G’day, G’day–and what is so rare as a day in June? And I’m Byron the Quokka, with the answer: some of these long-lost TV shows are even rarer! But we’ve rescued a bunch of them, just for you. For example:
3:56 P.M. Ch. 08 NEWS IN A HURRY–News & commentary
It’s the same news you get at 6 o’clock, only they get it all done in just four minutes. Ideal for the viewer who wants to get the news but has’t got half an hour to devote to it. The tape is speeded up, so be prepared to listen fast! Anchor: Irwin Corey.
4 P.M. Ch. 10 YOU CAN FLOSTICATE!–Educational (sort of)
Little-known outside of pro baseball, Arnold Kopplo was the uncrowned King of the Flosticators. Nothing else could have kept him going through 10 years of hitting under .200 and getting booed and assaulted by fans. Now his flostication secrets can be known! Host: Rusty Gates. Medium: Madame Mabel Sweeny.
Ch. 14 DEEP PHILOSOPHICAL MUSINGS–Pretentious twaddle
Dr. Frank Nodule, Last Chance University, tackles a thorny proposition: “Every person has the right to be served by servants and it should be government policy to see that this is so.” Voice of Opposition: A sane person drafted off the street. Panel of Judges: the June Taylor Dancers. (“Who will serve the servants’ servants?”)
4:30 P.M. Ch. 29 MOVIE–Musical, uh… comedy
In Hold That Coccyx! (Ethiopian, 1954), Bob Hope and Max Von Sydow are chased through Foki Forest by Ethiopian bandits led by Hugh Beaumont. Music by Chiang Kai-shek and his orchestra. Hit song (Hope and Sydow), “Aaagh, It Only Hurts When I Sit Down!” Directed by Joe Garagiola.
Ch. 44 THE COODY FAMILY–Sitcom with tragic overtones
The only tragedy is that this bomb got made in the first place! This week: Jimmy Skull-Splitter (Dick Cavett) tries to muscle his way into an Icelandic saga; but only Aunt Club Moss (Jane Austen) can tell him how to find his way out of the house. Captain Ahab: Gregory Peck. Smiling Clump of Broccoli: Emma Bovary.
Well, folks, is that great programming, or what!
Byron the Quokka, signing off
Oooh, it’s so hard to choose what to watch in this marvelous lineup.
(I need some prayers for my cat Iggy. He’s having a very bad day, which means so am I.)
Prayers here (Patty keeps worrying about Robbie). God knows how we love our cats.
NEWS IN A HURRY–News & commentary reminds me of our local TV nightly news if you cut out all the weather reporting and national news stories. And the word “flostication” where does Lee come up with these words? (do you ever sometimes wonder about Lee? 🙂 ). I don’t remember The Hardy Boys ever going to Acapulco, or the 8 million dollar man going to the moon, so you?
I thought I made up “flosticate,” but it seems to be a feature in some eccentric poetry.
I found “flosticate,” on the “All Poetry” site in this poem (second line).
3121 CE – The Wrapes of Grath
The wrapes of Grath adorn the path that slammer klangks once tread
while turning spades in everglades to flosticate the dead.
Along the way the snorbels bay at freebled sprutelned
that boogeymen had once again uphove above the shed.
The buildings tall that housed the krawl are pictured carved in stone
since all that’s left is now bereft of wrapes that might atone
for scabs that feed our wrinkled breed, distraught and lying prone.
Yes, flonk replaces merpeled traces deep inside, alone.
There’s no retreat from incomplete, so durbies never dared,
but streaped instead beneath their bed with franjent fangs unbeared;
they knew the past could never last although the trumpets blared,
for doogies, stripped, were ill equipped, no longer bald or haired.
Like cavaliers with gougejent spears, well triggered for a tiff,
slank vankulures with silver spurs entglissed for grimp and griff
(no question why, for “we can’t die”, the oft regleated riff);
with little fuss the blunder bus krunged glimpfly off the cliff
and fetid breet of grim defeat gave Grath its final whiff;
the catapult had one result, all life lay lazelled stiff.
The plastic waves that washed the graves, now homeland for the rutch,
though faring worse when quenching thirst with warples in the hutch
were nonetheless, as frunks confess, so pleasant to the touch
exturbing sinks that watered wynx and onetime life as such.
Like burning blotters slurping waters, skindles sipped their fill
from koozing cracks between the tracks inhumed beneath the hill,
then spawned the spores of Grathic wars that profit from the kill;
their victory tales, like crimson crails, reside in dung and dill.
Those scrilly clouds that cowed the crowds neath radiation snapes
left little less than watercress beneath their coffin’s drapes;
well, those unborn cannot adorn the pallor of the prapes
for scrundlemun tinged bibberun, wee ones who reaped the wrapes.
Yes, now-abandoned hetzelspan were once in time embroiled
like merikained that firps enchained until the weather roiled.
What more, perchance, can happenstance inflict upon the koiled
when doves on ships are in eclipse and wrapes of Grath are soiled?
This [will be/has been] written in the future (3121 CE) by our evolutionary progeny (in the ruins left, after our apocalyptic demise) and [has been/will be] sent back to us as a warning, through a warped space-time wormhole.
But yeah, we won’t pay heed…
Yes, I found that poem, too. It reminded me of “Jabberwocky.”
I remember well, that poem.I have always liked it. I think it was in 7th grade English, our class had to read it.
‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves…