Saturday, August 31, 2013
I was watching The Stooges in “Calling All Curs” with our daughters the other day. In it Moe, Larry and Curly sit down for an elegant dinner with about a dozen mutts. Mayhem ensues -- but not among the dogs all exhibit refined table manners.
I don’t know how they did it, but I assume it involved procedures that today would have PETA scolding tsk tsk.
Incredulous, Lucy, 7, said, “The dogs are better behaved than the Stooges!”
I couldn’t figure a way to turn that little observation into a tweet, but it had me thinking of using a tweet round up of only Stooge tweets. But not this month. You're welcome to follow my tweets at 8days2amish.
Here’s what I deemed my 18 best from the past 30 days.
• I'm fearful I'm no longer as cool as I used to be. Should I consider hip surgery?
• The parents of the North and South Poles can never use the tried 'n' true line, "The world doesn't revolve around you, you know."
• If I were to restrict my conversations to only enlightened people, it would be a lonely existence and I'd be unable to talk to even myself.
• I'm going to start a movement that we all start spelling our names alphabetically. Yours truly, Chirs Edllor
• I'm opposed to spanking but whenever I hear a father say this is gonna hurt me worse than it hurts you I think he needs to spank harder.
• Folding female underwear always reminds of incomprehensible game of 3D chess Spock played on Enterprise rec deck
• Hap Hazard would be a great name for a Hollywood stunt man
• Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to be forever berated over their failure by those of us who do.
• Scientists who declare matter cannot be created nor destroyed have never observed a bar of soap in a shower.
• I swore it wouldn't happen. I was wrong. Today, I thought I was being witty when I asked someone "What's in your wallet?"
• I wonder if when surprised by something on-line Satan worshippers instinctively type, "OMD!"
• Chickens have breasts. Women have breasts. Women have nipples. Do chicken have nipples? Are chicken nipples some kind of delicacy?
• I’m surprised no one’s developed a bacon perfume for women. I’m sure men would find those wearing “Eau de Bacon” irresistible.
• I dreamed last night I was Chris Rock and slept funny.
• Mylie's tongue is a marvel. It’s long and curvy and in contrast to Cyrus herself appears to have a mind of its own.
• I'm ashamed to admit it, and I'm not even sure if it's possible for a fella, but I've spent the day trying to twerk like Mylie.
• I'd engage in more illicit behavior guaranteed to make tongues wag if someone could assure me I'd get to see tongues actually wag.
• Romantic trees can never be accused of being "too sappy."
Friday, August 30, 2013
The title credits had not yet concluded when we heard the telltale sound that alerted us we were sharing the theater with people who had no respect for the rules.
The nerve. Someone had smuggled beers into the matinee viewing of “The World’s End,” the new Simon Pegg, Nick Frost flick about a group of middle-aged buddies who try and recreate an epic pub crawl through the old home town.
Of course, I was outraged.
Not at the beer drinkers seated behind us, certainly.
I was mad at Val.
“How come you forgot to bring beer?”
“How come you forgot to tell me?”
That neither of us thought to sneak hootch into the matinee showing of a movie starring some of our favorite elements was proof we’d been too long off our game.
Blame the kids.
We were seeing the movie the second day after school had resumed.
I imagine I’m like most parents in that I feel the same sort of jubilation on the very first day of school that kids feel on the very last. And once again I’m amazed by the fact that the people we love the very most can sometimes make us the most happy by just leaving us the hell alone.
Thank God for compulsory primary education.
“The World’s End” is by the same geniuses who made two of our all-time favorite movies, “Shawn of the Dead” (2004), and “Hot Fuzz,” (2007).” I guess they’re too popular to be deemed cult favorites, but those of us who share an appreciation for them feel cultish about our devotions.
And everyone will love “The World’s End” because it mingles drunken revelry with a sci-fi twist involving killer robots taking over this charming English hamlet.
So as the mates get progressively more and more drunk, the world-saving stakes keep getting raised. The juxtaposition becomes hilarious.
At this point reputable film critics would include the uppercase words: SPOILER ALERT!
There is no chance of this happening here -- and not just because I’ve never been described as reputable.
About three quarters of the way through the movie -- poof! -- the power went out. A huge storm was raging outside.
I’ve been rained out at baseball games, but this was the first time it ever happened inside a movie theater.
They gave us credits to see the movie again, which means I’m now in a bit of a fix.
See, the Pegg character is this lovable bloke who never really grew up, doesn’t have a job, and loves nothing more than getting all gooned up with his mates at the local pub.
So I detect autobiographical elements in the story and I feel I need to see how it ends for reasons of self-interest.
Like if he acts heroically, I’ll feel justified in how I’ve spent my life and will just press on until I sense people are beginning to behave robotically.
Or maybe that’s not a good idea. Take a look around you. You’d swear 70 percent of the population are already robots. But there could be grave consequences if we start smashing heads without first seeing some internal wiring.
I love having a chance to see a good movie again, this time for free and with, of course, a tailgate cooler of lager cunningly disguised as a portable dialysis machine.
But my darling wife is like one of Pegg’s old mates, all of whom expressed varying degrees of reluctance to bridge the binge. She has responsibilities. She has a job. She has children to take care of.
She has me!
She’s looking at the calendar and thinking we can’t get to the movie again for about two weeks.
I don’t think I can wait that long.
I’ve already heard from buddies who are furious I didn’t see the flick with them.
What am I going to do?
I just don’t know.
But I guarantee you this much: whatever I do will involve drinking beer and other benign human behaviors that’ll ensure no one will ever mistake me for no stinkin’ robot.
Related . . .
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Two days later and still today most of America’s moral scolds are fretting over what we as a nation are going to do about that hussy, Miley Cyrus.
Something tells me a really good spanking might backfire.
It dismays me that so many are still talking about Cyrus’s lewd antics instead of the 50th anniversary of the March on Washington and Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech.
So as to be less hypocritical I will now bring King into the discussion.
It was this great American hero who said, “Evil cannot be driven out, it must be crowded out.”
I think the same thing applies to crappy music.
If consumers cared as much about the people who make music as they do about the stupid little devices they use to play it, there would have been no time for someone with as little talent as Cyrus to be on the stage.
The real problem is that so many people were watching the Video Music Awards instead of “Breaking Bad.” Sure, it doesn’t have the blatant porno elements of a family awards show, but it’s very compelling.
I swear, I never would have seen the Cyrus stunt if I hadn’t been duped by the scoundrels at “Good Morning America.” As revealed Monday, show producers said they would televise Latrobe’s Guinness World Record stunt of simultaneously peeling the most bananas.
And talk about your declining cultural benchmarks.
GMA instead devoted the entire morning to the VMAs, a celebration of an art form that’s disappeared from a network that once based its entire existence on round-the-clock airing of music videos.
Yes, video killed the radio star so MTV could kill the videos.
So I saw sort of by accident the Cyrus outrage and felt compelled to YouTube it.
It was to me the most bizarre premise for entertainment since a 1967 show called “The Flying Nun.”
She emerged from a giant robotic teddy bear and stuck her tongue out -- and to me that tongue is a marvel. It’s long and curvy and in contrast to Cyrus herself appears to have a mind of its own.
I’m not proud to admit it, but parts of me were turned on.
Well, one part of me.
Then things got really weird. She began simulating masturbation with one of those big “We’re No. 1!” foam fingers. Some dancers who we wearing teddy bears on their backs magically stripped her down to a nudie suit. She then bent completely over like she was searching for a lost contact lens.
That’s when singer Robin Thicke approached her from behind and appeared to have a go at her doggie style.
I watched this and thought, man, now there’s something you’d never see Susan Boyle do on stage.
And another national uproar was launched.
People want to hear from her parents, from her friends, from Disney executives and from opinion mongers eager to tell us what it all means.
Me, I’m maybe the only guy in the world who wants to hear from the man once known as Charlie T. Wilbury.
I want to hear from Tom Petty.
I imagine he’s sitting somewhere in Southern California laughing maniacally. Of course, I believe he’s been laughing maniacally mostly non-stop ever since he smoked his first joint in, I guess, the fifth grade.
On a day when we celebrate Dr. King’s joyful prophesies, I’m saluting Petty who in 2002 foresaw the exact Cyrus scenario on his excellent disc, “The Last DJ.”
The record is a scathing critique of the music business that has so enriched his life.
His articulate contempt for where the music industry has been for at least the last 15 years is absolute.
And it’s no where more evident than in the maliciously sneering lyrics in the song simply named, “Joe.” It’s about a snaky music executive who would no doubt revel in the Cyrus performance.
Now, bring me a girl
They’re always the best
You put ‘em on stage and you have ‘em undress!
Some angel whore who can learn a guitar lick
Hey! Now that’s what I call muuuuuuuusic!
Oh, I wholeheartedly recommend it.
You just can’t go wrong with Petty.
The guy’s sold more than 60 million albums and is one of the few popular musicians who’s risen to greatness without ever once having exposed a nipple.
Gee, what’s the guy’s secret?
I have a dream one day he’ll reveal it and music won’t suck so much.
Related . . .
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
We were in the midst of the gaudy sensory overload known as the Westmoreland County Fair when my wife surprised me with a career suggestion.
She thinks I should write a book about the summer I ran away with the carnival.
I was surprised for two reasons: One, her career suggestion didn’t involve me giving up writing entirely to become a plumber; and two, I’d never really thought of it.
I guess because it seems too cliche.
How many self-involved books have there been about writers who’ve foolishly run off to chronicle war, the latest fad diet, or the loss of their precious virginity?
I’ve kind of hoped the summer of ’83 would just be one chapter in the great, big book, but not the whole book.
But, man, what a chapter.
It was all just so lurid.
We were juniors at Ohio University. My buddy Doug had a speedball game and an entrepreneurial bent. Growing up in Athens, his family had been a fixture at the annual county fair where he’d set up the speedball game and give the local hicks a chance to throw three pitches for a buck: guess the speed of your third pitch and win a crappy 25-cent batting helmet.
And that’s basic carny economics, patently unfair yet mutually acceptable.
His experience had given him an idyllic view of the fair circuit, because that was part of the pitch he used to entice me into joining him in what wound up being a four-state swing through the upper Midwest.
He told me it was a cinch the carnivals would be filled to lots of pretty young co-eds.
That may have been the case with some bucolic carnivals, but not the ones with whom we trucked.
Our carnival was populated entirely by junkies, sexual deviates, ex-cons, and Ohio University Bobcats -- that was me and Doug and Bob.
Bob is a footnote in the story. He started out with us hoping to make his fortune selling soft pretzels. Understand, this was long before the era of the deep-fried Twinkie so don’t hold his lack of imagination against him.
He lasted just two weeks.
True story: he became a congressional aide for an ultra-conservative Ohio U.S. representative and today works closely with Ohio Gov. John Kasich's administration.
Me, I stuck it out and today am delighted anytime I get a chance to shoot the bull with any junkies, sexual deviates, ex-cons or ol’ Bobcats.
There’s plenty of evidence to dispute the contention, but I think I, the underemployed blogger, turned out the better of the two.
There’s a lot of tedium involved in traveling from town to town with a gypsy carnival.
The fairs and festivals didn’t really get busting until about 6 p.m., about six hours after most of them opened.
So Doug and I would take turns sitting there baking in the sun. If I took any life skill away from that summer it is that I became an adept juggler. Doug, too.
Think about it. You’re sitting on a box with nothing to do for about 30 hours a week. You’re surrounded by baseballs. Learning to juggle was the only sensible thing to do.
That and read, of course. In fact, I believe I’m the only carny in history to have read “War and Peace” in the shadow of the Tilt-A-Whirl. My buddy back home was about to leave for the Navy and told my mother to tell me he was reading Tolstoy.
I, of course, figured he meant “War and Peace.” I was wrong. He’d read “Anna Karenina.” So I read the 1,440-page “War and Peace” by mistake.
And I learned to be a pretty slick talker. You had to.
Every town had a hotshot pitcher who believed he could throw 100 mph. And maybe he could. Just not while drunk and wearing tight jeans and cowboy boots.
It happened about once a night. They’d get right in your face and scream that the game was fixed. They didn’t care about winning the cheapo batting helmet. They just wanted the big number to impress all the hometown on-lookers.
You’d need to make a snap judgement over whether the best way to proceed was to either calm them down with logic or respond with bombastic ridicule. Guess wrong and they’d want to kill you.
I’d scream at Doug at least once a week to re-calibrate the damn radar gun so it would show that even 8-year-old girls could out-fastball Nolan Ryan, but he’d refuse.
He, too, became a conservative, albeit a warm and cheerful one.
The best part was after the shows closed. Doug and I would take our fake IDs and run to a local liquor store to score beer and booze for all-night parties behind the fun house ride we wound up calling the Wicked Witch Saloon.
And the carnies all were welcome and all would come.
We heard everything about their lives: Who was divorced, addicted, on the run, on parole and who they’d kill if only they could.
And when we were good and drunk we’d all turn loose out onto the midway. I remember riding the giant sliding board -- wheee! -- at about 4 in the morning with Randall, who’d just gotten out from the Illinois state pen for a 10-year manslaughter stretch he got for killing his boss. He said the gun firing was an accident.
I can’t believe we made it through the whole summer without anyone trying to rob or kill us, especially Doug, the pretty one.
And then there were the girls. I told Val there were just two.
I’m coy, of course, out of respect for her feelings. She suspects there were more and -- hallelujah -- she is right.
But really there weren’t that many. Carnies, even ones who can boast they’ll soon be successful newspaper men who’ve read Leo Tolstoy, bear an indelible stigma.
It was a difficult pedigree for available young single women to overcome. As for those who managed, well, bless their hearts.
So maybe one day I will write a book. It’s a dear and rich part of my past.
Today, you’ll just have to settle for a blog.
And that there’s just one more example of carny economics.
Related . . .
Monday, August 26, 2013
Dang! Looks like my “Good Morning America” segment promoting my book got bumped.
And why not? Who wouldn’t rather see home videos of George Stephanopoulus’s tweener daughters riding in the back of a limo and giggling about attending the VMA’s?
Still, I was disappointed.
The segment was filmed Sunday afternoon and the producers said GMA was going to air it this morning.
My quote: “Thank you, Elizabeth. Great to be here! Yes, my book is ‘Use All The Crayons!’ It’s available for $15.95 at amazon.com, Barnes & Noble and other fine outlets that care about bringing joy to all our lives and increasing the solvency of just mine.”
Perhaps the problem was I was about 400 miles from Robin, no one could see me, and my nifty little sales pitch was drowned out by nearly 1,000 other promoters who were waving fruit and shouting America needed to “Go Bananas!”
Yes, should it ever air, that will be the Rodell family in the very lower righthand corner of your screen helping set the Guinness World Record for most people simultaneously peeling bananas.
And Mom used to wonder if I’d ever amount to anything.
It was the finale to Latrobe’s first Great American Banana Split Festival, a three-day extravaganza celebrating the official recognition that our old Tassel’s Pharmacy was in 1904 the site of the creation of the world’s first banana split by then 23-year-old pharmacist David Strickler.
Highlights included a banana split-themed sock hop, a banana split-themed street festival, a banana split-themed song contest and a bank robbery.
Can you believe it?
I mean the bank robbery not being banana split themed.
Yes, as many of our police on Friday at 11 a.m. were attending to the downtown ceremony where the historical marker was being unveiled, a crafty robber seized on the inconvenient logistics and held up the Citizen’s Bank one mile away before racing away to, I’m guessing, the Great American Crystal Meth Festival.
Oh, how I wish I could report the culprit was apprehended after slipping on a bank parking lot banana peel.
He and his driver got away with an undetermined amount of cash, which is now, like the suspects themselves, covered in gaudy red security ink. Reports say the radio transmitter-controlled dye packs exploded.
The same thing happened to Gale and Evelle Snoats in “Raising Arizona.”
I can’t believe any would-be bank robbers haven’t seen it. It’s a great movie. Very funny and parts of it are like vo-tech school for stupid crooks.
These exploding dye packs are very sound deterrents to criminal activity. They either stain or destroy the money, burn the robber with heat and tear gas elements and leave the getaway vehicles and the robbers themselves covered in indelible Disperse Red No. 9 ink.
Too bad they don’t have an equivalent deterrent to the Wall Street bankers who use clever accounting tricks to rip off banks and taxpayers of untold millions.
Oh, wait. They do. It’s . . . none!
With reward money on the line, I’m on the lookout and am beginning to frustrate police with numerous citizen’s arrests. Note: for a person to be considered a suspect, more skin than just his or her neck has to be red.
It has me wondering if anyone will take extra precautions next August when Latrobe intends to again celebrate its role in the creation of America’s heirloom dessert.
For ceremonial purposes, I’d at least like to see if sponsor Dole Fruits will pay to fill the packs with Disperse Yellow No. 9 ink.
Either way, I’m glad no one was hurt. I was in that very bank the previous week at the very time of the robbery
That’s my mother’s bank and I use that branch when I need to administer to her meager funds. Talk about your deterrents to crime.
So, naturally, I spent a good deal of the weekend wondering how I’d have reacted had the crime happened before my eyes.
Would I have tried to be the hero? Not a chance.
I would have run.
After all, turning yellow and splitting was for at least this weekend in Latrobe the civic thing to do.
Related . . .
The King of the Bank Robbers . . . This was the 2005 story about America’s most prolific bank robber, Carl Gugasian. True crime fans will enjoy this one.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
I was hashing out the first week of school recently with a high school English teacher friend of mine. He said the year’s off to a great start.
The kids seem interested, well-behaved, etc.
Who’s in your home room, I asked.
“A good bunch. They’re engaged, respectful --”
That’s not what I’m talking about. What letter kids do you have?
“I have the As. I always get the As. My room is the first one in the hall and that’s where they put all the As.”
See, that bugs Rs like me. While the As could just coast right into their room, I had to walk much farther down the hall.
The extra distance naturally gave me less study time, fewer opportunities to catch up on homework and left me starting each day sweaty and fatigued from the extra exertions.
I blame the As for conversely adding to the reasons why I’ve never gotten very far in since high school.
So I’ve never liked As, much less earned any.
I asked my friend if any of the Gs, Ms, Ts or other students called his room the A-hole.
He said no, but I think he’s going to defensively recall our conversation the next time some unruly kid glares at him and mouths, “A-hole!”
I wish more of the world went by alphabetical order. It would ensure we’d meet a better cross section of people.
For instance, I drink in a bar with some Bs, some Ss, some Ms, a pair of Ps, some Ks, a U or two and surnames covering just about every letter in the alphabet except perhaps Q and Z.
And the owner doesn’t discriminate. It’s not like if a neighborhood Quatrini or Zelmore walked in and the owner, a fair-minded C, would say, “We don’t serve your kind in here.”
But while our last names may be varied, we are alike in nearly every other regard. We’re all white, middle-aged, paunchy and have bad haircuts.
There ought to be bars that are ordered just like our old homerooms. It would be a boon to diversity.
That way I’d drink with a Spanish Rodriguez, a Jewish Rabinovitz, an Irish Rafferty, an African-American Robinson and maybe a Korean Rhee.
It would bring me into friendly contact with a whole rainbow of humanity, at least those whose last names begin with R and enjoy getting all pie-eyed every night from 5 to 7 p.m.
The start of school and homeroom order always has me thinking of Theodore Zyzak.
He for more than 40 years was the last name in the 1,853-page Pittsburgh phone book. He may have been the last name in all America. You have to figure if they started calling roll of everyone in America it would take until at least 2019 until he’d get to raise his hand and say, “Here!”
He always fascinated me because I knew in high school some mean boys -- I swear it wasn’t me -- who’d crank call him and ask was it was like to always be last.
Years later, I asked him that very same question in a professional setting for a Pittsburgh Magazine story I did about him and what it was like being first in last.
“Ah, it was awful,” he said. “I never got to enjoy those idle moments after they call your name. No, they’d call my name and it would be, ‘Okay, open your books to page . . .”
The worst, he said, were the inoculations. He’d have to sit there through escalating anxieties as kids were alphabetically summoned and would howl in pain or faint dead away.
He said the only time he ever got called first was when some sergeant felt creative and reversed the alphabet and ordered Zyzak into hazardous duty in Okinawa and later in Korea.
A proud Pole, he said he never considered changing his name to something like “Byzak” or taking the coward’s dodge and having his phone number unlisted.
It’s been years since we talked. I wonder how he’s doing.
For all I know, this noble elderly gent may have recently passed on and is awaiting heavenly summons.
I just hope this time the poor guy doesn’t have to wait an eternity to hear them call his name.
Friday, August 23, 2013
I find it commendable when people are able to resist commenting on the love lives of celebrity strangers. We’d all be better off if such pointless, petty gossip were reduced.
And if you agree with me then I suggest you stop reading right now, because I’m about to wallow in it.
I can’t help myself.
Bill Cowher and Queen V are in love!
Never heard of either of them? Well, you’re more likely to have heard of Cowher.
He was from 1992-2007 the coach of the Pittsburgh Steelers and is today a studio analyst on the CBS Sunday chucklefest known as “The NFL Today.”
Many Steeler fans revere Cowher, 56, for having won a Super Bowl in 2006.
On the flip side, many do not.
I am among the latter.
First of all, one Super Bowl win over 15 years in Pittsburgh qualifies as an embarrassing drought. If Cowher had coached for any owners other than the Rooneys he’d have been fired four times.
His tenure was marked by arrogance, flying spit, off-field drama and big-game defeat.
I’ll not bore non-football fans with the minutia, but I will give you one telling example: In 1996, Cowher declared Jim Miller would be his starting quarterback over veteran Mike Tomczak and Kordell Stewart. Come thick or thin, he’d stick with Miller.
And, indeed, he did. For two.
He pulled Miller in the first half of his first game, igniting a virulent quarterback controversy that never really ended until 2004 when the Steelers -- over Cowher’s objections -- drafted Ben Roethlisberger.
So I was glad to see him go.
And I could forgive him for being petulant, mean and arrogant as long as he was no longer in my face.
Then in 2009, Cowher did something that to me is unforgivable.
He turned on Pittsburgh.
The Penguins were playing the Carolina Hurricanes in the pro hockey playoff semifinals in Charlotte, not far from Raleigh where Cowher and his family resided for all of two years.
Pittsburgh born and bred, Cowher rooted for the Hurricanes.
No big deal, you might say, and you’d be right. It’s not a hanging offense.
What is a hanging offense is to wear Carolina Hurricane colors, step into the spotlight and be the team’s most visible cheerleader by winding up the team’s stupid hurricane rally siren.
His inability to win the big game extended to the Hurricanes, by the way. The Pens swept Cowher’s darlings and went on to win the franchise’s third Stanley Cup.
The Pens win did nothing to stem the disdain he’d earned. How dare he?
You can leave Pittsburgh for relocation purposes, sure, but the etiquette if you do is you are honor-bound to open a Pittsburgh-themed sports bar that features pictures of Pittsburgh heroes on the walls and sandwiches topped with fries and coleslaw on the menu.
Cowher’s betrayal turned him from someone to be ignored into someone to be loathed.
So my ears perked up the other night when a friend who knows Cowher said the coach was doing things that might risk ridicule.
He said Cowher was about to marry a heavy metal rock babe and is starring in her videos. And, indeed, he is.
Do watch the video. It is perfectly bizarre. The highlight is watching Cowher play the role of heroic Medieval he-man, albeit a Medieval he-man wearing lavish amounts of eye liner.
Cowher’s wife, Kaye, died in 2010 of skin cancer. She was 54.
So if true, Cowher will be matrimonially linked to two woman whose names are pronounced like two of the 26 alphabetical letters.
Being so fond of North Carolina, I can only guess he had an affinity for Sheriff Taylor’s Aunt Bee.
Who’s Queen V? Well, her website boasts she opened for Twisted Sister in 2003 or about 15 years after that had even a shred of cultural relevance.
She seems coy about her background, the origin of her name and whether or not she is truly of regal stock.
Being familiar with rock promotion, I suspect the V is a subliminal message designed to get music lovers to think of female reproductive organs, the theory being that horny young hipsters will say, “Hey, let’s head down to The Palace and maybe we’ll get to see a big vagina. Rock on!”
I hope I’m being overly-cynical, but the coupling whiffs of craven opportunism.
Cowher sees the Queen V as someone he thinks will help him appear cool, and more and more that seems like his every motivational goal.
As for her, I can only imagine she’s attracted to his money and the opportunity to raise her celebrity profile, which makes more sense than being attracted to his appearance and personality.
If that’s the case, I think it’s bound to backfire. In fact, it seems to me to damage the rock cred of anyone who truly cares about music.
You didn’t see Joan Jett dating Marv Levy.
I hope I’m wrong. I hope these two individuals are truly in love and wedded bliss awaits.
If that’s the case, then I expect one day he’ll change his name and the pair will live in harmony as Queen V and King P.
And that’ll be perfect.
I’ve always suspected Cowher was a royal prick.
Related . . .