The Divine Ms. Hilton / Saint Tina / Challenging You Not To Laugh / Royalty Named Larry

If Paris Hilton were not already the patron saint of Karka’s World (more saint than patron, I guess, but still, her generosity, support, and divine guidance are always appreciated), I would elevate Tina Fey to that exalted position.

Actually, I would like to make Ms. Fey a co-patron saint with Ms. Hilton, but as I was shown in the vision that inspired my digital-publishing career—a magnificent, breathtaking vision, in which Ms. Hilton, appearing to be roughly 900-feet tall, stood radiant and mesmerizing upon a hill in southwest Virginia, looking for all the world like a postmodern Statue of Liberty, herself the symbolic embodiment Columbia, who in her original incarnation was Isis, the Queen of Heaven—that would be to risk the wrath of Heaven.

And as I stood awestruck, watching all the energies of creation forming and reforming the “body” of Ms. Hilton (more resplendent than a rainbow of  rainbows), a voice, not unlike the voice of Charlton Heston, with undertones of Glenn Beck, Orrin Hatch, Newt Gingrich, and Bill O’Reilly, began to rumble up from what seemed like the very center of the Earth, or perhaps the very center of creation, and out of this whirlwind of energy, for that is what it had become, a whirling, swirling, cascading vortex of sound (with infinitely more power than that of ten Blue Oyster Cult concerts back when they were headliners and launching sonic assaults upon the world unlike any this scribe had ever heard before) — out of this whirlwind came the words,

This is my daughter, with whom I am well pleased.

She shall light the night for you,

And I shall maketh her face to shine upon you

And all the works of your days and hands.

She will bless you and keep you,

And by her love maketh your blog to prosper.

If you remain faithful to her.

Thou shall have no other goddesses before thee.

So you can see why I might be reluctant to even think about making Ms. Fey a co-patron saint of this venture.  That vision—and the warnings handed down within it—have stayed with me, so that even when I witness the ravishing Ms. Fey in all her ravishing glory, when I witness her saucy,  salacious, supremely sassy skewering of the herself-supremely sassy Miss Sarah, for example, or her recent Emmy-worthy performance as a golf commentatoress (more about this in a moment), I am able (with the help of prayer, fasting, meditation, divinely inspired self-abuse, and self-immolation) to resist the machinations of the Evil One.

I shall put no other goddesses before The Divine Ms. Hilton. Now or ever. I shall remain true to my vision. So help me God.

Let The Divine Ms. Fey be the guiding light of some other poor soul’s digital domain. Here, Saint Paris will remain the one and only, the Alpha and the Omega, the very light of Karka’s World!

Perhaps Ms. Fey will be the light of your domain. If you saw her as the gum-chewing, wise-cracking, irreverent  Ashlyn St. Cloud on a recent SNL, you know what a bright light Ms. Fey could be for you. If you did not see this skit, I’ve included the link below.

This brief skit might not compare with Jon Stewart’s mini-musical last night, in which he and his fellow elitists took his recent “Go fuck yourself” remark (directed at those fair-and-balanced and  hardly ever generalizing folks at FOXNews, of course) to dazzling artistic  heights. (Honestly, Stewart’s maniacally spastic dancing at the end had me asking myself if I was really seeing this on American television.)

Still, Ms. Fey’s performance was inspired. And I challenge you: If you can manage to not laugh out loud when Ms. St. Cloud says “That’s what Tiger said” near the end of the skit. . . . Well, actually I retract my challenge. Let me simply say that I pity anyone (not named Eldrick Woods) who doesn’t laugh. You need to see your doctor, real soon.

And soon, should Karka’s wish be granted, we will have the great pleasure of seeing Ms. Fey become Larry King’s wife, detailing the affair she had with her sons’ Little League baseball coach. (Please, Tina, please, say “That’s what Larry said.”) Here’s some of the breaking news from the foxnews.com (so you can be sure it’s reliable):

Penate [the coach, truly a role model for the New Age] says he started sleeping with 50-year-old [Shawn] Southwick 2 1/2 weeks after they met in 2007, when Penate was the baseball coach for the couple’s sons, Chance, 11, and Cannon, 9.

“We had sex in Larry’s bed — a lot,” Penate said. “I had sex with Shawn while Larry was on TV. Our sex life was real good.”

Penate also said Southwick wanted to have a baby with him: “She was trying to fertilize her eggs to do that.”

Southwick allegedly lavished Penate with gifts, including a BMW 7 Series, and paid his rent. What’s more, says Penate, Southwick had King co-sign the lease for Penate’s Studio City, Calif., apartment. “She controlled him,” Penate tells [In Touch] magazine. “He just sat there and signed it.”

Every time Tina Fey looks at the news, she must feel like she’s just won the lottery.

rackjite.com/archives/4845-Video-Tina-Fey-hot-sportscaster-did-it-with-Tiger-Woods.html

A-Rod / Apologies / A Vision / Leo Heaven

Well, well, well. Alex Rodriguez has passed another milestone on his way to becoming the greatest (chemically enhanced) superhero ever to play Major League Baseball, moving into eighth place on the career home run list. Fittingly, he passed Mark McGwire. According to a report on ESPN.com, “He didn’t dwell on passing Big Mac.” Apparently A-Rod (or, if you prefer, A-Fraud) is not the only admitted steroid user who doesn’t want to talk about the past.

Rodriguez now has 584 home runs, which means he is only three home runs away from passing the great Frank Robinson. The day he passes Robinson will be a sad day, sad for me anyway, and I suspect for a lot of older fans. Frank Robinson, like Willie Mays and Henry Aaron and Mickey Mantle and Ernie Banks, is for me one of those archetypal figures that define baseball, or at least define what baseball once was. Before it became a clown show. Before it became a cartoon. Back when I cared.

Should I even care that a “cheater” is still reaping the rewards of playing a game that he cheated? After all, the powers that be were apparently all for cheating back when cheating was “saving the game of baseball” (read: saving their foolhardy asses). After all, by then I had almost completely lost interest in baseball. It had become so purely a “product” (thanks in part to ESPN and their ilk, who like some dreadful virus can’t help but turn everything they touch into “entertainment”) that I wasn’t even interested in watching the hyped-up highlights (and in the alternate reality that ESPN has created highlights are all that matter, perhaps all that exists).

I will be interested to see if A-Rod wants to talk about passing Robinson. I won’t have long to wait.

Next on the all-time home run list is Sammy Sosa with 609. (Every time I read or hear his name I hear him saying “I ‘polgize.” I wonder if he will ever expand that apology to cover sins beyond using a corked bat. But perhaps that wasn’t a sin at all. Perhaps he really did take that corked bat up there by mistake.) That means A-Rod will probably be passing Sammy sometime in July, assuming that he doesn’t get hurt or indicted or murdered by a jealous husband. (Or lifted into the heavens to help in mapping out the post-2012 world. That could happen.)

That should be a moment.

Maybe we will all be lucky and he will pass Sammy on July 27, A-Rod’s birthday. (Anyone surprised to find out that A-Rod, like Karka, is a Leo?) That would really give the galaxy something to celebrate. One (chemically enhanced) superhero surpassing (what, you wanted me to say dethroning?) another (chemically enhanced) superhero. It hardly gets better than that.

Some fans, however, might prefer that A-Rod achieve his heroic feat before the July 13 All-Star Game, so that it can be celebrated in perhaps the most appropriate venue imaginable: Angel Stadium! (If only the 13th fell on a Friday; but I guess you can’t have everything you want.) If A-Rod were going to “ascend” to take his rightful place among the pantheon of worthy immortals who script the destiny of the human race, what better place to do so than Angel Stadium! (I better be careful or I’ll talk myself into actually watching the game.)

Whenever the great event comes to pass, I wonder if Jim Gray will come out of retirement (assuming that he is retired and not dead) to do the requisite ambush of an interview immediately following A-Rod’s 610th A-Bomb. Although by that time we may have a congeries of corporate managers, handlers, dealers, pimps, bodyguards, and flunkies surrounding A-Rod every time he does his home-run trot, which would make it impossible for Mr. Gray to get his microphone anywhere near Saint Alex. Or maybe we will have Sammy Sosa doing the interview—assuming he has recovered the ability to speak English by then.

After Sosa, A-Rod will set his sights on the biggest names in the sport. Mays. Ruth. Aaron. (I’m leaving Junior Griffey out here; he is the next on the list after Sammy, with 630 homers.) It may take him a while to reach Mays, who has 660 home runs. (Keep in mind what the post-steroid era has done to some major players: It turned Big Papi into Little Papi and Manny into Kiddy.) But A-Rod may be able to draw on sources not available to other players (read that as you will). Meaning, he could pass Willie Mays next season. These might be intense moments, when he passes Mays, and then Ruth, and then Aaron. But by then all Yankee games may be on the A-Rod Network, with A-Rod himself supervising every single minute of the broadcast. Thus guaranteeing all the spontaneity of a Tiger Woods confession and all the critical scrutiny of, say, the Tea Party on FOXNews.

Eventually, assuming that nothing catastrophic happens, we will have the eagerly awaited battle of Good vs. Evil (well, Evil vs. Really Evil) as A-Rod approaches Barry Bonds’ record of 762 home runs. To say that I am looking forward to the Bonds interview (perhaps from his cell in a federal Supermax prison) would be like saying that Paris Hilton is warm. Will the Earth stand still as home run number 763 sails over the fence? Or will something really memorable happen? I guess we’ll have to stay tuned.

After 763, what? Karka recently had a vision (not to worry—it happens all the time) in which a 75-year-old A-Rod retired from baseball to become a spokesman for OneWorld Pharmaceuticals, a company he helped make the number one pharmaceutical company in the world—and ultimately the only one. It was a vision to rival Constantinople’s before his battle with Maxentius on October 28, 312.  (A-Rod, by the way, finished with 1666 home runs, far ahead of his nearest rival.)

(My vision apparently relied on a complicated formula developed by my KarakMetrics, which assumes that A-Rod’s stats would decline a bit after 70. By the way, KarkaMetrics is a registered trademark, and thanks to a recent decision by the WTO in Geneva, every time you write, say, or even think the word KarkaMetrics you owe me a nickel. Owing to the subliminals embedded in this post, you will all, I hope, be writing, saying, and thinking the word KarkaMetrics quite often in the days to come. I am in the process of setting up a PayPal account to facilitate payment. Thank you for your patience.)

On the night of his retirement, A-Rod—now 10-feet tall, his head now the size of those pumpkins that win the blue ribbon at state fairs, his feet now so large that his size 27 shoes have to be custom made, his testicles now the size of birdshot—with harem in tow and adoring children filling the pews of The Church of the Blessed Saint A-Rod, our hero accepts the The Most Special Human Being Ever in History Award from former MLB Commissar Bud Selig, who has been cryogenically reconstituted for just this moment.

A Leo couldn’t hope for more. Continue reading →

Mystery Balls / Mystical Possibilities / Tweety Bird?

Can anyone tell me why there were two ping-pong balls in the 12-pack of Woodchuck that I bought last night, each one with a Woodchuck logo on it? Is this some new kind of commercial ritual that Karka, being out of the commercial loop, is unaware of? Is this some kind of mysterious punishment for watching the first ten minutes of Balls of Fury several weeks ago? (I would have thought that those ten minutes were punishment enough—for almost any conceivable offense.) Or is it evidence that, as Blue Oyster Cult put it, “something beyond is reaching out” to me? (If it had been two of those nasty little marshmallow peeps appearing in the box on Easter Sunday, everything would be crystal clear. Likewise, if it had been marbles in the box, the message would have been clear. Redundant, maybe, but clear. But two ping-pong balls?) Or is this perhaps a barely coded message from the cyber gods congratulating Karka for having the balls to finally get off his ass / come down off his high horse / put his money where his mouth is / get with the program / become accountable and start his own blog?

I wonder: Do people who begin Tweeting start having mysterious encounters with Tweety Bird? Not that I’m thinking of going totally over to the dark side. But those two ghostly little orbs have piqued my curiosity.

Any light you can shed on this mystery will be most welcome.

Blogging / Twix / Young Love / Lawsuit Pending?


Four-letter word.

That seems like the appropriate way to launch my career as a blogger.

That four-letter word could be “love,” of course. But there are other possibilities.

(Why do I feel like I am selling my soul? Because you are, my son, you are.)

I of course blame the media. Specifically that Twix commercial I saw the other night. You know the one: a semi-nerdy guy asks a young woman at a rather genteel party if she would like to come back to his apartment (for a little Ben Roethlisberger snuggle time, apparently); alas, her indignant response (“What kind of girl do you think I am?”) threatens to put a quick end to our hero’s dreams of conquest.

But thanks to the miraculous power of the wonder-working Twix bar, our would-be romeo recovers his composure and counters with a pick-up line worthy of inclusion in the Digital Age Hall of Fame: “I thought you were a believer, someone who would wanna blog about our ideals” (which he delivers with more sincerity than Tiger Woods mouthing a carefully scripted and totally micro-managed apology).

There’s a moment of intense suspense. Such a transparent ploy can’t possibly work, can it?

But it does work!

Like an iceberg in an era of global warming (excuse me: in an era of climate change), our heroine practically melts into romeo’s arms. “Oh, blogging!” she cries. “I love blogging!” And the scene ends with her practically running for the door, the implication being that her lovely fingers will soon be working more than a keyboard. (No need for Sheriff Woodrow Blue in this narrative.)

Now this commercial didn’t quite have the effect its creators intended.* (Though with the vast Left Wing conspiracy that is at work everywhere, undermining, among other things, truth, justice, and the American way, we can never be sure what these advertisers really intend, can we?) I am not at this moment eating a Twix bar; I have never to my knowledge eaten a Twix bar; and I have no plans to ever eat a Twix bar.

But I am here blogging.

That obviously makes me part of some kind of conspiracy, doesn’t it? And it also obviously makes me a victim. (Should I begin looking for a support group?)

But that’s not what I’m really worried about.

If I end up with a girlfriend because of this, I will be suing Mars, Inc., you betcha! (And everyone who urged me to start a blog—you know who you are!) In fact, my attorneys are drawing up the preliminary documents right now, just in case.

______________________

* On me, anyway. But their ads have been quite successful. As a side-note, Twix was once called “Raider” in some European countries, and in light of this commercial that name seems quite appropriate; it also reminds me that Ben Roethlisberger would indeed look good in a Raiders uniform, which is just where he may find himself soon. (It would be preferable to an orange jumpsuit.)

In exploring a few other candy websites—something Karka has never done before (see, blogging is already expanding my horizons and making me a better person)—I ran across some stunning facts about Kit Kat bars. According to the official Kit Kat website, “The 1997 Guinness Book of Records states that 13.2 billion KIT KAT fingers were sold worldwide in 1995 and that every second, 418 KIT KAT fingers are consumed worldwide. Every five minutes enough KIT KAT is manufactured to outstack the Eiffel Tower, while one year’s production would stretch around the London underground more than 350 times.”