole hour, teaching, as she calls it, from the cue cards she inherited from Dr. Gene Scott, the ex-Holy Roller man of holy hijinks, show horses, drinkin' beer, and smokin' illegal Cuban cigars who espoused a Gospel of hillbilly intellectual hoodoo he claims he gained access to via obtaining a PhD from Stanford U in the 70s, a degree he was so proud of he trumpeted the fact on his "teevee shows" constantly, as though to him Stanford U represented the seat of all true education on this planet. If Jesus had'a had to gone to college, he'd'a gone to Stanford. Anyway, besides raising show horses and collecting rare bible stuff, he also went for high-ass, starlet-like ladies hot off the sinful streets of Show Biz City, USA--going through two other babes before he discovered Little Melissa, who I supposed was dropped at his Pasadena mansion doorstep by some Good Fairy, lucky bastard. He married Little Melissa back in the 90s when she was but a young virgin looking for an old god to screw to death (Dr. Gene died in 2002 from prostate cancer) and then inherit his hillbilly, Hollywood kingdom (Christians all worship monarchies, as high as a Christian can go in that fabulous realm of thought)--hey, come on, it was Hollywood and it was Dr. Gene Scott, a Pasadena huckster of the old-school kind I grew up watching spin the sillies into a bunch of hypocondriac jelly girls and osteo-humping hags, common angels sent by the Holy Roller god down to earth so that the Yahoos and the snake-worshipping hillbillies could keep their procreational-hunting eyes on something sexually appetizing as well as talking so widely far off-their-walls they can only judge her Almighty truths by the hardness of their cocks if they're men and the beating of their hearts and the hardening of their nipples if they're psycho-twisted nymphos with glory floatin' around in their superego dreams.
Little Melissa. Every man’s dream. Paleface white. With a charming strange Star Trek-like accent—she was born in Italy—and she delves into her convoluted Dr.-Gene-type hortatory meandering as she mimmicks like a starlet bound for not an Old Ship of Zion but a sleek new yacht of Zion—and she does it in such wonderful movement and aggitating flow. Tonight, Sweet-Sour Melissa was translating her King James Christian holy book into Hebrew, Greek, and Latin. She claims she’s fluent in 17 languages; that’s one more than l hat, I think, though I feign from denying the Hat Man his proper respects and wouldn’t be surprised at all to find he knows 18 languages, one more than Pastor Melissa. Dammit, you see, there’s only one problem with my using l hat as a spiritual guide, I don't want to see him naked and in a seductive pose, language be damned.
I mean, come on, all men watching this woman think the same thing as I do watching her--even a eunuch could get a hard on watching Sweet-Sour Melissa; I mean, come on, ladies, she’s a piece of a__! A brick house! Petite. Total slenderness under her holy garb. On stage she dresses like Hans Conreid, the old teevee character actor—he was Danny Thomas’s (Marlo’s daddy) Uncle Toonoose on Make Room for Daddy or is that too long ago for you all?—he always wore like "professor" clothes, and that's what Melissa wears, a black long frock coat--Ortho-Jews wear them, too, and so does Professor Irwin Corey, all topped off with slick black pants, sporting a white backward collar—she is a pastor remember—otherwise she's in all-black. And she wears sleek black pumps and a nice woven-gold bracelet. It’s her face and hair, however, that captivate the male man or wolf in me and turns my passion for Jesus into a passion for her as I'm penis-brained following her billowing long hair as she in Jezebel tosses sways it alluringly about her Pre-Raphael face and I'm sure shoulders—Hell, she can be Jesus if she wants to as far as this Wolf Man is concerned. Hell, man, I'm honest, "Hey, F me, Jesus! I believe ya, Melissa, baby! Hey, how 'bout a dance in the Spirit, some Holy Rockin' and Rollin! Some Holy Rollin' in God's big water bed. Praise the Lard and pass Doctor Gene's will over here.
By the way, who the hell cares that Melissa Scott is Melissa Pastore but better known as Barbi Bridges and is president of Barbi Bridges Enterprises. Who the hell cares if she's a porn star on the side. I'm sure the gods don't give a shit--Hey, pass me that DVD, brother, and Praise the Lard; you get the tissues for this one.
Oh BOO HOO HOO, 92-year-old Gerald Ford died last night. Oh boy oh boy, and these political nitwits on teevee are blowing their snouts over this old easy-living dumbass from Grand Rapids, Michigan, home of the Libertarian Calvinists, once the home of Kelvinator refrigerators and famous Grand Rapids furniture, true American copycat furniture, affordable prairie furniture, but now only a shadow of its old industrial self. Militia territory. And along came old Soapy Williams-Repugnican Jerry Ford and his babe Betty Ford, already a clinical case. And Jerry got elected to Congress and he kissed ass like a good boy and finally got his big break when the Tricky One, Tricky Dick Nixon, Noxious Nixon, picked the old standing-still and gum-chewing Jerry Ford for his running mate after his main squeeze Spiro Agnew went and got his old ass in some kind of illegal shennanigans in Maryland. Jerry was there during the Watergate bullshit. But he was so dumb, so busy trying to walk and chew gum at the same time, he didn't see anything wrong going on. Why, hell, after old Jerry got to be president himself, not by election but by default, old crooked-as-a-snake-at-night Tricky Dick having bailed out after Congress was surely impeaching his crooked ass, bailed out back to San Clemente, the big California seaside mansion We the People of the USA bought for that son of a bitch--but nope, folks, old generous Jerry Ford pardoned that weasel. Set him free. Locked up all the Watergate investigation materials forever so nobody will ever know the truth; so you might find old goofball Jerry Ford was flat-dab in the middle of the action, too, though John Dean says Ford was so always on the golf course and had no idea that any kind of wool was being pulled over his dumb mug.
Never elected president, yet got all the benefits of being president, a salary for life, office space, SS protection for the remainder of his life, and a chance to rob the Treasury for a Gerald Ford Library, and there has to be one in Grand Rapids, right, though Jerry and Betty lived longer in celebrity foolish Palm Springs than they ever lived in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Old Jerry Ford for the last 35 years of his life got to live like a duke, on the golf course every day, with Bob Hope, with Der Bingel; why even old Pappy Bush used to visit Jerry and Betty and play multirounds of golf with the moguls and goddaddies out in Palm Springs, where Sonny Bono was his Congressman. Jesus, what a waste of taxpayers's monies.
for The Daily Growler