A problem at WordPress prevented some blog subscribers from receiving this special mid-week edition of “Valet Boy”. So, please accept my apologies – though it was in no way my fault – and I hope you enjoy this re-edited version of the Katy Perry Post.
ReAnimated Corpse of Boris Yeltsin Gets Nod to Replace Katy Perry as Host of Beleaguered Children’s Show
It seems these days that everyone is hopping aboard the ol’ Zombie Train.
It’s bad enough that Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte and Shakespeare have been polluted with this tasteless and innocuous form of post apocalyptic satire.
But, now these Pro-Zombie-ites have gone too far.
I guess it was only a matter of time. Why should it come as a shock to us that one of the most venerable and iconic institutions of early childhood education has itself succumbed to the pressures of a fickle public’s blood lust and the radical left-wing media to embrace with opened arms the controversial concept of “Hosted by the Living Dead”.
To answer this and other semi-pertinent questions, Valet Boy invited himself to a secret press conference at an undisclosed location which sufficiently reminded him of the very same spot he’d previously faced former BP Chairman, Tony Hayward. (Oil Oil Everywhere, Nor Any Drop to Drink – May 23, 2010) The Ringling Bros. sized tent was filled with eager reporters and faux journalists alike.
When questioned about the appropriateness of having a zombie replace Perry, the soon-to-be-married-singer -and boobalicious role model for millions of thirsting prepubescent girls, Delores Johnson, Director of Family Programs, Family and Morale, Welfare and Recreation Command for the U.S. Army told us, “In these stressful and troubling times, it’s critical that children understand that the gun is good and the breast is evil.”
Not to be intimidated or trampled upon, Valet Boy jumped to his feet and blurted out, “That seems an insensitive knee jerk reaction at best and near plagiarism at worst of the great 1974 John Boorman film “Zardoz” starring Sean Connery. I’m sure you must recall the film’s most famous quote, since you’ve bastardized it here.”
“Do you have a question, Mr. Boy?”
“Indeed I do! Why, of all people, choose the corpse of Boris Yeltsin, the late Russian President, much celebrated for his fondness for vodka, to host Sesame Street?”
Ms. Johnson eyed VB with the rock steady gleam one might associate with a hungry hawk and replied, “This is the USA, Mr. Boy. We speak American here.” Ms. Johnson was then rushed by Secret Service handlers to a nearby chopper and spirited away, presumably to some fortress of solitude or at least a suite at the Bellagio in Las Vegas.
Stymied, yet undaunted, Valet Boy contacted the offices of “Sesame Street” itself to speak with a member of the production team. Surprisingly, he was connected straight away to Dr. Lewis Bernstein, the show’s top executive. Valet Boy posed the same question to Dr. Bernstein.
“That is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. How did you get this number?” Alas, reception was terrible and the connection was immediately lost.
Was there no one to whom Valet Boy could turn for answers to his questions? Indeed there was but one individual with back bone stalwart enough to challenge this querulous demon. The Sesame Street Puppet Meister himself – Elmo.
Sooooo, hopping a red-eye to The Big Apple, Valet Boy found the show’s production facilities at Kaufman Astoria Studios in Queens. As one might expect, the front of the studio was log-jammed with satellite uplink trucks, spotlights, camcorders, microphones and the insipid throngs that wielded them.
- Not to be deterred, and having anticipated just this kind of scenario, VB had come prepared. I yanked my Elmo Halloween Costume from my satchel and hastily dressed in the alley behind the studios.
I boldly entered through the Stage Door and was accosted by the bespectacled elderly security guard. “Mr. Elmo, better be careful, them vultures is everywhere.” All I could think to do was burp. So I did. “You have a good night too, sir,” the Guard responded.
I snuck through the darkened backstage area, found the stairs leading down to the dressing rooms and hurried to their depths.
Elmo’s dressing room was easy to spot. It had the biggest star on the door. Ever since Big Bird’s arrest for Conduct Unbecoming a TV Icon in a local department store men’s room, Elmo had been vaulted to this present lofty perch. The door was unlocked so I entered.
Weaving through what seemed like mountains of floral arrangements, I paused before a few and read their attached cards. With sentiments such as: “I miss you. Call me, Gaga.” and “Don’t Give Up the Ship, Betty White.” and “Let’s Meet at Our Special Place Tonight 8:30 for a Milkshake 🙂 Love ya, Katy P.” — I knew that Elmo must be wilting under the stiff media pressure. If I mishandled this interview, he might very well fall over the precipice and drown in a vat of agoraphobic self-pity.
I found him crying at his make-up table, a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label clutched in his crimson knobby chenille fingers. His bloodshot eyes drifted to the mirror wherein he caught my reflection. Shrieking, gasping and grabbing at his chest he tumbled to the floor.
I caught the distinctive and costly scotch whiskey bottle in mid-fall, then gingerly setting it on the table and reverently replacing its cap, turned to the collapsed furry object of my intentions.
“Mr. Elmo…Mr. Elmo…,” I whispered throatily while slapping his cheeks to arouse him.
He blinked his big white eyes – now like road maps of Manhattan – and stammered, “Where…what…who…Are you me? Am I hallucinating? Am I dead?”
I sat him up and placed a handy moist towelette to his fevered brow, “None of the above, Mr. Elmo. Please, forgive my disguise. My name is Valet Boy….”
He suddenly snapped like a rubber band around a crisp stalk of celery. “EEEEEEKKKKK!!! Holy Crap! Aren’t you that A Hole responsible for starting that stupid rumor about zombies?”
“Really, Mr. Elmo, I hardly think foul language is befitting of someone of your stature. Think of the children.”
“SECURITY! Help, Police!!! Someone Help! For Heaven’s sake, WILL YOU STOP SLAPPING ME!”
“Ooops, my bad.” I dropped Mr. Elmo (Sorry you hit your head on the spittoon, sir) and ducked out before the arrival of the constabulary.
All the way back to La Guardia, I stewed over my failure to get an answer to my question. Unfortunately, my stewing prevented me from realizing I was still garbed as the beloved red-faced TV personality and it took a great deal of quick thinking to explain said costume to a couple of New York’s finest who stopped me for public indecency “…But, officers, I really had to pee bad..and you know these costume’s don’t have zippers in front.”
Lucky for me, my attorney Lawyer Wong Lee is on retainer. The whole mish-mosh was written off as a misunderstanding and after promising never to return to the State of New York again, I was released on my own recognizance.
But, Valet Boy is nothing if not persistent. And I still have questions. And someone out there still has the answers. And Valet Boy will not rest until he finds them…or her…or him…or it….
Thanks for reading!
If you got a chuckle from Valet Boy’s adventure, please feel free to pass it along to someone who might need a little laugh.