Vol. 3: Turn off the lights, and I'll blow

For the love of God! I can't remember what day of the week it is, but I CAN remember all the words to Vanilla Ice's Ice Ice Baby. How do I erase that from my memory? Also, I can't seem to help myself from doing the MC Skip at weddings when the DJ plays his funky music. Help, white boy!

--Name and location exploded in a cloud of staples and pixie dust



Wait, wait, wait, wai-waiwai-waitwaitwa-wait... The "MC Skip"? In the five whole minutes I spent on Google trying to find an exact reference to the "MC Skip", the "M.C. Skip", and M. Seeskip (who is buried next to his butterfly collection in British Columbia, and whom I doubt has ever been 'done' anywhere near funky music) my sinus cavity began to pressurize horribly and I had to excuse myself to cry softly in the corner. Thus, I'll just speculate. Why not?!

For purposes of this question, let's just say that you are a woman in her late 20s residing somewhere east of West Wendover, Nevada and west of East Brunswick, New Jersey, who finds herself attending functions at which straight (or closeted) people decide in front of a crowd and a member of the clergy and/or notary public who they will one day bitterly divorce and/or emotionally cripple and/or slowly kill with arsenic for their estate and/or Social Security benefit. Much drink is consumed, many inhibitions (and perhaps a garment or two) are thrown to the wayside and dance moves of the later years (the death throes, one could say) of the previous century are resurrected, their agonized zombie corpses to be beaten and stomped on like grapes to make horrible, horrible, amusing wine.

1989 was not a very good year. Not at all oaky, only marginally funky, and way too much nose.

It's no coincidence that these dance moves by televised carnival acts including Vanilla Ice, MC Hammer and Milli Vanilli came to the fore around the same time the Thighmaster appeared on TV, my dear, for the rich, famous and Freemasons were the beta testers.

(Interesting bit of trivia: The success of the Thighmaster would net Suzanne Somers enough to buy her way out of indentured servitude to a Tijuana donkey show and pay Joyce DeWitt back that $500 she borrowed in 1983 to open an office in Tijuana)

As a result, many performers of the day had to dress in large, genie-like pants, sewn from bright fabrics made with fly wings and alien dung, in order to conceal their ever-growing thigh muscles and the protective titanium cups they had to wear to, erm, protect themselves from themselves. Subliminal messages such as "Thighmaster! Thighmaster! Buy one!" and "Chicks dig FEMUR TORQUE" were inserted into every possible orifice of Billboard's Top 100.

The campaign didn't quite net the results the Illuminati had hoped for, as the phone lines at Thighmaster HQ were often jammed with drooling masses wishing to order Ms. Somers herself; it was, by a long shot, a much better year for Kentucky Fried Chicken.

All right! Stop, collaborate, and listen. I've got a suggestion for you:

1) Build a time machine.
2) Go back in time.
3) Oops. Make sure you've calibrated it properly.
4) If you survive, and aren't stuck in a parallel dimension forever, go to an MC Hammer concert.
5) Murder MC Hammer with a laser cannon.
6) Hire Johnnie Cochran and have him use the "Space Invader Defense" to defend you in court. This defense will say that video games such as Pong and Space Invaders have warped your fragile little mind to such a degree that seeing a shiny, alien-like creature moving perfectly sideways in your range of vision compelled you to shoot him; and anyone else next to, above, or below him; with a laser cannon.
7) During said ass-capping, it might help your case to eat a flower and throw some hot balls into the crowd as well (it also might help defend you against the legions of devoted Hammer fans that will not at all appreciate saving the Good MC the agony of losing his shirt later in life, considering he would be at that time losing his life while at the given time in shirt).

This does leave the Ice Ice Baby phenomenon, for which there is no known cure. Will it ever stop? The Surgeon General says: "Yo, I don't know." My suggestion there is to smoke a lot of weed in an attempt to kill those specific brain cells that hold those lyrics. It probably won't work, but you'll certainly enjoy yourself, and find a set of benefits unique to your circumstances. I speak from experience: I will never be able to expel the demon that is the theme from Growing Pains, but with my biceps inflating to massive proportions thanks to two years of nachos, eaten with both arms, one chip at a time, thrice a day, I was able to break into Alan Thicke's house and subject him to hours of non-stop "noogies" and haiku about my massive arms.

teevee alumnus
check out my delicious guns
they bring slow vengeance

It's fitting to call them "guns" when they end up with bullets inside them, no doubt. That was a wild night.



Ask Mr. Cargo!