Banish Those Bad Day Blues

The trouble with all this I Hate Mondays and Terrible Tuesdays malarkey is that it's all so misplaced. How can an arbitrarily named day possibly be any worse (or better) than any other day? I mean, they're just names, right? If the name makes the day bad, then change the name. Call it Monkeyday or Fartday or what have you. It makes no difference. A day is a day is a day.

I fail to see why anyone has trouble with Tuesday anyway, at least at the Unbelievabase. Tuesday is whipped potatoes day, as well you know. Whipped potatoes are love. Whipped potatoes are life. Nothing beats whipping up a big batch and sitting with a heaping bowl in your sun lounger listening to the mellow strains of Andre Kostelanetz or Julie London and just kicking back. That makes any day into a happy day.

Some people think Sunday's the worst. it's the day before Monday, there's jack squat on TV and things close earlier. Boooorring! Even that can be cured with whipped potatoes and appropriate music.

It seems music can make the whole day better. If you could pick the right song for the right time at a moment's notice, wouldn't that be great? We certainly think so. Which is why we have created our own online music service. It's called Unbelievify™ and it'll be going live soon. Here's a glimpse inside the Unbelievify™ studios.

Unbelievababes Helga, Heidi and Hildreth (all communications majors at their respective colleges) spinning discs on demand for your listening pleasure.

Yes indeed, soon you will be able to banish a bad day with a moment's notice, with Unbelievify™ as your aid. 
World? You're welcome.


P.S. Don't forget the whipped potatoes.

Terrible Tuesdays

Michael's right, Mondays have a terrible and undeserved bad rep and we want to change that. Since this is entirely a public perception issue, a good place to start is to focus that misdirected ire at a worthy target.

Like Tuesday.

Tuesday, not Monday, is the absolute worst day of the week. How so? Glad you asked!

Let's say your grandmother is a terrible cook. I'm not saying that, except hypothetically. Actually, she's a good cook, except when it comes to meatloaf. Everything she makes is delicious but her meatloaf is godawful. You're scheduled to eat dinner at her house and that's fine as long as she doesn't make meatloaf. 

Guess what? 

She's making meatloaf.

Think of Monday as that first forkful of the steaming, dry, gray, grainy, crumbling ground beef compound, festooned with a sad drizzle of store-brand ketchup that lands on the table in front of you with a dull thud. You have to serve yourself a good-sized chunk of it and gulp it down with a brave face so Gam Gam thinks you like it and it isn't terrible. Well, it is terrible. It's the most terrible thing you've put in your mouth on purpose since that time in college. But, hey, if that were the only mouthful you had to choke down, you'd be okay. It's staring down the second bite when despair overcomes you and you realize that eating this is your foreseeable future. Tuesday is that second bite, where you put it in your mouth, which still has the nasty aftertaste left over from Monday, and swallow it with considerably more difficulty than you had with the first one. And then you look down at your plate and realize you're not even half finished.

Also, holidays. There are several Mondays throughout the year when the banks and post offices are closed and you get the day off, giving you a three day weekend. The only time you get a Tuesday off is when Christmas just happens to fall on that day. Otherwise, nothing. 

No, Mondays are not your problem. 

Tuesdays are.

Why in the world would you follow the lead of a corpulent cat who has no business trying to brush his teeth anyway?

Mondays

Mondays*.

Trust us: The Unbelievables will get to the bottom of this.

Of late (hokay ... probably the last 5 years or so) there's been an ever-growing contingent of Americans voicing their displeasure about Mondays, naturally begging many questions. 

Here are just a few:

• Why all the non-love of the first day of the week?
• Think about it: What does Wednesday (or Thursday or Tuesday for that matter) got that Monday doesn't have?
• What did Monday ever do to you?
• And think about this: Without Monday you would lose a day of the week. Translation: Your life would be shorter by 14.3%. And really ... who wants that? 
• Is this an epidemic? Or has all the "Monday hate" been around longer than anyone realizes with the advent of social media's naturally saturative nature simply putting it at the forefront of peoples' consciousnesses?

Well worry not, World: The Unbelievables are on the job ...

* Thank you Yvette Thomas

 

When Unbelievableness Goes Awry

Everyone loves The Unbelievables.

But some folks can take our fashion sense a bit too far ...

Be careful out there, people ...

Too much truth in advertising

Not all of the ads in the back of comic books and magazines were rip-offs. One, in particular, delivered EXACTLY what it promised...

Unfortunately, this also resulted in tragic consequences. 

First of all, Charles Atlas is a product of several Unbelievanars and we're actually quite proud of him for taking our lessons and doing something with his life. His muscle building program did in fact turn skinny wimps into slabs of walking, talking beefcake, yielding incredibly fast results. Usually in the time it takes to clean up your apartment after throwing a hissy fit and kicking your furniture all over the place. 

As it turns out, it worked too well. These emaciated namby-pambies got the body of a superstud without the mental and emotional training to be able to handle it. As you can see in the illustrated comic above, which details an actual true story, Mac responds to a verbal insult from a doughy beach jerk by physically assaulting the guy later. That is not an appropriate response. 

Worse, the comic doesn't show what happened immediately after the final panel...

Basically, Mac became far more of a menace to people at the beach than the original nuisance and was eventually hunted down and killed by snipers in police helicopters. 

There was one bright spot, however. Betty and Mac's victim consoled each other that day, started dating, fell in love, got married and eventually had and raised World Series hero Reggie Jackson.

Not Only Lies But Impending Doom

Jeff touched on the lies unbeknownst to us as kids.

But I'm going to bring to light something much more heinous than simple lies posted between the pages of our favorite funny books.

Something not only heinous but downright deadly.

Ever seen one of these things, a Swing Wing? They were popular for a moment in time back in the mid-60s:




Sure ... it looks fun. Carefree. It's plainly crafted to appear as if it will keep kids entertained for hours on end.

But that is a complete falsehood. In truth? It's downright deadly.

See the kid stumbling along while rotating his Swing Wing, trying to shuffle forward? (He's at the 14 second mark of the video.) Seconds later, you see him walking toward you listing to his left. That, folks, is the first sign of brain damage inflicted in the act of having "fun" with this suspect vintage toy.

Back in the day, you played with this thing once and you were addicted. Play with it over and over again and neck injuries ensued.

Then upper back problems followed.

Spinal deformation began to appear next.

Hip pain and inexplicable numbness slowly became evident.

Later? Death.

Yeah ... it's all fun and games until some kid croaks.

So The Unbelievables enlisted their buddy "Sfez" (one of our cadre of informants) to put together a little piece to showcase some of the dangers of the Swing Wing.

The finished product was disseminated on national television with just about every major network on board with its distribution. "The parents need to know what this thing does!" they cried.

Quicker than you can say "cervical fracture" the Swing Wing disappeared from store shelves.



Because ... no parent should have to lose a child to something like this.

It's not just criminals, ne'er-do-wells and thugs The Unbelievables rid the world of. We do our duty for the common good and for the future of humanity: The children.

Once again: World? You're welcome ...

Lies, Damned Lies and 4 to 6 weeks for Delivery

Remember when you were a kid and there were certain dubious ads in the back pages of your comic books?

No, I don't mean that kind of dubious. I mean the ones that promised amazing things, things that every young person would crave, but when you sent in your money and received your package 4 to 6 weeks later, you soon found out that the people selling these things were crooks. Con men. Full of horse pucky.

You know the sort of thing I mean. Here's an example...

Ever wish you could see through walls? Or ladies clothes? (Hello, ladies!!) Or men's clothes, if you're so inclined? Well, for a measly buck you can have X-ray vision!

All you have to do, says the ad, is buy these special X-ray glasses and you can let your inner creepy perv out to play. Also, you'll be in demand from local hospitals and doctors for your ability to diagnose people at a glance.

However,the reality is this. You wait six to eight weeks for that cheery knock on the front door only to find out that these X-ray glasses did not in fact use real X-rays (which is good, because if they did, there'd be people walking around everywhere with massive head tumours)and wouldn't let you see through anything. In fact, you could barely see through the tiny hole in the center.


These X-ray specs consisted of two bits of cardboard with a piece of tracing paper between them to blur your vision, causing two slightly offset images which gives the illusion of an X-ray. In other words they give you blurred vision, which you could already get for free by merely squinting. 

Here's another timeworn example...

A machine that turns plain ordinary paper into cold hard cash, simply by turning a knob. Sounds good. Sounds incredible. Sounds highly illegal. But even if it is illegal, you're just a kid, right? You'll never do any porridge. Besides, by the time they cotton onto your counterfeit operations you'll be filthy rich and can afford a top-flight defence team. So why worry?

You have to put money in it first. I mean, sure... it looks like paper is going in and coming out as money but it's all a farrago.


The only way you'll make money with this thing is to sell it to some other sucker and then move to Alaska.

One more...

Tired of being a shrimp? Everybody knows tall people get more girls and better jobs. But body-lengthening surgery is a tad pricey, so why not invest $1.98 and get a pair of "liftee" height-increasing pads.


Yes, they're just wedges you put in your shoes. I mean, OK, according to the picture in the ad they'll make you an incredible eight inches taller, but you will feel like this...

Another question that arises is the slightly odd promise of 'romance' occurring once you start wearing these. But what happens when you take the girl home and take your shoes off? Buddy, you'd better have something else with which to impress the lady. Like an amazing six-pack or an MBE or fat piles of cash from your money-making machine. 


Then there's the claim that you'll "Find and qualify for the best jobs". I can just see that scenario. 
"Well, you've flunked out of three schools, been expelled from five and you've never passed a single exam, however, you are extremely tall. Congratulations, you're our new attorney-at-law."

Anyway, as I was saying, you almost never see these kinds of ads anymore, and do you want to know why?

We've been slowly but surely eradicating them. Oh yes. You didn't think they'd disappear by themselves, did you?
You're welcome, world.

Michael and Clark will clue you in on some more of our covert ops later in the week.

Love, Peace And Harmony

As Clark said at the beginning of the week:

"Ringo Starr is a man who has dedicated his life to promoting the concepts of Peace and Love, just like us."

And, with all the peace and love and goodwill going around, it's an interesting side note to clue you in on yet another heretofore unknown item about The Unbelievables:

Now, it's common knowledge we've invented quite a few things. Unbelieva-Fu, Unbelieva-Tips, Unbelieva-Zen, the oh-so-useful Unbelievinars ... the list goes on and on and on.

But ... did you know we invented the peace sign?

Yup. Back in the very late 50s we began using it, the three of us, as an indicator everything was "a-okay" as we staked out suspects or when we wanted to let one another know from a distance, without yelling or otherwise making noise, things were proceeding as planned.

(Additionally, it was one of our go-to gestures letting us know we'd be imbibing at least TWO beers when we got off the clock ... but that's another story entirely.)

So ... we may have "borrowed" the gesture from Churchill.

But we were the ones who made it really popular ...

Well, sir ... shooting the index and middle finger in the air and giving the slight wave of the hand caught on with just about everyone ... and especially with the kids. Of course, the Flower Children movements came along, burning bras, government sit-ins, peaceful war protests and all that stuff where the sign just flourished from the west coast right on through to the Atlantic shore. Everybody and his brother flashed the sign. It even caught on in Jeff's neck of the woods in the UK. Kind of cool that something so simple could cross a big, wide ocean and become universally recognized.

And recognized it was, by the small and the tall, by John Q. Public up the block right on through to well-to-do Hollywood types. One would think that guy up top popularized it himself. But he didn't - it's been a common gesture since the dawn of rock and roll, popular with bands, solo artists and all musicality in between, simply for the coolness of it.

See for yourself ...

 Hendrix was into it at Woodstock ...

 So was Ringo's buddy John ...

 

... and Neil Young ...

Bono ...

The Great Ray Charles ...

The King Of Pop ...

That Johnny Cash. He always was a rebel, doing his own thing.

Plus, many others not necessarily related to music
but rock stars in their own right easily flashed the sign like:
Steve McQueen ... though doing so in a mug shot.

The great activist and humanitarian Martin Luther King, Jr.

Remember this little guy? He was an ultra-popular as a curio back in the day.

 

And then there was Dubya ... who never could quite get it right.

You can't win'em all ...

I think you get the picture.

The point of all this: Go out today, tomorrow, sometime later in the week and flash that peace sign at someone as a gesture of harmony and good will. And do it knowing full well The Unbelievables have, yet again, contributed general well being to the populace at large ... through your benevolence to your fellow man and woman. 

World? You're welcome.

 

The Dogs Of Rock

So as Clark was saying on Monday, Ringo is all about #peaceandlove, as are we Unbelievables. And one of the ways we ensure the peace and love quotient of the world is being maintained is with the help of our global network of undercover operatives, moles and informants. But did you think that all of our undercover operatives, moles and informants were humans? Tsk tsk. Surely you remember the story of the Double 'D' Dames and their sinister involvement with one Mac Ramey?

This dude.

You do? Then no doubt you remember that we couldn't have cracked the case without the help of our canine chum, Ulf The Unbelievadog.

Good boy, Ulf! Cuff'em and stuff'em!

Well, would it surprise you to learn that we have a global network of Ulf's poochy pals who are specially designated to keep tabs on the rock 'n' roll community, and alert us to any situation where a rock star might be getting in too deep. Not the usual rock and roll excess, you unnerstan'. That's par for the course in the music biz. No, we mean when rock stars do things that are a bit too un-rock'n'roll. Need a few examples? I thought so.

Jim Morrison gave Parisian Labrador Phaideaux here no end of trouble - writing poetry and wanting to be taken seriously etc. 

Skipper was there to make sure Bret Michaels' coffee-table book of, ahem, "Artistic polaroids" never saw the light of day.

Fizzer was on hand guarding Keith Richards from the perils of fundraising for disabled veteran Test cricketers.

Even Ringo needed help from Fluffbag when he foolishly started wearing turtlenecks.

Janis Joplin, shown here with Mister Squiffles, who alerted us to the fact that Janis was ordering clothes from the Sears catalog. How un-rock'n'roll!

Here's the amazing Gruff-Gruff with Fab Macca Wacky Thumbs Aloft himself. Gruff-Gruff is shown teaching Paul how not to be a total nob who's completely up himself.

Ozzy was best pals with Squeeks, or Agent X-7a as we knew him. He would bite Ozzy's ankles whenever he caught him clipping coupons.

The Spotzenheimer twins making sure that Roger Daltrey behaved himself in the sheep pasture. 

Fred and Dorinda Basset teaching a young E. Presley, Esq. how NOT to pull up his socks.

Last but by no means least, Simon Weimaraner helping a brain-addled Trent Reznor off the carpet in the lobby of the DoubleTree Suites. He'd tripped on a kink in the rug after one too many double mocha cappuccinos.

So as you can see, were it not for the intervention of certain furry four-footed friends, the history of rock might be quite different from the way it is today. And it's not just dogs, either.

Tibblekins acted as a therapeutic pet for Joey Ramone when he was all angsty and feeling like buying La-Z-Boy armchairs. His soothing purr made Joey all happy again.

Only trouble is, spending time among the rockers of the world can rub off on you, as Jose Fur-liciano found out when he was adopted by Keith Flint of Prodigy.

We are all part of the All-Starr Band

You can't spell "Beatles" without "Beat". Take the Beat away and you're left with Les. I have no idea who Les is. Nice guy? Maybe. But he's not four cheeky lads from Liverpool who forever changed the way we do everything, from holding hands to coming together. And who kept the Beat for the Beatles? Ringo Starr, that's who.
For the longest time, people have sought to diminish Ringo's contributions to what is arguably the greatest rock band of all time, which is unfortunate, misguided and unfair.
If you're one of these people, simply take this short quiz and find out how wrong you are:

HOW MUCH DO YOU REALLY KNOW ABOUT THE BEATLES?

Were/Are you John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison or Ringo Starr?

a) Yes

b) No

• If you answered "a", you get 100 points. Unless you're lying, in which case you get zero points because we do not reward liars.
• If you answered "b", you get zero points

SCORING:

• 100+ points = You know a lot about the Beatles!
• 0 - 99 points = You don't really know anything about the Beatles.

"B" respondents: None of these guys is you

So as you can see, you either know how important Ringo was to the Beatles or you know nothing at all. Either way, there's no point in us telling you about it.

Ringo Starr is a man who has dedicated his life to promoting the concepts of Peace and Love, just like us. He does it though music and being a benevolent spirit. We do it through butt-kicking, style and driving the ladies wild.

We love you too. Relax.

He celebrated his 75th birthday the other day and we wish him the best.

More Peace and Love from Jeff and Michael later this week...

The Woman With No Name, Part 3

I ran out into the verdant gardens surrounding our Stiletto Flats compound (they really are beautiful this time of year - here's a picture if you're really interested)

and gave chase to The Woman With No Name. Alas, she'd gotten too much of a head start and managed to give me the slip.

However, in her hurry to leave, she left some items lying on the path in the picture above, so I grabbed them up and took them to the guys. 

"Guys, " I said, panting a little since I had been running outdoors in desert temperatures (kinda makes you wonder how our gardens look so good, dunnit? Well, I'm sure you know how we are fabulously wealthy playboys, so of course we don't do our own gardening - don't be silly! No, we have a team of Unbelievababes who receive a pretty penny from us for working their horticultural magic on our backyard.

This is Valerie.

Birgitte...

Gaby...

and Raquel.

These four do a fantastic job of ensuring our gardens look lush and beautiful year-round.)so, anyway, where was I? Ah yes.

"Guys, " I said again, "what do you make of this??"

Of course, it wasn't this neatly arranged when I found it, but I didn't really have time to go get my camera and take a picture. Time was, as they say, of the essence. But you get the idea.

"Well," replied Clark, "I'm no expert, but that looks to me like all the tools a person would need to have with them if they were in the massage biz - specifically the holistic therapy kind."

"Why on earth would a nameless masked female-type woman of the lady variety be carrying massage equipment-"

"Holistic therapy massage equipment," interjected Clark. Sometimes he can be a real know-it-all, you know?

"Holistic therapy massage equipment, my apologies. Why would she be carrying that while sneaking around Michael's room at night?" I asked.

Clark and I both looked at Michael.

An awkward silence ensued.

Finally, Michael spluttered, "Whaaat!?! What are you guys looking at me for....?"

"Oh come on, Michael. We do this for a living. We see the evidence, add it all up and come to a logical conclusion."

"B-But..."

"And the obvious conclusion," sighed Clark, "is that that wasn't the Woman With No Name at all, but some massage babe-"

"Holistic therapy massage babe", quoth I.

"Holistic therapy massage babe, I'm sorry, Jeff," continued Clark, "who just happened to be giving Michael's gnarly feet the once-over, among other things, isn't that right, Michael?"

Michael blushed and fessed up. He'd been secretly having his feet worked on, among other things, by a hot masseuse holistic therapy masseuse because he was so embarrassed about the state of his feet.

NOT Michael's feet. But you get the idea.

So we still don't know who the Woman With No Name is. She could be anywhere, doing anything. 

She could be this lady...

or this...

or this...

or even this.

But one thing is for sure. When you see her, you'll have no idea who she is.