The SNL Sketch That Was Killed By Censors!

The  SNL Comedy Sketch That Was Killed By Censors

(HEAR YE SNOPES: the source of this information must remain anonymous, for obvious reasons)

                                                                                   

                                    DONALD TRUMP’’S  PRESS CONFERENCE

(A SCENE INSIDE TRUMP TOWER MAIL ROOM. MIDDLE AGE MAN WEARING PORKPIE HAT READING ‘MAKE AMERICA GREAT’ IS

SPEAKING TO TEN LATIN-AMERICAN MEN AND WOMEN). HE IS DRESSED IN BUSINESS SUIT AND BURNOOSE., COVERED  WITH ICONS:  AT&T  IBM  SUNOCO  IGA  PENSKE   IKEA   UPS  UCLA)

JOSE: All right. Listen up. You’re all going over to the HILTON for Mr. Grump’s press conference. There will be several hundred reporters. So we need loyal supporters. That means all of you. So wear your Green Cards proudly.

PEDRO: I lose me card while scrubbing toilet on 37^th floor…

JOSE: Don’t worry Pedro. I’ll have Helen print another one.

Don’t forget to change your overalls for a suit and tie…

PEDRO: But my suit no match. I have only blue jacket and brown pants in locker. No tie.

(jOSE TAKES OFF HIS TIE AND THROWS IT TO PEDRO, WHO STRUGGLES TO PUT IT ON. HECTOR NEARBY HELPS HIM.)

JOSE:  Remember to smile, applaud and shout loudly: “TRUMP!  TRUMP!  TRUMP!”  And be sure to wave those American flags. Are there any questions because we leave for the HILTON in ten minutes. Yes Pedro.

PEDRO:  Is there toilet at HILTON? I have Green Apple Quickstep.

JOSE: Take your dump here. (PEDRO RUSHES OUT OF ROOM)

MARIA: (WEARING BATHING SUIT) I have no dress. Is this O.K.?

JOSE: (THROWING HER A BURKA). Put this on and hide your face. I’ll let you know when to take it off. You were a high jumper in Mexican Olympics. So jump up and down during applause.

HECTOR:  When we get paid?

JOSE: I have $100 for each after work tomorrow. Those of you who shout and clap loudest will get $50 more. Are you all ready to help elect your boss the next President of the United States?

(EVERYONE IN UNISON SHOUTS AND APPLAUDS AND FALLS OVER ONE ANOTHER THEY  RUN OUT THE DOOR . MUSIC: “STARS AND STRIPES” PLAYS. FADE OUT.

Is Planet World Going To Crash On Jupiter?

     It could happen. Our universe is heading towards total chaos.  Especially if the obese Premier-For-Life Jungle-UN lobs a missile from North Korea into South Korea. And the latter tosses it back.
Either way, there will be big trouble at the 38th Parallel for President Hillary Clinton to decipher.
I suggest that Dennis Rodman start packing his overnight bag, leaving room for several balls.
     Wait, Dennis. Unpack. Former Prime Minister David Cameron is at the front door of the White House holding his suitcase with icons: British Air, BBC, Simpsons and Hyde Park. Obviously, there is a lot of sponsorship money available for a former politician in high office.  Although one sticker, partially blurred, reads, NORTH KOREA SUCKS!
     Meantime, the fat ruler is having his weekly haircut before executing the barber with a 155 mm howitzer. Also included in the execution will be a pizza delivery man who brought cold slices and a deaf chimney sweeper who left a dead skunk inside the grill. The latter was mischievously served with the next day's hot dog dinner. All twelve of the kitchen staff were sent to a labor camp for ten years.
     So, speaking of bad taste, in both senses of the word, Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg hit the jackpot when she said Donald Trump was lying. His Highness fired back: "Resign, b---h!" Now where was Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas? Nodding off or secretly watching "Long Dong Silver" on his smart phone. We'll never know. He doesn't talk. Only grins and votes.
     Finally, the RNC Convention in Cleveland was "The Last Supper" for any rehab for America. All the shooting, protesting and arson.....including wholesale looting.....showed the world that we can erupt better than Syria, Iraq or Uganda. How about that landing on Jupiter? Just wait and see. I'm heading for Canada and a better life.

Read The Small Print, Cheesehead!

     Yes, folks, it's the small print that will fuck you everytime. And don't be dismayed at my language. It's a sign of the times. FUNNY OR DIE has a bold headline subject today that defies my imagination. And maybe yours too. Here it is: JUSTIN TRUDEAU GIVES GREAT CUNNILINGUS. Just say hello to another porn site.
     But in all fairness, I recently asked my urologist if it is possible to get lockjaw from too much cunnilingus. He said "anything is possible." But when I asked my heart surgeon what to do with a six hour erection, he just laughed. I guess doctors do have a good sense of humor.
     Let's get back to the small print. Every offer on a website has the necessary disclaimer in small print to protect their asses from litigation. Why? Because most sale pitches are flawed, deceptive and downright dishonest. I would say 99.9% are sucker traps. Once you order and disclose your credit or debit card, you are hooked and will be fucked on a monthly basis.
     So, join the club. It's not exactly the Mile High one where you have sex in a toilet on the airplane. That activities is designated mostly for celebrities riding in First Class. Not you, strapped in the middle of a three-seater like a salami, with an unruly kid behind you kicking the seat.
     I detest the computer ads that chide me for leaving the page. Or darken my screen with a drop down message that pleads for me to reconsider my decision not to buy a stupid product or mundain service. Don't even think about asking how I ever wanted to visit these disingenuous pages. Perhaps I do need anger management. I'll think about it.
     My message for this blog is: DON'T FALL FOR THE SUCKER TRAPS. DELETE, DELETE, DELETE. And may you all have a nice day.

THE WAITING GAME!

     Don't you hate to wait? If it's on the phone you're played a menu of possibilities, such as: "PRESS ONE IF YOU ARE A DOCTOR. PRESS TWO IF YOU WISH TO MAKE AN APPOINTMENT. PRESS THREE IF YOU ARE AN IDIOT. PRESS FOUR TO EXIT. HAVE A NICE DAY. But it goes on and on for a dozen more possibles until you are ready to scream, cut your wrists and dial 911.
     Then there is the background music. It's right out of an elevator. Soft jazz, medium country or Taylor Swift. Music on a loop over and over in case you want to dance. Maybe file your nails or tear up junk mail received, especially from Publisher Clearing House or the National Rifle Association. If I don't get a human voice I just hand up. If I need Tech Support for my computer and it's "Mary" in the Philippines" I also hang up, pull all the plugs on the iMac, wait five minutes, reconnect and I've solved the problem.
     When I've been on hold when trying to reach someone in a government office, there is usually a recorded message stating the waiting time: "please wait for an agent who will be with you in three minutes."  Bull shit! It's more like thirty minutes. So I wait and wait. Finally a sad voiced employee says "hello" and thanks me for my service to the country. That's when I pretend to be a stutterer and take several minutes to state my name. Then all I hear is a dial tone.
     I never wait in line for anything. Time is much too precious. I carry a cane and have no trouble getting into the head of everybody waiting. For a taxi line I have a white jacket and stethoscope that give me top priority for the first cab. Obviously, a medical person cannot be delayed, rushing to save somebody's life. It works like a charm.
     We spend a third of our lives sleeping and probably another third waiting, waiting and waiting. It's time for all of us to shout, "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any longer!" Thanks to a great writer, Paddy Whatshisname. Please look him up. I just can't waste anymore time with any trivial matter.
     I hope this column gives everyone some hope. Our grandson, Jalen, at the age of 3.5 years, heard me say "there is no hope." Now, when he visits, he takes my flashlight and goes around the house to different rooms, saying, "I'm going to look for hope."
     Thanks for reading.

Rayl, The Indomitable Freeloader!

     When I lived in Manhattan, on the Upper Westside during the 50's, I had a spacious ground floor apartment with 3 bedrooms for $130 a month. My two roommates, Sperie and Bob, each paid me $50 a month for room and board. We had our own bedrooms, I shopped and cooked meals.
     Ray, the freeloader, dropped by every other night for leftovers. He was in his late 20's, resembled "Kramer" in the Seinfeld TV series and spoke with a lisp. Ray never turned his back on anyone. A few years later, I found out why. Ray was stone deaf and had to read lips. He was also a cheapskate and a deadbeat. Ray ate like a horse, always hungry.
     But we felt sorry for him. Ray had been kicked out of his family apartment near Columbia University when he failed in college and could never hold on to a job. At dinner, Ray would recite his latest misfortune and tolerate our amusement. For example, his last job lasted only a week, working for a Brooklyn company that manufactured accordians, $395 wholesale, retailing for $795.
     Ray's error was shipping fifty accordians to KCMO, that he thought was Knights of Columbus Missouri, instead of Kansas City, MO. Then he billed the music stores $3.95 for each instrument.
I forgot to mention that Ray was also an idiot.
     Sperie, Bob and I finally became tired of feeding Ray after a month when I served him dog biscuits covered with chocolate syrup for dessert. He lapped them up and smacked his lips with thanks. This was after he ate a baked potato, skin and all, and it had been in the oven only five minutes. He even wanted seconds!
     I asked Ray not to return for food because we just couldn't afford to feed him. He was out of our lives. But not so fast. An opportunity arose to throw him a bone, so to speak. I was scheduled to attend the Midwest Band Convention in Chicago at the Shorham Hotel, representing Premium Drums for two days of promotion.  But I had forgotten I was also booked for a lecture at the Eastman School of Music in Rochester, NY.
     Ray agreed to attend the Chicago convention as me and mingle with the musical instrument dealers, wearing my name tag. He also had to be me for the hotel room, as the Shorham was sold out. I would cover his expenses, plus he would return with a hundred dollars. A lot of money in those days.
     The plan was working. Alan Abel is now on stage in Rochester performing before 1,200 students, and he is also attending the Midwesst Band Convention in Chicago. Well, almost. Halfway through my lecture, the Dean walks out on the stage, I stopped talking, he whispers in my ear: "you have an emergency phone call backstage." I excused myself to the audience and said I would return shortly.
     During those steps to the telephone I could only imagine some tragedy within my family. But I remained calm, picked up the receiver and heard Ray's voice from Chicago:  "Alan, I know you said I was you in my hotel room and on the convention floor. But right now I'm on the balcony and don't know if I should be you or me."
     I assured Ray he could be me on the balcony and returned to my audience with the excuse,"that was my mother. everything is fine." The program was well received, I received a check for $300, returned to my car in the parking lot, rolled up the windows and screamed very loudly.
    

So You Say You Want A Recording Contract?

   Fat chance. First of all, recording companies don't open their mail. Why?  Because they could be sued when one of their artists is charged with plagiarism by a composer who sent the company his similar song some years earlier. Litigation is terribly expensive for both Plaintiff and Defendant. All mail is returned to sender unopened. That's homespun liability insurance.

     In the early sixties I had an idea for a percussion ensemble of six drummers playing a variety of instruments....namely xylophone, marimba, bells, vibes, tom-toms, drum kit, triangle, etc. I hired drummers who had played with the Radio City Music Hall and Roxy Theater orchestras.  We would record a demo. They could all sight read and play well. Bob Swan was an excellent musician on timpani and he had perfect pitch. Bob was also a good friend and managed the 55 member orchestra at Radio City.

     I tried delivering copies of the demo to record companies by messenger. They were all returned unopened and, obviously, unplayed. Very frustrating. I needed another game plan to bypass the resistance from record companies, and I came up with a bold plan: The First Percussion Sextet would go on an imaginary tour performing college concerts.

     Every week, I mailed a press release to each of a dozen record companies in New York City:

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:  "The drummers played several dozen instruments and delighted the overflow audience with their versatility and exciting new sounds of music......." 

     My mailings went on for six weeks and then BINGO!  RCA VICTOR Records wanted to hear the ensemble. George Avakian, Artists Director, called me and would send over a messenger for a copy of the demo ASAP. I played the messenger role (yes, I have a uniform for that purpose). I gain entrance to the company office and insure delivery of the coveted disk.

     Several days later Avakian called and said he was thrilled with the sounds of music from the array of percussion instruments. Could he send a recording crew to our next concert scheduled for the University of West Virginia in ten days?  I assured him we could arrange that, hardly containing my excitement.  He would messenger a contract to me and guarantee a $5,000 advance against royalties.

     After a quick trip to the bathroom, I called all our musicians to stand by for a trip and concert at Morgantown, West Virginia, with a dress rehearsal several days prior in New York City. Then, fingers crossed, I called the band director at the University and explained a free concert to be recorded by RCA VICTOR. He was delighted to arrange for the auditorium and would obtain local media coverage.

     Our entourage for the trip was two cars and a panel truck with instruments. The turnout was great, as were the reviews, and the RCA engineer with Cal the producer, captured enough musical material for two LP albums. Former Glenn Miller arranger Norm Leyden had created a spirited version of "St. Louis Blues" and Norman Beatty, talented composer-arranger and lead trumpet player at Radio City, accomplished the same excitement with "Where Or When" and several other popular tunes.

     Our first album sold well and resulted in our being booked on television for "Today," "I've Got A Secret" and "The Ed Sullivan Show." So you say you want a recording contract? Let me know. I might be able (no pun intended) to help.  BTW, this is the first disclosure about the fake tour and glowing reviews.

      My dictum is, if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. With giant steps of course.

How I Got Screwed By Phil Donahue!

     In the mid sixties Phil Donahue was a struggling talk show host on radio in Dayton,OH. His producer, Dick Thrall, was a friend from Columbus,OH and invited me to appear on Phil's show when I visited in-laws in Cincinnati. I made the trip and appeared half-a-dozen times in as many years before Phil graduated to Chicago and syndication on TV. He became a very hot property.
     But in the early Dayton days he was just another talker with an all-female audience of perhaps a hundred elderly ladies with their sewing or crocheting baskets. Their reward at the end of an hour show was trying to catch a loaf of white bread. Dozens of loaves were tossed to the ladies, many breaking open, spewing slices of bread all over the small studio. It was total mayhem, and Phil loved it. I didn't.
     I have about a hundred fan letters that Phil received commenting highly on my appearances with him. Listeners loved the banter between us and he played it straight when I proposed outlandish ideas for draining the Ohio River or attaching wheels to buildings so secretaries could pedal at work for exercise and transport the building into the country.
     In the early 70's I had my autobiography published by MacMillan, "Confessions of a Hoaxer," and the publicity manager asked me to call the the Phil Donahue Show and arrange an appearance to kick off book sales. I spoke with Phil's producer, Debbie, and she said she would get back to me ASAP.
     The next day she called me in New York: "Alan, I'm sorry but Phil feels that he has already interviewed you so many times in Dayton, he doesn't want to do it anymore. But thanks for the opportunity." I was flabbergasted! All those shows were done around Christmas when I left my family and often drove in miserable weather to entertain Donahue's audience. I never got paid and never even got a loaf of white bread. I was being screwed!
     When I reported back to Tom the publicity man at MacMillan, he too was shocked. "How could Donahue dismiss you when your life's story is being published, especially after all the shows you did for him, and now you need a favor in return. That, Alan, is a real bummer!"
     Nevertheless, I made the usual book tour and that helped sell a lot of books. But I carried a chip on my shoulder at being shut out by the guy I helped out in Dayton. Then, a few years later, one of his staff members called me and said, "Alan, I would like to send you a dozen tickets to the Phil Donahue Show, when we move to New York City and broadcast over the full NBC-TV network. Consider you and your friends to be a Welcome Wagon."
     I gritted my teeth. Here was my opportunity for revenge, to screw Phil Donahue royally. And did I ever hit the jackpot!  My fake organization was F.A.I.N.T., or Fight Against Idiotic Nogood Television. Flyers were printed for Informational Picketing and my cohorts rehearsed their roles, with Paul Hiatt, my long time associate in charge.
     The basic plan for the first live show with 400 in the audience, was for my team to raise their hands to question one of the eight senior citizens on stage, all in their 80's and gay. They were  coming out of the closet and revealing their secret lives. As each of my people stood and started to talk, they fainted. Then a few in the audience not with FAINT began feeling ill and fainted.
     It was pandemonium in Studio 8-C as medics arrived, Donahue announced on camera, "we just lost another one," and cleared the studio. He was out of control, perspiring perfusely and stuttering on camera as he tried to maintain composure without success. The show went off the air early. All this time I was in a nearby hotel room with friend Richard Crater, both of us laughing hysterically, tears flowing.
     That night, the NEW YORK POST carried the Page One headline: AUDIENCE FLEES DONAHUE SHOW. Phil was on all the TV news shows, still perspiring, out of control, trying to explain why: "It might have been the heat inside, the cold outside, the fact we were live across America or embarrassed because of the subject matter."
     Within a few days Phil learned I was the culprit and he kicked the furniture in his office. That is, until his ratings soared and I received a Christmas Card saying" May nothing in the New Year cause you to faint."   Hmmmmmm. Thanks Phil. And the same to you!