It was great to see the Chicago Cubs finally win a World Series, but let me get right to it: Chicago has a really high murder rate, like Aleppo with Starbucks. And walls. Is Rahm Emmanuel still mayor of Chicago? Sometimes I get him and Anthony Weiner mixed up. Rahm is more Stephanopolous than Weiner’s Arnold Horshak. Gabe Kaplan is still alive. I’m pretty sure.

Chicago has many sister cities. I’m not sure about that whole concept of sister cities. Can you have municipal incest? Warsaw. Milan. Mexico City. Toronto. All sister cities of Chicago. Athens. Moscow. Delhi.

Here’s an interesting one: Hiroshima and Volgograd (formerly Stalingrad) are sister cities. That is one fucked family.

Closer to home, the US sister city of Hiroshima is Glendale, California. Why did they pick Glendale?  They should have picked Los Alamos, New Mexico. Either Los Alamos or the fucking SUN. Where else in the world does the record high temperature for August even come close to 10,830 degrees Fahrenheit? I don’t know what it was like in the shade that day, mostly because all the shade was instantly fucking vaporized.

Before we had time zones, most places went by Sun Time. But that was based on the whim of the local population and whoever had the official watch. So, if it was 8 pm in Chicago, it could very well be 8:30 in Joliet. There’s a prison in Joliet. Prisons don’t have a real huge need for keeping accurate time. Like casinos.

The first atomic clock was built in 1949. If you asked people living in September 1945 what the future would be like, you probably got a lot of dumb answers, because humans suck at predicting the future. Especially psychics. Many of these dumb ideas centered on the new atomic miracle technology. People thought escalators would be powered by atomic fission. Nuclear powered stair treads. Breakfast cereals would put little Dick Tracy atomic powered squirt guns  inside the box.

In 1933 there was an alleged fascist plot to overthrow President Roosevelt and take over the US government. General MacArthur was considered as a potential dictator.

Let’s come full circle back to the TV sitcom Perfect Strangers. And I use the words “TV” and “sitcom” very loosely. Sure, Mark Linn-Baker was a fine actor with great comedic chops. He had the Right Stuff. And Bronson Pinchot was no lightweight, either. Finding the right comedy vehicle for the two up-and-comers to emerge with a breakout hit and true cultural phenomena like Perfect Strangers…SURE, it looked easy. But that’s what brilliance does. It breaks the complicated down to the easily understandable. The lowest common denominator. Einstein. Feyman. Teller. Lazar. Linn-Baker. If  we ever find another big stone hill to dynamite the faces of colonialist bastards like Teddy Roosevelt into, Mark Linn-Baker is at the top of my list. Linn-Baker is basically the Sniglets of his generation, with apologies to the great Rich Hall, who, himself, would probably make the cut on more American’s lists for Mount Rushmore 2.0 than not. We attached a record on the probe we sent out of the Solar System in the 1970s. Was that the Voyager? I think we put a cassette tape on Voyager II and a Laser Disk of Just One of the Guys on Voyager III. If only we had waited. By the time that spacecraft gets through the Ort Cloud and finds its way totally out of the Solar System in a century, what will the aliens think of us? We’re some kind of fucking vinyl snobs? They’re not going to want to visit because they’ll be too embarrassed to show us their record collections because we’re obviously so much COOLER than any of the other beings in the universe. I like to think that life is abundant in our galaxy but that humans are just really huge losers. We sit alone at the empty lunch table, picking our noses and looking around for somebody to come keep us company. Eventually somebody’s going to hurl an asteroid at us. We’ll go home and cry to daddy. GOD!!! Make them stop being mean!

But let me take a breath here and get deadly serious for a moment. From March 25, 1986, to August 6, 1993, Perfect Strangers could be found playing every Thursday or Friday? on American television sets. That’s Reagan to almost Clinton. Huge span. Historic.

Seinfeld. I Love Lucy. MASH. Perfect Strangers.

Picasso. Mike Angelo. Matisse. Fellini. Pinchot. Mr. T.

Prime. Motherfucking. Time.

How many times did we pick up our hair brushes, face the mirror and sing along to David Pomeranz’s amazing theme, “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Me Now?”

If your like me, Perfect Strangers  was  my life for the eight seasons it reigned over the airwaves.

They were Strangers. Yet they were so fucking Perfect.

You couldn’t find another pair of such Perfect Strangers. Linn-Baker and Pinchot were the real Slim Shady before Marshall Mathers put his first Starter jacket on layaway.

Today, we’re blessed with 150 episodes of Perfect Strangers. Plus, hour after hour of B Roll. That’s the “gag reel” for those who don’t know a dolly grip from a fluffer.

Larry Appleton. Balki Bartokomous. Two fucking peas in a fucking pod.

Or something.

Mr. Bartokomous, you had me at: “America: Land of the Free  and Home of the Whopper.”

Cut to: Dance of Joy. THAT crazy bit was like Dick Clark–it NEVER got old. But eventually died anyway, suffocating on leaking brain fluid or something horrible. Poor fuck.

I remember the episode of Actor’s Studio they did with James Lipton in ’89. Great year. Dan Quayle, essentially a non-entity pile of invisibility, was second in command of the USA.

To steal a bit from Wikipedia: “After initially gently rebuffing his cousin’s request to stay at his apartment, aspiring-photographer Larry decides to take Balki under his wing and teach him about American life. However, the neurotic Larry frequently proves to be as inept as Balki, if not more so, and often gets the pair into situations that only Balki can set right.”

Have you guys seen the girl with two heads? No, it’s not a Kardashian spin-off. It’s this pair of surprisingly well-adjusted twins whose bodies are fused at the spine I think. They drive, went to college. I think they even got jobs teaching. Not sure. Those two girls. Talk about playing the cards your dealt. I’m not sure I’d have their fortitude. I’m a bit moreish–something of an awful, drug-addled person, quite honestly. They are an amazing pair of human beings.

So, the boys are living together in Chicago. Their boss is Donald “Twinkie” Twinkacetti and let me tell you–the messes those two got into that first season!

Larry was an aspiring photographer. Balki was pure joy personified.

If you had to pick a spot to place your hilarious TV sitcom, what better spot than sandwiched between Who’s the Boss and Moonlighting?

Samanture, dats uh hickey! Aye! Monure! You’re an old broad who likes cock almost as much as Angelure’s son, Jonatin. Christ Almighty! Is there anybody in this house who doesn’t sleep with a cock shaped pacifier in dare mouf?

Do I go to Supercuts and ask for the Scott Baio, or does Scott Baio go to Supercuts and ask for the Tony Danza?

Enter season two: the boys start dating the girls, blonde flight attendants. Hilarity is invited and it… STAYS!

I’m not sure if either couple had a sexual relationship or not. The series really didn’t go into heavy sweaty poundy sex too much. Except the episode where Wesley gets a hand shandy at summer camp from that pervert camp counselor.

Perfect Strangers didn’t have to make itself cheap to get people to watch.

Season Three: “Larry acquires a reporter job working out of the basement of the Chicago Chronicle, a fictional metropolitan newspaper, and helps Balki get a mail room job.”

Who is that big hunky black cop? It’s Carl Winslow! And another star is born (that didn’t seem like it would EVER go out.) I’ll blog about Stefan  Ur-kel  at a later date. What a plot twist that was! From mega NERD to mega MODEL with the help of a machine he invents that can transform living matter, yet when Harriet and the gang needed Steve’s help filling  the woman who played Nell Carter’s friend on Gimme A Break’s order for pies or some shit, where was his genius then? Predictably, the black folk  couldn’t handle the pressure of a small business filling a reasonable order and ending up screwing up and getting into a PIE FIGHT!

The alternate title for Family Matters was “Where’s My Watermelon, Fool!” Christ, all that show was missing was a fucking lynching. The writers for that show seemed to have listened to a bit too much Amos and Andy.

But they went with Family Matters instead. Damn straight it does. And speaking of things that set black folks back 30 years…

Season Four to Eight: SPOILER ALERT “Many viewers’ predictions came true in the spring of 1991 when Larry proposed to Jennifer, after feeling competition from her old flame who was trying to woo her back. Jennifer accepted, and they started planning a wedding. As the 1990-91 season closed, it was clear that despite Larry’s impending marriage, he and Balki’s relationship would somehow remain a focal point of the show.”

The best way to woo any girl back is to go up to her and say WOO.

The two couples eventually went on a  double honeymoon to… Mypos!

“Don’t come a knocking if you hear the sheep a-bleating, Cousin Latty!”

Dance of Joy.

Here’s one: Balki and his bimbo wife had a  child that they named “Robespierre.”

The fucking LEVELS people. It’s fucking Tetris chess, the narrative arc of this show.

That last episode, when Balki and Larry bowed to the audience and did one final dance of joy still makes me tear up. Not my eyes.

Miller-Boyett became billionaires making shows like Perfect Strangers, Family Matters and Full House. Fucking billionaires.

You got it dude!

Which direction to go from here? Naturally, the heart says Step by Step with Patrick Duffy and the soul says … wait. I just watched the opening again. Neil Simon’s play The Odd Couple is on the fucking marquee that Balki and Larry pass while doing Chicago. The Windy City. The town that Billy Sunday couldn’t shut down. What a coincidence.

Balki and Larry messing around in a revolving door. Now that’s my definition of a fine comedy premise. Just set her up and let the superstars earn their $15,000 an episode.

You know what? SO MUCH can go wrong in a revolving door, when one of the two characters has the IQ of a grapefruit and the other is a Bartokomous.

The episode where Larry gets his hair relaxed is still very controversial in my house. We’ve had many a lively dinnertime debate discussing that one.

The short final season was watched by 15 million HOUSEHOLDS (not people, HOUSEHOLDS) in 1993.

What the fuck was wrong with people in 1993?

Really? Was it that bad?

Here’s where the globalist plot fits in: “Several premises from popular episodes of Perfect Strangers (“Just Desserts”, “Pipe Dreams” and “Blind Alley”) would also be recycled as first-season episodes of Family Matters (“Baker’s Dozen”, “Mr. Badwrench” and “Bowl Me Over”).”

So, not only was network TV making PROFITS from putting this absolute shit of shit on prime time television and attracting millions of viewers, but it got away with doing it on the cheap figuring nobody would notice the same scripts were being used in Family Matters because they were a black family who all worked for a living. What is that shit about?

No wonder Tyler Perry is seen as the messiah. Up until 2000, black people were still cast as buffoons.

This shit makes me long for a week-long Night Court marathon.

Kirk Cameron got religious because he saw himself going the way of The Rikker. Becoming bigger than the show itself. Becoming HUGE.

His sister played music mogul DJ Tanner on Full House.

One of Roseanne’s kids was also a DJ. DJ Conner.

Scratch.

Dance of Joy.

Did I do that?

Hello, Mr. Benny, this is Rochester.

“Other translations of the title were: Barki e Larry – Due Perfetti Americani (Italy), Dos Perfectos Desconocidos (Latin America), Larry et Balki (France), Primos Lejanos (Spain), Vărul Din Strainatate (Romania), Napulno Nepoznati (Bulgaria), Perfektni Pribuzni (Slovakia), Potpuni stranci (Croatia), Muhteşem İkili (Turkey) and “Krovim rechokim meod (very distant relatives)” (Israel).”

I’m done. Am I done here?

But of course I’m not, don’t be ridiculous!

Growing Pains. It really did sound like Jason Seaver was singing that theme song. Why is that? It sounds like Woody is singing the theme to Cheers. Or did I just like to imagine that?

How much blow did Tony Danza do that he so impoverished his family that they were living in a molester van and he had to seek employment as a housekeeper? I mean, I would hire Tony Danza ANY DAY, but wasn’t Judith Light taking quite a chance, seeing as  her household was just her, Moner and Jonatin, essentially three old women. It’s like the Golden Girls opening their house up to The Fonz.

Eh. Here’s a fun fact. “The title of the show refers to the clear role reversal of the two lead actors…”

All this time I thought it was part of an Abbot and Costello routine. Who’s the boss? I remember watching one time when I had had the flu really bad for a week and I thought, I wonder if I’m EVER going to get better and then I did, fairly soon after. TV had strange powers for me. Once, our house was robbed after I watched In Living Color on a Sunday night. They’d been in our house while we slept. They took my Mom’s purse and went through it outside, dumping it on the outside steps.We got robbed two or three times after that. That really fucked me up. The anxiety and panic were never faced. I’d pay for that soon enough.

Bronson Pinchot was born May 20, 1959. I might be making that up. I’m certainly not going to look that up on Google. In 1987 he won an Emmy for, of all things, acting.

Who knew?

Mark Linn-Baker began transitioning into a woman in 2010. No wait. That was the Olympic dude who rocked that butch lesbian haircut for 40 years.

He (WOW) graduated from (WOW)Yale University and is (WOW) married to a (WOW) woman.

His first wife’s father was the author of the classic Frog and Toad Are Friends book series.

And we haven’t even had time to Hang Wit Mr. Cooper, which was a different show than the one on Saturday morning TV called City Guys or the Steve Harvey.

 

 

Holy fuck!

The great thing about Cedric the Entertainer is that he left NO doubt what he was up to. Entertaining.

When I lived in Las Vegas with my British ex novia I used to make her watch the Steve Harvey show just to piss her off. She had the Food Channel on all the time and we was starving. So starving we had to go around having sex in front of people in they hotel rooms for cash. Word.

Shout out to my girl Lori Beth Denberg and my boy Donkey Lips from Teen Mom! You made it, G!

While she slept, I’d creep over her so my face was an inch away from hers and I’d loudly do an imitation of Steve Harvey and wake her up. “Bullet Head! Get me some grits if you done the staw! Bullet Head!”

She really grew to hate me something fierce.

Gone but not forgot: the big man! Rump shaka! Check baby check baby! Oh Lawd! James Avery, brothers and sisters! Unca Fill!

She hated my English accent. It was impossible not to mock her because she was so fucking superior to the rest of the world but underneath it all, she was just another ho in search of a proper pimp.

How did I get here? Somehow, I got on the last fucking train to Clarksville and shifted modalities like a Moffatt, bitch!

Jonas Brothers, represent!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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