An Introduction To Rory Bumpers

So over the weekend, I was going through some of my old files and came across the long lost Rory Bumpers columns. In 2000, my friend Max and I worked at a place called SportsPage.com. We didn't have any sports reporters, we didn't go to games and yet somehow, we still lost out to cbsportsline and espn.com. What can you do?

Anyway, Max and I created a character called Rory Bumpers, who was basically an old school super celebrity. As the story goes, he was huge between '51 and '78, then disappeared for about 22 years, only to make a triumphant return at SportsPage.com.

Now - for only the second time online! - I offer you the entire Rory Bumpers catalog. Sixty-some daily columns written between March 30 and June 26, when SportsPage.com went kaput.

And again, this was in 2000, so the sports news is, um, somewhat dated.

March 30th

Greetings, amigos! Bumpers here. I’m on a bus right now heading back to L.A. from my weekend getaway at the Betty Ford Clinic. I don’t care who you are, where you’re from, or what you do. If you want to get away and forget the stress of this workaday world, or if you’re battling a crippling addiction, nothing beats the serenity of the West Wing of the BFC. Which reminds me, Chevy Chase says hello.

Give me a second here to think about what I want to do with my first column. This is a big one. Sets the stage and whatnot. Of course, with that radio show, I hope I’m not spreading myself too thin. Okay, I’ve got it! Let’s talk basketball. College basketball.

After the regular season and three more weeks, we’re down to just two teams. The Michigan State Tigers, and the kids from Florida. My God, let me think who will win this game. I missed Saturday’s games because it was arts and crafts day at the Betty. I hear Wisconsin played a hell of a game.

While the popsicle stick house I made on Saturday is charming, it doesn’t tell me anything about who’s going to win tonight. Let me consult my good friend Johnnie Walker, who always has the answers. It’ll take a while because the bottle’s pretty full, but by the time I reach the bottom, old Johnnie will have told me who will win. That’s a little trick I learned when I was still knocking’ em dead in Carson City. Worked in a little joint called the "Yellow Nugget".

Speaking of Carson City, I ran into that young pup Carson Daly. I don’t know about you, but if you ask The Showman, this kid has the charisma of an old brown shoe. I’ve been more entertained by long division. In my day, you had to earn your way on television. What’s that? Oh, I’m sorry, my friend Johnnie is telling me not to bitch.

Okay, I’m back. Sorry about that. I dozed off for the past four hours. Ever wake up with your forehead in a TV dinner? I’m here to tell you it ain’t pretty.

Vasco de Gama did the devil’s work. You can’t trusst Portugale. Peach pie is tasty. So is Bernadette Peters. I tried to jump in her britches once, but she sprayed me in the eyes with Channel number five. Getting so tired.
ggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggsdgnhjdfhsgrsdghtrh45#.
I’m sorry about that, I’m drunk. Drunk like a fox! Until tomorrow, this is The Showman reminding you, don’t accept wooden nickels.

April 3rd

Good day, people! The Showman here. Holy crap, was I wrong about last night’s game! Not at all what I thought it would be like. Turned out completely different. I had no idea. But what a game! I haven’t seen such excitement since that time Bing Crosby and I beat Jimmy Demaret and Uncle Miltie in a three-legged race at the Binger’s annual clambake. Yes, that sure was some game. I don’t think I’ll ever see anything like that ever again.

All right, I can’t lie to you. I didn’t watch last night’s game. Forgot all about it. Oh well, there’s always next year…I guess.

I read in the paper this morning that Opening Day for baseball was yesterday. Sports Illustrated picked Boston to win it all. Then yesterday Larry King picked the Red Sox to win it all, too. Memo to Larry: Reading something somewhere and then writing it down in your column does not make for good reading. I think it’s over, buddy.

Which reminds me, I read that NBC cancelled God, the Devil and Bob. I don’t know what that means, but it sure sounds interesting.

A friend told me Carson Daly mentioned me by name on his little music television program there yesterday. Said I was a washed up old coot, or something to that effect. I didn’t see it, but if he did say something, I like his moxie. I’ll make sure he gets a case of Chivas courtesy of The Showman.

But this column is about sports, not those bright lights of Hollywood that burnt me up so severely. So let’s see what’s going on in the sports world. Well, there was that basketball game last night. And baseball is underway. Just think, in only six months we’ll be talking about the World Series, the Fall Classic. It really makes you think, doesn’t it?

Let’s get back to the American pastime. A lot of people out there are carping because the Yankees and Braves keep buying championship teams. It’s not fair, they say. Let me tell you something. This is America! And we love capitalism! If somebody has the money to buy themselves a nice ballclub, I say God bless ‘em. If money was a bad thing, we’d all hate the Vanderbilts.

Man, those Lakers are something else, huh? I don’t know what it is, but they keep winning.
I think that’s about enough for today. I gotta do one of these five times a week for the next who knows how many weeks, and I don’t want to burn myself out too fast. Lord knows I did that the first time around. So until tomorrow, this is The Showman saying good night, and you know I love you.

April 5th

Good day, sportsfans. The Showman here. Let me grab the sports section of my local rag and see what’s going on in the world today…

How about the stock market? Down 600 points yesterday. Thank God I don’t have any money to invest. But if I did have money, I’d throw it all into beta video. VCRs are going to be huge one day, baby. That’s a little tip from The Showman to you.

Around the NFL now. The new schedules came out yesterday for the 2000 season. Because there’s an odd number of teams these days, at least one team has a bye each week. Including the first and last week of the season. That makes about as much sense as Joan and Melissa Rivers’ Oscar show. Which reminds me, when I walked into the Shrine Auditorium last Sunday for the annual glitzy Oscarcast, Joan asked me who I was wearing and Melissa asked me how much it cost. What ever happened to tact, folks? Damn nepotism.

Let’s talk a look into Rory’s foggy crystal ball now, whaddaya say?

Baseball: I like the Yankees and the Braves. What more do you want from me? Of course, my sleeper pick is the Twin Cities darlings, the Twins. Which is far and away the best Triple-A team out there.

Basketball: The Lakers and Knicks. Those are two basketball teams.

Hockey: I haven’t followed the pucks much since the North Stars left town, but I hear good things about that Detroit team.

On a personal note, Happy Birthday today to television’s Tracey Gold. Here’s hoping for another fabulous year, sweetheart. Even though we all go through some "growing pains", I’d love to have you as my "daughter".

Short article today. But you know the old show biz rule, always leave ‘em wanting more.

I’m winkin’ at ya and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman,

Aloha From Augusta

Greetings, sportsfans. The Showman here. Today I’m coming to you from the cozy confines of Magnolia Lane. The good folks at SportsPage.com were kind enough to let me borrow the company biplane to fly down to Augusta National, one of my many stomping grounds back in the late ‘50s.

I remember the very first time I steered my Caddy off of Washington Road onto Magnolia Lane. It’s an amazing feeling, and one some players will experience for the first time this week. Coming up that tree-lined path, I got a feeling I can only describe as warm. A feeling I’ve only experienced on stage at the Copa…and in saunas…and on really hot days.

The first round I ever played at Augusta featured myself and Ike Eisenhower versus Sam Snead and Bob Hope in a $50 Nassau. Now, the Slammer hates to lose more than anybody I ever met, but somehow the ex-Commander in Chief and I managed to get three strokes a side.
I shot a 35 on the front, but spent a little too much time in the halfway house at the turn and carded a 48 on the back. If you know Ike, you know that we pressed the hell out of Snead and Hope down the stretch, but the sun wasn’t shining on us that day. And when you’re trying to putt with the shakes, it ain’t pretty.

Our biggest problem came on 17. As usual, Dwight hooked his drive smack into the big ol’ tree that sits off the left edge of the fairway. I’ve seen the General knock that tree so many times, I told Mamie after the round they should just call it Eisenhower’s Oak. Well, one of the members overheard me, and said it’s actually an elm, not an oak. That irked me something good. I was about to give the guy the old 1–2 when he said it was actually a pretty clever nickname. A week later, the board passed a resolution, and next thing you know, the members are advising each other to avoid Eisenhower’s Tree on 17.

That wasn’t the only thing I named at Augusta, though. The little place where they try on those green sportcoats used to be called Bumpers Cabin. One night Grantland Rice put away a little too much rye whiskey while writing his newspaper story and misstyped it as Butler Cabin. Unfortunately for The Showman, the name stuck. But those are stories for another day. I tell you what folks, when I look back on the life The Showman has led, all I can say is "wow" and "ouch".

Yes, I’ve had some great moments at The Masters over the past 40 years, and I expect the great moments to continue in 2001. Everybody’s saying Tiger this and Tiger that, but if you ask me, watch out for Parnevik this week. That Swede may wear some funny pants, but he’s got a swing smoother than cold buttermilk.

Oh, I almost forget. In 1962, I wrote a Masters haiku for a Japanese fan of mine that came over to watch the tournament. I don’t know what it is about the Island of the Moon, but those cats love my act. The haiku goes a little something like this:

Watch Amen Corner.
Avoid water on the left.
Green jackets? Yes, please.

Here’s a little tip from Uncle Rory. Find yourself a television, grab some Cutty Sark with ice and watch as much of the coverage as you can. See if you can spot The Showman. I’ll be the handsome fella in the blue shirt.

On a final note, for those of you that say The Showman’s best days are behind him, I just wrapped up a voice over session. It’s for an animated show called Castoway, and it debuts in a few weeks. Keep an eye out for my name in the credits.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

Let's Trade That Little Cuban Boy For Some Pitching Prospects

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. Another day, another column. But at least it’s Friday, so I’m starting to wind down in preparation for my big weekend. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’m sure it’ll be grand. I’m also sure it’ll involve some heavy drinking. Then again, most days do.

Just a few quick notes from down here at Augusta. Tiger three-putted for the first time in a while and also scored his first double bogey in a while. When he was done with that, he made a triple on the 12th. I don’t care what these commercials say, no one person can tame golf. On a personal note, I have a tough time golfing myself. Of course, I’m playing with brass balls. Ha! That’s a little Friday humor from your pal Rory.

I’m looking at the top of the leaderboard, and staring back at me is the name Dennis Paulson. The question on most people’s minds is "Who is this guy?" Then again, they said the same thing the first time I was on the Sullivan show. I knocked ‘em dead, and after that they knew me as The Showman.

The Lakers won again Wednesday night. Man, is Shaq good or what? Let’s give that cross-eyed giant the trophy for MVP, declare the Lakers champs and save ourselves some time. I can’t think of a single team in the East that could give the Lakers a game. Maybe the old Fort Wayne Pistons, but it’s been a long time since they’ve taken the court. Which reminds me, what ever happened to short shorts?

In baseball, Pittsburgh’s Francisco Cordova almost threw the season’s first no-no yesterday, but lost it on an Astro double in the eighth. Oh well, maybe next time, kid.

I pick myself up a newspaper about every three days, and it seems like whenever I do, that little Elliott kid is on the front page. I say we send the tot back to Cuba in exchange for a couple of pitching prospects and forget about the whole damn thing. I don’t want to get much into politics on a Friday, but I remember playing some cabanas in Cuba in the ‘50s before the Reds stormed in. They had a beautiful island there once.

So that’s it fans. I’m getting an early start to the weekend. I suggest you do the same.

I’m winkin’ at ya and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

When She Was 17, I Had A Very Good Year

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. So it’s prom night in Pewaukee. That’s in Wisconsin for those of you that don’t know. Just outside of Milwaukee. What’s the prom theme this year? Packer tight ends. If you were a gal coming of age on the biggest night of your young life, and you found yourself in a hot tub with a man named Chewy, what would you do?

Folks, take it from me. It ain’t easy when everybody wants a piece of you. I remember back in ’62 when I was on the tail end of a grueling midwest tour. I was in Minnesota doing a fundraiser for Hubert H. Humphrey. So I was doing my act, and the whole time there’s a little filly in the front row giving me a look that said, "I want to rub your arms, Showman."

After the show, I was in my dressing room enjoying my usual post-show Dagwood sandwich when I heard a gentle rapping on my chamber door. I wrapped a robe around my naked body and went to see who it was. Wouldn’t you know it? It was that little filly from the front row. The stars aligned and so did our eyes, so we decided to go for a drive in my brand new Caddy.

I awoke the next morning with a pounding headache and the steering wheel in my hands. Lying next to me was the gal from the night before, looking younger than ever in the morning sunlight. I had a bad taste in my mouth, so I rooted through her purse looking for some spearmint gum. I didn’t find any Wrigley’s, but I did find her identification. As it turns out, my new friend was only 17! The Showman had a spot of trouble on his hands.

Well, the next thing I know, there’s a fierce pounding on my door. I wrapped a robe around my naked body and went to see who it was. Bad news, sportfans. It was John Law himself. Thinking quickly, I told the officers that she never told me her age, and if she was 17, she was 17 going on 25, wink wink.

The officer explained that the law in Minnesota was "16 and a day, she’s okay". But that wasn’t why he was here. He wanted to know why there was a Cadillac with no steering wheel wrapped around the oak tree in my front yard. I told him it was probably just some teenagers out joyriding last night. He had no idea how right I was. They thanked me for my time, asked for a few autographs and got back to their beat. People, I’ve never been happier to see my tax dollars at work.

All I’m trying to say folks, is that I know where Marty Chmura’s coming from. When you’re in the limelight, everybody wants a piece of you. And when you’ve downed a few cocktails, well, all bets are off.

I’m winkin’ at ya and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

Famous People I Know

Hey sportsfans. Bumpers here. I’m trying not to type too loudly this morning. My head feels as if it was smashed in a car door. Repeatedly. Ohhhhhhhhhhh. Long night last night. I’ll tell ya what, Dustin Diamond is a good time waiting to happen. He’s the talented little scamp that played Screech on that show Saved by the Whatever, and let me tell you, he’s that funny in real life too.

Dustin and I were out at one of those trendy hotspots on Sunset here in Hollywood. We ran into Rhea Perlman, who was making out in a corner with Anthony Michael Hall. Aw hell, wait a minute, I wasn’t supposed to mention that because she’s married. Forget I said anything about it. Damn this spinning head of mine. I guess I could back up and erase that, but I just want to get this thing over with.

So me, Dustin, Rhea and Tony Hall are elbow deep in a pitcher of Bud Ice when somebody says "Let’s go bowling, Showman!" We hit the Hollywood Lanes on Santa Monica, and the celebrity sightings didn’t stop there. We ran into C. Thomas Howell. Apparently, he got himself a job as a pin monkey. And just between you and The Showman, this kid has really let himself go.

Well, one beer led to another, and the next thing I know, I’m making out with Rhea. We stopped the smooching because it was my turn to bowl. So I stand up, look to the side, and there’s Emilio Estevez, Gheorge Muresan and Picabo Street bowling in the lane next to us. I don’t know how the hell those three hooked up, but they looked to be having the time of their lives. And I’ll tell you what else, that eight-foot guy is a damn fine bowler.

I don’t remember the scores, or really anything else about last night, but I do know I woke up at the bowling alley this morning face down in the gutter. It was the first time I woke up in a bowling alley, but not the first time I woke up in a gutter. The morning janitor, Pedro Perez, nudged me awake with his lane waxer and sent me on my way.

So that’s what I did last night. I know this column is supposed to be about sports and all, but let’s be honest, Tony Mike Hall did a fantastic job in Johnny Be Good. Very believable.
Keep the faith, sportsfans. Hopefully I’ll have something good to say tomorrow.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

Ever Been Traded For A Chimp? Try To Avoid It.

Greetings, sportsfans! The Showman here. Lots of news swirling around the sports world today. Lots of news swirling around The Showman’s world too, but they don’t pay me to talk about myself.

I see that Keyshawn Johnson is getting around $63 million to play football in Tampa. In my best year, I only netted $75,000. Man, how times have changed. If I were still on top today, I’d be making enough money to buy Canada. I should’ve bought it when it was on sale back in 1958. But my manager told me it would only go down in value. Who knew spring water could prove to be so profitable?

I think the Keyshawn trade is great for both parties. The Bucs get a big star for their offense, and the Jets get to control the first round. You know, The Showman’s made a few deals in his lifetime. I remember one time I did a command performance for Jack Kennedy at the White House. After the show, JFK and I were a little into our cups, and we worked out a deal. I would give him two gold records, my manager’s pet chinchilla Rex and two months in my beach house for one of Jackie’s pearl necklaces and three Secret Service agents. Needless to say, we nixed the deal the next morning after we sobered up, but I really could’ve used those G-men on my next tour.

Then there was time Bobby Darin and I almost swapped wives. Man, that was a bad scene.
Of course, the most degrading trade I’ve ever been involved in came toward the twilight of my career. My record label, Columbia, traded me to a small independent label in Missouri for an organ grinder’s chimp. Let me tell you people, when you find out you’ve been traded for a monkey, you might as well break out the Dewar’s. Because you have some long, sad days in front of you.

Anyways, it seems like Tampa Bay and Washington are having a little battle to see who can buy the Super Bowl first. But they’re forgetting one little thing. Chemistry. If you don’t think chemistry is important, go rent Blown Away. The dynamic bond between Corey Haim and Corey Feldman saved what could have been a disastrous picture.

So to sum up today’s article, chemistry is good and people make trades. And being traded for a dancing chimp in a bellhop’s uniform really makes you question your place in the world.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

And With The Fourth Pick, The Cincinnati Bengals Take...Harrison Ford

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. Today’s column is going to be short and sweet because my neighbor and good friend, Jm. J. Bullock, has invited me to a clambake at his weekend retreat in Monterey. And if you know Jm. J. like I do, you know his clambakes are always a wild shindig. Not many women there, but fun nonetheless. If I remember the last one correctly, Loni Anderson took on David Crosby in an oyster eating contest. And Loni won! God, she is really put together, people.

But let’s get to the sports. Everybody is getting all hyped up for the draft this weekend. Who’s going number one is the question on everybody’s mind. Will Cleveland take Courtney Brown or Lavar Arrington? Will the Jets trade their four first-round picks for Cleveland’s number one? Well, if you want my opinion, we’ll just have to wait until tomorrow to find out. Here’s a little tip to Cincinnati. Draft Harry Ford with that fourth pick. He may not be a great football player, but he sure can put fans back in the seats.

I was almost drafted once. Uncle Sam wanted to stop the Reds from taking over Korea. Which presented a problem for The Showman. I was 18 and my career was just getting underway. My first agent, Benny Schwartzsteinberg, advised me that being sent to bomb the 33rd parallel wouldn’t be a great career move. Fortunately, he was the cousin of the head of the Minnesota draft board. So I went into my local draft office, crooned a few bars and was declared 4F faster then you can say "Kim Il Sung". The official reason? Flat feet. But it was really because Uncle Sam knew I could serve my country better behind a microphone than a machine gun turret.

Baseball fans may have noticed that the Kansas City Royals swept the Baltimore Orioles in a three game series this week. Nothing out of the ordinary until you consider the payroll of the Orioles is about three times that of the boys from the Dairy State. Which just goes to show you, money isn’t everything. They say money can’t buy happiness, but try telling that to a guy with $100,000 and a three-day weekend in Vegas. If that guy ain’t having fun by Monday, check him for a pulse.

The hockey playoffs are underway. I tried to watch a little of the games last night, but the only thing I like on ice is Johnnie Walker Red.

Well, I’m outta here. I have to go pack for this weekend. On the way up to Jm. J’s wingding, I’m playing at Pebble with my regular foursome. Me, Andy Richter, Nancy Sinatra and Liz Taylor’s fourth husband. We’ll put a little money down on the match, as long The Showman gets three strokes a side. But let me warn you folks, if you ever catch yourself in a foursome with Nancy, she’s a hell of a sandbagger. And if you catch yourself in a threesome with her, you’re a luckier man than I.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

Rory Told You So

The NFL Draft has come and gone. Now that the excitement has died down, I guess we just have to wait for the regular season. Not many surprises in the first round. Cleveland didn’t shock anybody when they took Courtney Brown. The Browns took a guy named Brown. Am I the only one that gets a kick out of that?

I couldn’t help but noticed that the Cincinati Bengals ignored The Showman’s advice and drafted Peter Warrick with the fourth overall pick. Fans of this column will recall that on Friday, I advised the Bengals to draft consummate leading man Harrison Ford, knowing that having Ford in the lineup equals a sellout every week. Not to mention the legions of female fans he’ll bring to each game.

But for whatever reason, Cincinnati did their own thing. If you ask me, they’ll pay the price for it when they’re playing to half-sold venues in week eight. Which got me to thinking. I’ve given all kinds of advice over the years. Some good, some bad. Let’s take a look at some of my best tips, and decide how it turned out.

• Nancy Sinatra is working on an record called "These Sandals Are Made For Walking." I brought a sack of Montecristo sandwiches by for lunch, and Nancy played me the cut. On the spot, I said, "Nancy, great riff, but it needs more punch. Try ‘boots’ instead of ‘sandals’ dollface." RORY’S CALL – GOOD ADVICE
• Jack Kennedy and I are playing golf in Hyannis Port. JFK double-bogeys 17 and 18 to lose the match, and comes off the course hotter than hell. To make things worse, brother Bobby meets us at the 19th hole and tells Jack that the Russkies are starting to aim missiles at us from Cuba. Well, Jack just about hits the roof. He strategized a plan to bomb Moscow back to the Stone Age. Knowing that a nuclear fallout would really cramp my style, I said to Jack, "Let’s get Nikita Krushchev on the phone right now, and straighten this whole mess out." We tried to dial up Moscow for nearly two hours, but we got a busy signal every time. I said, "What are you, kidding me? You guys should have a direct line right to Nikita!" The next week, they installed the red phone. RORY’S CALL – GOOD ADVICE
• More with Jack. We’re enjoying cocktails out in the Rose Garden one night, and he’s staring at the moon like he’s half werewolf. I asked him what’s up, and he guaranteed to me that a man would be trotting around on the moon before 1970. I told him to forget it, it’s impossible. The moon is billions of miles away, and besides, what the hell do you need to go up there for anyway? It’s just rocks. Eight years later, that cat Neil Armstrong changed the course of human history. RORY’S CALL – BAD ADVICE
• I run out for a case of scotch, and for whatever reason, I bump into Chevy Chase. I told him how I just watched Caddyshack and loved it. He asked me what he should work on next, and I advised him to get production rolling on Caddyshack 2 as soon as possible. But this time, add Jackie Mason to the mix. He made some calls and got it made. It bombed horribly. But let’s not forget, I was drunk off my ass when I gave that advice. RORY’S CALL – PUSH
• In the ‘80s this time. Coming off a wicked bender, I pop into my local McDonald’s for a Big Mac because greasy food always helps my hangover. For whatever reason, I get home and forget about the burger. A few hours later, I came back to soggy mess. In a rage, I fired off a letter to McDonald’s saying that they need to keep the hot side hot, and the cool side cool. A few months later, I tried the new McDLT. Jesus, that sucked. But I will admit that the hot side was hot and the cool side was cool. RORY’S CALL - ?

So that just goes to show you, folks. When The Showman gives you some advice, you’d better listen up. Unless it’s bad advice. Then you’re on your own.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

Rory Talks To His Fans - Clean Version

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. It’s another roly-poly Tuesday, and you know what that means. First off, let get something out of the way. I lost a bet to my good friend and car pool buddy Lorzenzo Lamas over the weekend, and so I promised him I would mention him in an article this week. There! You happy now, Street Hawk?

Moving on, it’s time for a little Q and A session with The Showman. I’ve been bombarded with questions since posting my email address yesterday, so I chose a select few to answer in person. To the rest of you, you’ll be receiving an autographed headshot of The Showman in 8–10 weeks.

Dear Rory,
I join my husband and our two children, ages 13 and 9, for family movie night every Thursday. I was wondering if you had any recommendations on what we should watch this week.
- Carol B.
Worcester, MA

Carol,
I have many favorite movies in all different genres. I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention my Oscar-nominated hit, Eggs For Breakfast, Eggs For Dinner, in which I played the down and out card sharp, Jimmy Eggs. But that picture can be hard to find in most video stores. If it’s a rainy Saturday and you have all day, I recommend renting the Porky’s trilogy. You and your husband will love the offbeat, homespun humor of young boys coming of age, and there’s no better way to teach your young ones about the birds and the bees than with ample servings of gratuitous nudity and underage drinking.

Dear Rory,
I’m an 18-year old high school senior whose parents are pressuring her to go to college. But I was thinking about taking a year off to work, or maybe going to Beautician’s School. What should I do?
- Ashley J.
Plano, TX

Ashley,
When I look at all of options available to kids in your shoes, I realize how overwhelming life can be. My advice would be to get a job as a professional athlete. Not only do you make a lot of money, but you only have to work for about six months a year. And on top of that, you’re always in good shape. Which is really important for a teenage girl. Now, I realize that it can be tough to break into professional sports, so I would have something to fall back on, like acting or singing. You can make lots of money in those, too.

Dear Rory,
I’ve always been a big fan of yours, but I’ve been wondering about something for a while. Where were you between 1964 and 1999?
- Chet S.
Philadelphia, PA

Chet,
The Good Lord only knows.

Dear Rory,
My regular golf partners and I were playing for our usual $10 Nassau this weekend, when I saw my partner cheating on 17. His tee shot was stuck behind a tree until he kicked it out into the rough. He then hit his approach onto the green, made the putt and we closed out the match. I didn’t say anything at the time because I wanted to win, but now I feel terrible about it. What should I do?
- Reggie W.
Tallahassee, FL

Reggie,
No need to feel bad, my friend. People cheat all the time. For instance, I once watched Sammy Davis pick up his ball and throw it fifty yards down the fairway. So I ran up to his ball and smacked it into the woods with my 5-iron. I guess we were both guilty of cheating. It wasn’t the end of the world, although it was the end of our friendship. What I’m trying to say, Reggie, is that if you accepted the money after the round, you’re just as guilty as your buddy with the foot wedge. Perhaps even more guilty in some countries.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman,

Finally Talking Sports

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. And I hope everybody is doing well on this fine hump day. My assistant informed me this morning over our breakfast of egg sandwiches that my last few articles haven’t been that sports-oriented. I didn’t like his tone, so I smashed his sandwich into his face and jammed some bacon in his ear.

To calm down, I mixed myself a Bloody Mary. Then I started thinking that maybe my assistant was right. So I fixed myself a second Bloody Mary, grabbed a pen and fixed myself a third Bloody Mary.

On the ice, the NHL playoffs are underway. A couple of upsets are brewing in the first round. The Pittsburgh Penguins are up three games to none on the apparently not-so-good Washington Capitals. The Capitals were heavily favored going into this series, but you gotta watch out for underdogs. I once boxed Paul Anka in a charity bout for hemophiliacs, and he came in as a 10-1 favorite. Well, I bashed his face good. Which reminds me, it’s time for another Bloody Mary. Oh, Proud Mary, keep on burnin’.

On the hardwood, the regular season is just about finished. My good friend Chuck Barkley is going to make a one game comeback. I tell you, The Showman knows a thing or two about comebacks. Let me warn you now, Chuck. It tastes great.

Today is Passover, which reminds me. Now that Danny Schayes is retired, Scottie Pippen is the only Jewish player left in the NBA. Scottie, to you and the other people of Moses, I say "Geshundheit!"

Baseball now. John Rocker returned from his suspension last night to a bizarre mix of boos and cheers. For those of you that don’t know, Rocker was suspended for sharing his political worldview with a writer from Sports Illustrated. I tell ya, I can relate to this kid’s problems. One time in the ‘50s, I was doing the old Sullivan show. My assistant forgot to buff my top hat, and I laid in to him something fierce. Unbeknownst to The Showman, I was on camera at the time, and a live national television audience heard me repeatedly calling my assistant a "dumb Mick bastard". Of course, in the 1950s, insulting the Irish was not only acceptable, but was actually encouraged. I guess my point is that you should be free to say whatever you want in the USA, even if it is wrong. I still hate those potato-eating Irish, though.

By the way, if you’re wondering how many golf balls you can fit in your mouth, the answer is five!

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

Get The Hell Out Of My Way!

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. I got a few things burning up my craw, and now’s the time to get them off my chest.

First of all, I noticed Oprah has a new magazine. Which gave me an idea. Keep your eyes peeled for Bumpers, a tri-annual publication. I have no clue as to what the magazine will be about. However, I do know this: pictorials will be involved, and our first issue hits newsstands in November.

Second of all, I have absolutely nothing to talk about today. I’m bone dry. Fresh out of ideas. I had no idea how much writing a daily article would take out of me. I thought all of my years on this Earth would give me a wealth of knowledge to use, but unfortunately, that’s just not the case.

I went over to my good friend Michael Robinson’s place the other day. If you don’t recognize the name, he used to be a writer on the show L.A. Heat. If you’ve never seen the show, it’s just like Renegade, except not as good. But then again, L.A. Heat doesn’t have Lorenzo Lamas. It’s too bad there’s only one of him to go around. Anyway, when I walked into Mike’s place, he had some candles lit and he was sitting on a loveseat with Willie Ames as they shared a blue raspberry sno-cone. They both saw me and began shouting "Willie Ames sno-cone! Willie Ames sno-cone!" over and over. Let me tell you, I got out of that place in a hurry.

The NBA has finally wrapped up the regular season.

That’s all for today. I can’t take this anymore.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

The Showman Shows He's Human

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. Folks, I gotta confess something to you. Yesterday’s article was a piece of garbage. Of course, you probably already noticed that. And for that, I am sorry. I know that you, my fans, admirers and hangers-on deserve more from The Showman than a mailed-in effort. As a star and friend, I have a responsibility to deliver on your dreams. I was in a bit of a foul mood when I was writing the column in question, and I took my frustration out on you. So I apologize for yesterday, but I think, and I hope, that after I explain myself, you’ll understand.

I’m scheduled to play in the Alan Thicke Celebrity Golf Invitational this weekend. It’s a great weekend where a bunch of us famous types get together to play some golf, have some drinks and talk about how great it is to be famous. Whatever money we find lying around after the tournament ends gets donated to some charity. This year’s good cause is Recycle The Homeless. It’s an organization that helps move the homeless out of Los Angeles to the city of their choice. Granted, they’re still homeless after they move, but at least they’re not crowding these sunny sidewalks.

Anyway, for as long as I’ve been going to this thing, my foursome has been me, Alan Thicke himself, Kirk Cameron and Tracey Gold. Sort of a Growing Pains meets Uncle Rory kinda thing. We were a fantastic team, too. We won low net two out of the past three years. Which didn’t make Jack Wagner all that happy.

However, our team’s bliss was shattered last year on the 14th hole. We needed Alan to hole a five-footer for birdie to hold onto the lead. Well, "Alice" Thicke left the putt a foot short. In a flash of rage, I called him "a no-talent jackass." I may have thrown my putter at him as well. I apologized repeatedly, but was met with stony silence for the rest of the round. For whatever it’s worth, we ended up coming in fourth.

But after a few cocktails and the silent auction, Alan and I were back to chummy chummy. We had a few laughs and told a few show biz war stories. I even bid $500 on an autographed headshot of Alan just to say I’m sorry. We parted on good terms….or so I thought.

I opened my invitation this year, only to discover that my foursome is now myself, Rick Dees, Emmanuel Lewis and the bassist from The Alan Parsons Project. As it turns out, Alan had dropped me from his group and added Joanna Kearns in my place. Sort of a Growing Pains Forgets Uncle Rory kinda thing.

I tell you what, you give a guy ten great years, and for what? To be placed in the all-time worst foursome in tournament history? The Dees/Lewis/bassist combo has finished dead last, at least twelve strokes behind the field, for as long as I can remember. Most tournament veterans figured this team would just drop out after their fourth member, Stanley Kubrick, passed away last year. But I guess not, now that The Showman has saved the day.

What the hell am I going to do with these three losers? I once watched Dees four-putt from six feet. And if I have to be in a group with a stinkin’ musician, it sure as hell better be a lead singer. I mean, a bassist? Why don’t you just have the roadie play with me and call it a day?

I can’t carry this team all by myself. Maybe I’ll just tell the tournament committee my gout is acting up. Although I really want to go so I can throw a drink in Thicke’s face and tell him Animal Crack-Ups was an awful show. Damn. How do I get myself into these situations?

I’ll let you know how it goes on Monday. If I’m not in jail or the hospital.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

Sitting In A Safe House With The Cart Girl

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. What a wild weekend it was, my friends. The NBA playoffs are officially underway…round one of the NHL playoffs is almost finished…and there’s talk of a professional women’s hockey league! But I know everybody is wondering if what happened at the Alan Thicke Celebrity Golf Invitational is true…and if it is, where am I hiding?

As you all found out on Friday, I was stuck with a group of absolute losers for this weekend’s charity tournament. All I had to look forward to was a day of carrying those slouches on my back, and trying to avoid getting trapped in a conversation with Rick Dees. I thought, what better balm for the pain of a bad day than my old buddy alcohol? And when the drink cart girl is wearing short shorts and likes your early work, what more reason do you need?

So we’re on the eighth tee, and Dees has been trying out material for his radio show on me all day. I think he had some bit about airplane food or women shopping or some mud like that. I mean, the guy would not shut up. Anyway, we’re on the eighth tee, and after watching my three partners hit their shots into the trees, I knew I had to stripe one down the middle for us to even have a chance at par.

I get the club to the top of my backswing, and Dees starts laughing at his own joke about bad women drivers. That punk Emmanuel Lewis started laughing like it was the funniest thing since Webster. I hate little kids. With my concentration shattered, I slice my ball over the trees and into the next fairway. I turned around to shove my driver my down Dees’ throat when we heard agonized screams from the adjacent fairway. The same fairway that my tee shot had just flown into.

I ran over to the scene to make sure I didn’t hit somebody important like Jackie Mason. A crowd was surrounding a man lying on the ground writhing in agony, so I parted the people to take a look for myself. Wouldn’t you know it? It was Alan Thicke. My ball was sitting on the ground next to him, and he was bleeding from his temple. Color me guilty.

Despite the obvious pain he was in, Thicke managed to point me out as the culprit. I tried to deny it, but the fact that the ball next to Thicke’s head had "Bumpers" written on it didn’t help my case. So I kicked him in the shin to shut him up and started looking for a way out of the mess. As luck would have it, the drink cart girl was motoring by at the time. I flagged her down, and she darted right over. Just another benefit of being a good tipper.

I hopped in the cart, told her to step on it, and we took off as fast as that cart would let us. I explained the situation to her during the drive, and she told me she knew of a safe house just off the course – her folks’ time share. We made it there safe and sound. And we’ve been making love ever since. Not a bad weekend after all.

By the way, if you’re concerned for Alan Thicke, you can send flowers to room 417 at Cedars Sinai hospital. He’ll be there for the next week or so. He’s pretty banged up from what I hear, but don’t worry ladies, his hair will be just fine.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

Rory's Helpful Hints

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. It’s that time of week again. The time when a few fortunate fans get to receive advice directly from me, The Showman, Rory Bumpers. I’ve given lots of advice of over the years. Some where they’ve listened to me, like when I told Leslie Nielsen to try comedy instead of drama. Nobody should get that many laughs playing Romeo. And some where they shouldn’t have listened to me at all, like when I told Leslie Nielsen to make Spy Hard! Without much more ado, here’s my tips for this week:

Dear Rory,
I coach a tenth grade girls’ basketball team. I try to give everybody equal playing time, but with our recent losing streak, I’m starting to question the wisdom of that decision. What should I do?
- Bert "Scratch" T.
White Plains, NY

Scratch,
I know how tough it can be to deal with teenage girls. I raised two and married a third. At one point in their lives, these girls are going to learn that some people have got what it takes and others don’t. You have the chance to teach them this valuable lesson, and I suggest you take advantage of that great opportunity. Because everybody knows, there’s no better place to teach girls about the real world than on the basketball court.

Dear Rorey,
You’re a pretty old-fashioned guy it seems. Do you use a computer when you write, or are you still using a pad and pen?
- Kurt V.
Phoenix, AZ

Kurt,
If I were you, and I thank God every day that I’m not, I would do my homework a bit before I ask such a useless question. My name is spelled R-O-R-Y. I don’t know where the hell you got R-O-R-E-Y from. As far as your question goes, I don’t have an answer because I stopped reading your letter as soon as I saw my name misspelled. Go to hell!

Dear Rory,
I’m heading to college in the fall, and I’m pretty nervous. I want to walk on to the football team, but I don’t know if I can make it. Do you have any suggestions as to how I should prepare myself?
- Brad G.
Laramie, WY

Brad,
I skipped college, and not a day goes by that I don’t regret it. Then again, if I had gone to college, today I might be a regional sales manager rather than an international sensation with a stable of starlets. But good luck to you anyway. First and foremost, I would work on your abs. It’ll help you with football tryouts, but more importantly, with those pretty young coeds. Secondly, I would get yourself a fake ID as soon as possible. You can try to make one yourself, but if you do a shoddy job, it’ll be easily recognized by even the dumbest bouncer. The best route is to use the ID of somebody that looks like you. If you have an older brother, you’ve just scored yourself a touchdown, junior!

Dear Rory,
I heard you mention in your live chat session the other day that you ballooned up to 320 pounds in the ‘70s. What did you do to lose all that weight?
- Brenda L.
Lodi, WI

Brenda,
I’ll be honest with you, it takes some deep pockets. I bought myself a chef to prepare only the healthiest of meals, a nutritionist to make sure the chef wasn’t forgetting anything and, being in a position of relative power, a food tester to make sure nobody was trying to cut The Showman’s life short. My next move came when I remodeled my home to make every room into either a sauna or steam room. The idea was to constantly sweat off pounds, whether I was sitting around watching television, reading on the porch or just using the bathroom. And it worked, baby! However, I don’t recommend that method for everybody. As I mentioned earlier, it’s expensive, and I nearly died of dehydration a number of times. Then again, I did lose the weight, and I suppose the end justifies the means.

Thanks for the great questions, kids! Except for you, Kurt. And don’t ever waste my time again.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

I Went To Miami And I Didn't Party With Frank Stallone

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. I’m flying back to Los Angeles as I write this. When I’m finished, I’ll just electrically zap it to the boys at SportsPage.com, and bang! There it is. I remember the days when it took a reverse press seven hours just to print the promotional posters for my latest show. I’ll tell you one thing about technology – I like it!

The reason I’m soaring over flyover country right now is that SportsPage.com let me take the company biplane to Miami to take in the Heat/Pistons playoff game. I must admit how scary it can be for myself and other singers to take to the skies. Everybody knows the sad history of superstars going down in plane crashes; Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper, Richie Valens, Jim Croce, and more recently, Bob Denver. Bob, if you can hear me, I’m feeling a little "Rocky Mountain High" myself right now.

Anyway, getting to the game itself was no piece of cake in the park. When I hopped into the biplane at Burbank Airport here in the City of Angels, I told the pilot to take me to the Motor City, which as we all know, is Miami. Well, I don’t know what this guy had for breakfast, because he flew me to Detroit. When the flight crew greeted me and said "Welcome to Detroit, Mr. Bumpers," I nearly went Vietnam on those jokers. After a stern lecture on respect and geography, we were back in the air and on our way to Miami.

No thanks to my pilot, I arrived a quarter late for the game. I didn’t mind so much, because I knew how when stars arrive late to games, they make a big to-do and put their face on the scoreboard along with a welcome message. I’ll just say I got neither and leave it at that.
They escorted me to my front row seat, where I discovered I was lumped in with Frank Stallone, Gloria Estefan and the Miami Sound Machine. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the whole Sound Machine wasn’t even on hand. Tito, the conga player, was nowhere to be found. I kept asking, "Where’s Tito?" until Ms. Estefan told me that his wife was having a baby that night. This whole time I thought he was as gay as a colorful parrot in leather pants. That just goes to show that you never know.

Now on to the game. It featured multiple lead-changes, jaw-dropping plays and a key injury to Grant Hill. Yes, it had all the drama of a Bewitched episode and then some. Somehow, Miami was able to hold on to the lead at the end of the game to win 84 – 82 and take a 2 – 0 lead in the series.

After the game, Gloria and Frank invited me to a party at Frank’s brother’s place in Key Biscayne. I told them I couldn’t go because I had an early flight the next morning. After they left, I went down to South Beach to check out the club action. I bumped into Ricky Martin at the Cha-Cha Lounge. For about an hour straight, he asked me for pointers on singing and kept offering to buy me banana daiquiris. Finally, I punched him right in his pretty nose and told him to beat it. I expect the lawsuit to arrive any day now. I crushed his nose good.

Since I didn’t get back to my hotel pad until 5 a.m. and had a 6:30 flight, I decided to just stay awake all night and think. When I arrived at the airfield at 6 a.m., I wrote down on a piece of paper that I wanted to go to Los Angeles and handed it to the pilot to avoid any further screw ups.

I think I’m over Missouri by about now. The pilot keeps spitting and it keeps hitting me in the face. I think he’s doing it on purpose. If I find out that’s the case, I know of one hotshot flyboy that’s going to be grounded for awhile. And I don’t mean Val Kilmer.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

Dick Belzer Wears Sunglasses At Night

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. I got into town late last night, and I’m feeling a little sluggish. The reason I didn’t arrive in Los Angeles on time is because of my prima donna pilot again. Apparently, he got a little tired of my constant criticizing of his lack of flying skills. So he put the plane down in Salt Lake City and refused to fly me one foot further. A $1,000 cab ride later, and The Showman is back in town, baby!

The brass has been on my jock lately saying that I’m not talking enough sports in my column. And while I know people love my brand of Hollywood-speak, I guess I can throw the suits a bone and talk sports today. Man, I can’t believe The Showman is taking orders. What is this? The freakin’ army?

In hockey, the Avalanche and the Red Wings are battling it out yet again. This marks the third time in four years that these two squads are going at it. And let me tell you, they don’t like each other. Hell, these two teams hate each other more than a hippie hates bathing. This series reminds of one of the marriages between Dick Burton and Beth Taylor. It’s a lot of fun, as long as you’re not the one getting repeatedly smashed on the head.

The Minnesota Timberwolves lost another close battle with the Portland TrailBlazers last night, to fall behind 2 – 0 in the best of five series. I don’t know where the hell these two franchises got their nicknames from, but my best guess is an L.L. Bean catalog. I mean, Bruce Willis and Demi Moore did a better job of naming their kids.

A lot of people are complaining these days about the amount of home runs being hit in these fancy new ballparks. They say that many home runs takes away from the spirit of the game. I say that’s nonsense. Home runs are what people want. I like to think that my ventriloquism bit was my home run, and I wouldn’t hesitate to use it on a hostile crowd. And it always brought them around to The Showman’s side. The point is, if people didn’t like home runs, they wouldn’t have made a movie about Babe Ruth.

A couple weeks back, I was enjoying a fancy coffee drink with Dick Belzer on Melrose Avenue. I asked him why he always wears sunglasses, even when he’s indoors at night. He didn’t have an answer I liked, so I knocked the shades off his face with an open palm. Turns out, the Belz has one blue eye and one brown eye. And the brown eye is lazier than a Southerner on Quaaludes. After I saw that, I told Dick he should wear a welder’s helmet to make sure nobody has to see that again.

There I go with the show biz blah blah again. Just goes to show you that the old saying is true. You can take the boy out of Hollywood, but you can’t take the Hollywood out of the boy.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

Rory Likes You, Rory Likes You Not

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. Another crazy day in the life of The Showman. I’m hosting "The Showman’s Magical Spring Days" pool party at my estate this weekend. My assistants are running around like mad tidying up the place, making sure there’s enough booze and pretzel sticks for everybody, and doing my laundry. Unfortunately, they keep getting in my way as I’m trying to watch The Parent Trap.

The hardest part of getting ready for my party, as always, will be figuring out who to invite and who to snuff. To streamline the process, I usually just consult my friends and enemies lists.

Here’s the deal, folks. Those of you that were invited last year are invited once again this year. Except for Burt Reynolds. Next time you have to puke Bandit, do it on your own pool table. And those of you that weren’t invited last year, are of course, not welcome again this year. The dogs will be prowling the grounds, so don’t bother trying to sneak in.

I have tweaked each list just a hair in the past twelve months. Below, you can find the new additions, or in Corey Feldman’s case, subtractions.

Congratulations! You’re Invited!
Corey Haim – Thanks for letting me borrow $10 last month. I really needed that table dance.
Justine Bateman – Thanks for the table dance.
Estelle Getty – It could hardly be called a party without your dead-on impressions of Gerald Ford and Spiro T. Agnew.
Michael Gross – Oh, wait a minute. I meant Alan Alda. I can’t keep those cats straight.
Mary Kate Olsen – You really made Full House come alive.
Brian Austin Green – Hey, you always need a DJ.

Stay The Hell Away!
Corey Feldman – This ain’t one of your drugged-out hippie parties, longhair.
Jm. J. Bullock – Just because I went to your party doesn’t mean you can come to mine.
Ashley Olsen – You almost single-handedly ruined Full House.
The paparazzi – Enough with the pictures, okay boys?
Bob Hope – I’ll never forget what you did to me in Paris in ’62. I don’t care if everybody in Europe does it or not.

So that’s it, faithful readers. I’m sorry I couldn’t invite you all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to run out to the store now to pick up some extra french onion dip. Last year, I watched Bryant Gumbel eat a whole tub by himself – with his fingers. Man, that guy can party.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

The Passing Of The Torch

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. Whoa! What a weekend! As you all know, my big pool party was this past Saturday, and a wild time was had by all. I woke up Sunday morning with my shoes on the wrong feet, Daisy Fuentes’ driver’s license in my wallet and a different haircut. I have no idea how any of those things happened, but I do know it was a good time.

It was quite a weekend in the NBA as well. The Sacramento Kings stunned the Lakers and the Minnesota Timberwolves shocked the TrailBlazers. But the really special event occurred in that Minnesota / Portland game when European star Arvydas Sabonis passed the torch of serviceable foreign center to the rangy Slovenian, Radoslav Nesterovic. And that got me to thinking. I’ve had the good pleasure of witnessing many torch passings in my day, and a few come to mind now.

k.d. lang to Melissa Etheridge – For years, k.d. was the only girl-loving girl playing packed coffee bars on the folk rock circuit. But on March 12, 1997 during a Lilith Fair concert in Seattle, Melissa grabbed the torch from k.d. and gently rocked a mass of butch followers with her harmonious guitar strumming and wild blond hair. Man, chick rock gets me sweaty.

Nick Nolte to Gary Busey – In the ‘80s, when Hollywood needed an angry blond guy with a gravelly voice, they called up Nick Nolte. But after Busey’s brilliant performance as the cunning Angelo Pappas in Point Break, many Hollywood insiders felt the torch had officially been passed. Although Leonard Maltin staunchly argued there was no such torch to begin with.

Warren Littlefield to Garth Ancier – As the head of programming for NBC, Littlefield set the bar high when it came to unfunny comedy with brilliant programming like Suddenly Susan, The Single Guy and Union Square. After receiving the torch from Littlefield in 1999, Ancier certainly had his work cut out for him. But by roaring out of the gate with edgy fare such as The Mike O’Malley Show, Battery Park and God, the Devil and Bob, Ancier assured fans that NBC would be boring them with half-rate comedies for years to come.

And let’s not forget the time that I passed the torch to Rod Stewart in the early ‘70s. But that’s a sexy story for another time.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

Get Back To Not Working!

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. I see that it’s Tuesday yet again. I’ve never really liked Tuesday. Always rubbed me the wrong way. But what can a guy like me do? Besides singing, dancing, telling jokes, doing ventriloquism and making a mean patty melt, that is.

And of course Tuesday means question and answer day here, but before I get to that, I want to talk about something. Apparently a bunch of commercial actors are on strike here in sunny L.A. because they either don’t get paid enough, or get paid too much, or something. I don’t know, I didn’t read the paper.

I mean, what the hell do actors do when they go on strike? Not work? Call in the National Guard, Billy. We need to find somebody else to star in our soda pop commercials. Let me tell you beautiful punks something: the Hollywood dream machine has an endless supply of attractive people to star in mediocre sitcoms, lowbrow movies and car commercials. So you go walking down the boulevard complaining about how tough life is when you work five days a month, and Tinseltown will pluck another starry-eyed cutie from Waukesha to take your place.

I could see if they were film actors, but it doesn’t take much acting chops to sell Kodak moments. To tell you the truth, I’m just wondering if these cats are really on strike, or if they’re just actors playing actors on strike.

What’s that, cutey? You’re on strike? Great. Yeah, can I get that without mustard? And I’ll take a Bloody Mary as well. Thanks, toots.

On to the questions.

Dear Rory,
What is the most lavish gift you’ve ever given anyone?
Lisa M.
Syracuse, NY

Lisa,
Well, when I married that bitch Tippi Hedren, I tried to buy her Scotland, but they were asking way too much for it. I haggled them all the way down to $45 million, but just as I was writing the check, Tippi decided she wasn’t interested in owning Scotland. That led to our first fight, and it was a real humdinger. The most lavish gift I ever actually gave somebody was a 40-carat gold bust of The Showman that had rubies for eyes and diamonds for teeth. I commissioned Tiffany’s here on Rodeo Drive to put it together as a gag gift for Don Rickles’ birthday. Rickles had a good laugh and immediately donated the jewelly bust to Caesar’s Palace in Vegas. It still sits in their main foyer today if you’d like to admire it.

Dear Rory,
What is the cruelest thing you’ve ever done to someone?
Rosarita C.
Tijuana, Mexico

Rosarita,
Oh, that’s a hell of a question. You in your fancy border town. Most of my acquaintances say that my cruelest prank came during a USO show in Hanoi in 1964. I was doing a killer ventriloquist bit where Sergeant Sock Puppet was really laying into the buffoonish Private Bumpers because he made his bed with the sheets on top and the blanket on the bottom. I even had the noncoms rolling in the aisles. At the height of the show, as a little joke, I told everybody that the war was over and they would all be shipping out tomorrow. The crowd roared with approval and started making plans for to see their best gal when they got home. Ironically, only a few moments later, Charlie got the drop on us and strafed the hell out of the auditorium. Thankfully, Miss December and I were safely spirited away in a chopper.

Dear Rory,
Do you have any stock tips that you would like to share with us?
Lance R
New York, NY

Lance,
First of all, hell of a name kid. You sound like a winner. I don’t really hang in the best of circles for stock tips, but I do know quite a few people who have played stockbrokers in the movies. The most successful of which has to be Michael Douglas. I ran into Kirk’s son on the golf course in Palm Springs a couple of weeks ago, and he told me that Beta video is going to make a comeback. I think his exact quote was, "VHS won the battle, but Beta is going to win the war!" He also told me to always invest in things that you use in everyday life. I’ve been looking like crazy, but unfortunately, I don’t see any Johnnie Walker Red or mink coats on the ol’ NASDAQ.
Well, that’s all for today folks. I hope I was able to help some of you out by telling you a little more about myself. Heck, I think we all learned something today.

I’m winkin’ at ya and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

You Don't Say. The Showman And Dre?

Greetings sportsfans! Bumpers here. I’m writing this poolside from the Bellagio in Vegas. I know what you’re thinking. "Showman, weren’t you in happy LA yesterday?" I sure was friend. And now I have an interesting story to tell you.

I was sitting around the pad yesterday reading my biography At The Top, At The Bottom, when the phone rang. It was ex-Surgeon General C. Everett Koop. Now, I haven’t heard from Koopy in over eight months, so I knew something was up. He told me that he was leaving for Vegas in a half-hour and he had an extra spot. I hung up the phone, thought for about five seconds and packed an overnight bag.

Koopy swung by place and I jumped in front seat of his sky blue ’68 Oldsmobile convertible. He loves that car. After reminding me to buckle my seat belt about a thousand times, we were on our way.

At about 10:30, we rolled up to the Mirage. Koop tossed the keys to the valet and told him to put out his cigarette. As soon as we got inside, I started thinking of a way to ditch C. Everett because, frankly, he’s a bit straight-laced for me. I only went with him because The Showman never passes up a free trip to Vegas. I told him I was going to the bathroom and walked right back out the front door.

I bribed the valet with a $20, and he let me "borrow" Koop’s car. I steered that boat all the way over to the MGM Grand, knowing that place has the loosest baccarat table in town. As soon as I got there, the staff quickly ushered me up to one of those fancy suites they reserve for celebs and big time Asian gamblers. The bellhop told me the last person to use the room was Margret Cho – apparently she’s a big Asian time gambler.

After a few hours of baccarat and keno, The Showman was hanging kind of low. I was shuffling back to my suite when two fellows stopped me and introduced themselves as Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg. I didn’t know these two from Adam, but they said they grew up singing along with my records, and that inspired them to get into the music biz. They begged me to join them in a game of Haitian Three-Man, but I told them The Showman was a little low on luck. The guy named Dre pulled out a wad of cash the size of my head and offered me a few thousand. I tried to refuse it, but Dre said he owed it to me because without The Showman, he’d be nothing. I told him that if we were going to play, we might as well do it right, so the three of us climbed in Koop’s ride and headed over back over to the Bellagio. You know, that’s the cool thing about celebs – we’re all in this together.

Dre got himself a spot at craps table in the high stakes room and his stack of chips grew faster than a young Gheorghe Muresan. Snoop kept holding out these funny looking hand-rolled cigarettes and asking me if I wanted to join him and the ladies for a smoke out, whatever that is. Somehow he ended up convincing me, and after that, everything is a little foggy.

All I know is that I spent some time in the pool, some time at the blackjack table, a lot of time at the bar, and an obnoxious amount of time at the buffet. I have to say, the Bellagio does quite a job with their buffets. You can scoop T-bones on to your plate like they were mashed potatoes. Like I said, everything was kind of foggy, but I do know that I was asked to remove my lips from the soft serve ice cream machine. And my pockets were filled to the brim with chocolate sauce and sprinkles.

I have finally calmed down enough to dictate to the cute little number sitting here what exactly I want her to write for my article. And I think she’s done a fine job. I’m not sure what I should do today. I should probably find the Surgeon General, but I think I’ll pick up a racing form and just chill instead. Actually, I feel a little younger and a little more in touch with the world after hanging out with Snoop and that lyrical surgeon, Dr. Dre. In fact, I’m enjoying a 40 oz. right now and yes, I did pour some out for my homies - Eisenhower and JFK. Oh jeez, here comes Snoop now and he looks to be carrying another one of them "cigars". I shouldn’t get involved in that, but then again…

I’m winkin’ at ya and thinking’of ya.
The Showman,

Today's Column Is By Rory's Assistant, Steve

Hello, I’m Steve. I’ve been Rory’s assistant for almost seven months now. I’ve seen some freaky stuff, heard some long stories about people I’ve never heard of and repeatedly removed bloodstains from the carpet. But this is the first column I’ve had to write for Rory.

I was woken up at 4:30 this morning by a call from Rory on his cell phone. He said he was playing craps in the parking lot of a casino in Old Vegas with Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, C. Everett Koop and some old Vegas hustlers all night. Rory said he needed to win enough money to get Koop’s car out of hock. Apparently, Koop was desperate for cash after doubling down on a pair of threes, so he pawned his car. I told Rory that story sounded kind of odd, because every time Koop comes by the house he talks about how much he loves that car. Finally, Rory admitted that he and Dre pawned Koop’s car, and now Rory needed to win enough money to get the car back before Koop realized it was gone.

Rory said he had no way to get back to Los Angeles without a car, so it was up to me to write his column for today or else he wouldn’t get paid for it. I don’t think he gets paid for it anyway, but whatever. I asked him why he didn’t just take an airplane home, and he mumbled something about the ghost of Frank Sinatra and hung up. I’ve been trying to call back for hours, but nobody answers. Maybe he lost his phone after rolling boxcars.

I have no idea what to talk about in this thing. On top of that, I’ve got Michael McKean, Vanna White and Vera Wang sitting in the living room. Vanna told me that they’re scheduled to play mixed doubles paddle tennis with Rory today. I’ve been trying to stall them, but I don’t know what the heck to say. I offered to fill in for Rory, but they said the game is for celebrities only. Maybe I’ll see if they’re willing to sit around for about 30 hours until Rory comes back.

He’s always pulling this kind of stuff, too. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to make up some excuse about why Rory is late or not coming at all even. And of course, these people are always getting mad at me like it’s my fault. What do you want me to do? I’m just an assistant. I mean, I’m also a screenwriter, but until I sell something, I’m just an assistant. I took this job because I thought Rory’s connections could get me into the door. Rory said he would help me get a job, but the only person he’s pitched me to so far is Barbera from Hanna-Barbera. Or maybe it was Hanna. Either way, the guy wasn’t interested in my screenplay. I think he was too old school for it. It’s inspired by Tarantino. This band of smooth-talking robbers knocks off jewelry stores to help fund their edgy independent films. It’s full of jump cuts, pop culture references and non-linear action, and I think it confused the old guy. It’ll blow Hollywood away though, if I ever get it made.

Rory’s full of crazy quirks too, but I think he makes them all up to seem more like a celebrity. Like the time he heard that John Tesh will only drink imported bottled water. So Rory made me go out and buy fifteen cases of Perrier. Which, of course, he hasn’t touched yet. It doesn’t stop there. If his toothbrush isn’t turned to the left when he goes to brush his teeth in the morning, he completely freaks on me and throws the toothbrush away. So of course I have to rush right out and buy a new one for him. I mean, who thinks about a guy’s toothbrush every day? Oh, and he demands that his coffee be served at 162 degrees Fahrenheit. He makes me use a meat thermometer to check. Seriously, what does it matter?

I mean, working for Rory isn’t all bad. I do get to meet a lot of interesting people. Although Jacqueline Bisset nearly talked my ear off telling me how cute her new puppy was. And there was the time Rory and I flew to Tahiti because he was in the mood for a banana daiquiri. Those things are nice, but sometimes I wonder if it’s all worth it. I’ll tell you this. When I hit it big, you’d better believe I’ll be super cool to my assistant because I know what it’s like to be on the other end.

Anyway, Rory should be back tomorrow, I hope. I know he has another big golf tournament coming up this weekend that he’s been talking about for months, and I can’t imagine he’ll miss that.

Goodbye,
Steve

My Life Is Great

Not much time to talk today. I’m playing in a big celebrity golf tournament this afternoon at a course called The Cascades here in Los Angeles. It’s a brand new public course that opened this year. My good friend and personal trainer Dolph Lundgren has played a couple of rounds there and says it’s a fantastic layout.

I’ll have a review of the course for you on my radio show next week. I’ll discuss the holes, tell you how I played and which celebrity got the drunkest. My early favorite is Alan King. I just hope he doesn’t relieve himself on the fourth green again this year.

By the way, if you read my column yesterday, I hope my assistant Steve didn’t disappoint you too much. He says he wants to be a screenwriter, but frankly, I don’t think he’s talented enough to write out my grocery list. He’s a good kid though, even with those quirks.

And if you’re wondering what happened to me in Vegas, let’s just say that I’m glad to be back in town, and I don’t think C. Everett Koop will be calling me for a while. Lucky for me though, Dr. Dre was kind enough to give me a ride home in his car. I believe he called it a "hoopty" – whatever that means. I think he may want get his shocks looked at though, because half the time we were riding on two wheels.

So that’s it. I know it’s a short effort today, but I have to hit some range balls to warm up. If Tim Allen beats me again this year, I may just sell my clubs.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

A Name Says A Lot

Greetings, sportsfans. Bumpers here. How is everybody doing on this fine Monday? Me? I’m doing all right. We had a pretty exciting weekend in sports, mostly in the NBA with the second round of the playoffs beginning. I think something else happened as well, but I’m not sure. Look, when you’re busy breaking the world hot tub record with a few young lovelies, you don’t have much time for the out of town scoreboard – even if I am a "sports columnist".

However, I did notice that big Shaquille O’Neal did quite a number on the Phoenix Suns and led his Lakers to an impressive win. Shaq is the clear favorite for the MVP award this year, and that got me to thinking. There’s a lot in a name. It’s true. Shaquille O’Neal just sounds like the biggest, baddest guy in the NBA, and by gum, he is! Another one of my favorite names in the NBA belongs to Bo Outlaw. Is there a scarier name around? How would you like to be getting close with his girlfriend only to hear, "Uh oh, my boyfriend’s home. He’s Bo Outlaw." I’ll tell you one thing, I’d get out of there quicker than Christ left the Jews.

Many names stand out in the history of football as well. Ol’ Bronko Nagurski was a hell of a player. He had to be with a name like that. How about Terrell Davis? The best running back in the game has the initials T.D. You can’t make up stuff that good. Not to mention guys like Dick Butkus, Franco Harris, Ray Nitschke and a bunch of other guys I can’t think of now.

Out here in Hollywood there are many great names as well. When you hear names like Woody Long, Peter North, Long Dan Stryker, Savannah and Misty Rains, you know you’re going to see some quality adult action. On the legitimate side, the local ABC affiliate out here has two weathermen named Johnny Mountain and Dallas Raines. How made up is that? Why don’t you just call yourself Burt Sunshine and get it over with?

But the best Tinseltown names are the ones that you can’t tell are fake. Allow me to let you folks in on a few industry secrets here.

Sandra Bullock – This button-cute actress won over countless fans with the runaway hit Speed. Then she lost most of those fans with the runaway bomb Speed 2. You can’t help but wonder if her career would be as stellar if she stuck with her real name – Sandra Bullcoch.

Kurt Russell – Known by most H-wood insiders as Kurt Hustle for his willingness to do whatever it takes around the set just to get a gig. Another insider note is that he wears that eye patch in real life! Although Kurt sounds like a tough guy, he might have had some trouble landing tough guy roles with his birth name – Morty Roundpie.

Brad Pitt – Adored by women and gay men, and linked romantically with Friends star Jennifer Aniston (real name Jennifer Anistopadopolous), the man of hunk is that cool in real life. I met him at a party last weekend and found out some classified information on him. He asked me not to tell anybody, so if you see him, tell him you read it in Larry King’s weekly claptrap. Anyway, Brad is actually a diminutive 4’7", and his real name is Tom Cruise. Unfortunately for Tom, Tom Cruise had already registered his name with the Screen Actors Guild, so Tom Cruise had to change his name to Brad Pitt. Oh, how Hollywood works.

Jimmy Smits – This handsome chap is a favorite of bored housewives across the country. His legions of fans were heartbroken when the Latin heartthrob quit his job on NYPD Blue. But many say he wouldn’t have had nearly as much success if he had stuck with his real name – Pollo Loco.

Well, that’s about it for today. I gotta run to another lunch date with Loni Anderson. God, she wants to get at my goody bag.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman,

No Name Mail Bag

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. It’s Tuesday and that can only mean one thing: dinner at Spago with Ivan Reitman. But before I do that, I’m going to take some time out to answer a few questions from my fans.

And remember folks, if you’re not lucky enough to ever see The Showman in person, you can always send me questions through this e-mail I have. Maybe I’ll answer it. Maybe I won’t, but you never know.

On to the questions!

Dear Rory,
During your wild and out of control downward spiral, did you ever have any run-ins with the law?
- 8556902-B
Riker’s Island, NY

Dear Prisoner,
I learned early on the value of being friendly with the police department. I used to tip my hat to the boys in blue at the end of every performance and in exchange they used to look the other way when I would wrap my Caddy around a tree. Soon my career took a turn for the worse and in 1977, I was arrested for larceny, mail fraud, public nudity, public drunkenness, destruction of public property, arson, grand theft auto, extortion, public discrepancy, speeding, possession of a controlled substance, inciting a riot, cruelty to animals, spying for the hated British, treason, domestic abuse and assaulting Bea Arthur. And that was just in February. Now that I’m back in the limelight I want to right this ship by taking the time to thank Johnny Law. Johnny Law, if you’re listening, why don’t you do your part and drop those charges?

Dear Rory,
I’m trying to break into Hollywood as a television writer. Do you have any suggestions for a show?
- Kathy G.
Los Angeles, CA

Dear Kathy,
The number one rule of television comedy is: always have a wacky neighbor. Somebody the main characters can lean on as the butt of their jokes. Full House took this rule a step further and had the wacky neighbors actually living in the house together. Of course, that show could afford to take risks due to all of the talent they had. When you have the Olson twins and Stamos working on the same show you can get away with a lot. The best shows today requires getting a cast of between four and six attractive twenty-something with great jobs they never go to, fantastic apartments and anxiety issues. Also, a male and female character should trade sarcastic barbs in order to hide their undeniable attraction to one another. Finally, add a talking dog and throw on a clever title like Let’s Chill! You put that show after Frasier, and the Emmys will start rolling in.

Dear Rory,
Do you have any traditional recipes in your family?
- Jeff S.
New Orleans, LA

Dear Jeff,
Being a single man about town these days, I don’t have much time to cook my own meals. But when I was a young pup growing up on a dirt farm in Minnesota, my family and I shared many traditional dishes, most of which descended from our Scandinavian ancestors. But most of those dishes involved raw fish and that’s not my bag. Another yearly treat was my dad’s patented Christmas Scotch Balls. He would pour scotch into an ice cube tray, let it freeze and we would all suck on the cubes until we were red in the face with Christmas cheer. I still whip up a batch of Scotch Balls every now and again. Some traditions are just too special to let go.

Dear Rory,
Before you made it big, did you have any odd jobs?
- Maria D.
Topeka, KS

Dear Maria,
Before I answer your question, keep in mind that technically I made it big twice. Once in the ‘50s, and again last year. I think everybody has heard that before I struck gold in the ‘50s, I worked as a busboy and a barback at Doc Barnsworth’s Supper Club. Nothing really happened there, expect for the day I spilled an Irish Coffee on ol’ Doc himself. But my most interesting odd job had to be the one I had in early 1972. I was working crowd control and singing the national anthem at the dolphin show at the San Diego Zoo. My job was basically to keep the rugrats from jumping into the dolphin pool, and making sure the parents didn’t take any flash photography. Dolphins will bite your head off if you use flash photography. I lost that job after a little incident one day. One little boy was dying to stick his hand in the dolphin pool. I must’ve sent him away at least eight times. He came back once more, and finally Isnapped. I picked him up, shouted "You want to see what’s in the pool? Fine!" and tossed him in. Apparently, he hadn’t learned to swim yet, and we almost had a real problem on our hands. Thankfully, I was able to calm the crowd with a jazzy rendition of "Mac The Knife" and all was quickly forgotten.

That’s all the questions for today, friends. If you have something you’re dying to ask The Showman, you can email me at rorybumpers@sportspage.com. I’ll try to get to it before the end of the year.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

My Man Puppet Regimes

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. I don’t know how things are going for you right now, but life is pretty sweet over here at Rancho de Bumpers. I’m feeling damn happy about my triumphant comeback and my fans are even more pleased, as they should be. Heck, I have assistants to do all of my dirty work, celebs asking me to do lunch every other day and a standing Thursday morning tee time at Riviera with James Woods, James Caan and James Brolin. And you know what? It feels good.

So I sit here on my patio looking across my plush and perfectly manicured lawn gazing at Madonna’s pad and holding out hope that the pale bird will change her stance on making love to The Showman. But enough about that. I have some things I need to finally let out in the open. You see, throughout my life I’ve been secretly running operations with different front men in charge. I know my bio says that I disappeared from ’64 to ’99, but throughout the ‘80s I was simply hiding under the cover of sneakiness and pulling the levers for various organizations throughout the world. And I’ve finally decided to let you cats in on a few details about my puppet regimes.

Jell-o
If you’re like most Americans, you probably think that Bill Cosby is calling the shots for Jell-o. Well, the truth is, I started making the decisions in 1982. That’s right. America’s favorite dessert is run by The Showman. When Jell-o needed a spokesman to remind the country of its many offerings, I knew I needed somebody who had earned the trust of the American public. When Ron Reagan, Jr. wouldn’t commit, I called in the Cos. I handed the reins of Jell-o over to RJR Nabisco in 1989 after a disastrous experiment with bourbon-flavored Jell-o. I thought it tasted great, but America didn’t much go for the idea of drunken pre-schoolers.

Oakland Raiders
Sports fans everywhere point the finger at Al Davis for moving the Raiders from Oakland to Los Angeles, and then back to Oakland. In truth, that move had The Showman’s fingerprints all over it. I became a big fan of the Raiders in the ‘70s because I liked they way they gouged people’s eyes. But I couldn’t stand commuting between L.A. and the Bay each Sunday for home games. So I moved the team to L.A. After a few good years, the Raiders started playing some lousy football, and I got sick of them. So I moved them back to Oakland. I’m still pretty upset about their poor performance, and that’s why to this day I refuse to allow an NFL team in Los Angeles.

North Vietnam
After the fall of Saigon, the Reds handed control of North Vietnam over to Bumpers, Inc. I haven’t paid much attention to the place since they gave it to me, but I told them to go capitalist in 1981. Maybe I should follow up on that to see what’s going on over there. Ah, I’m sure everything’s okay.

Michael Jordan
One of my life-long goals was to win an NBA championship. But since the NBA isn’t keen on 5’10" white guys that can’t shoot, I needed somebody that had tremendous athletic ability, and was also willing to let me pull the strings. Enter Michael Jordan. With me calling the shots and Jordan carrying out the duties, we were a perfect match. After three successive championships, I had enough trophies cluttering up my rec room and decided to hang it up. MJ wanted to prove that he didn’t need me, so he took a shot at baseball. After a couple of years in the minors, he got bored and gave me a call. It took some cajoling, but I decided I could use some more championships. I can still remember the last time we worked together. I said, "Hey you! Pull up at the free throw line and get this thing over with!" He listened well, and I took home my sixth and final trophy.

That’s just scratching the surface, folks. If you’ve lived in this country for more than five years, chances are you’ve been affected by one of The Showman’s decisions without even realizing it. And that’s the way I like it.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

I'm Stuck In A Damn Well

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. Umm, I’m in a bit of a pickle here and I don’t know how to explain it, so I guess I’ll just come right out and say it. I’m stuck in a well fifty feet deep.

It all started when I got invited to Anson Williams’ wine tasting party at his ranch in Sonoma. Everybody was drinking California Cabernet, Anson was singing songs around a roaring fire and we were all enjoying happy days, indeed.

The trouble started when I got a call on my cell phone from Buddy Hackett. I didn’t want to discuss business in front of a group of strangers, so I went out into the backyard to take the call. Being out in the country, it was pitch black outside, but I was a little too soused to notice.

Buddy and I started crunching some numbers on our latest project, and I started pacing back and forth, which is a habit of mine when I’m closing a deal. Unfortunately for me, I couldn’t see Anson’s water well in the darkness. I stumbled over something, cursed my rotten luck and all of a sudden felt like I was falling off the edge of the Earth.

I landed hard on my shoulder and didn’t know what the hell was going on. I told Buddy I would have to call him back and began screaming at the top of my lungs. Of course, since Anson was still inside playing the role of Potsy the Troubadour, my cries for help went unheeded.

Making the most of my situation, I decided to catch some sleep and wait for daylight, figuring something good was bound to happen to The Showman, as it usually does.

If you’re wondering how I could be so calm and cool in the face of such a situation, maybe it’s time I let you in on something. This isn’t the first time I fell down a well. I guess you could say I was Baby Jessica before it was cool to be stuck in a well.

Flashback to when I was a cute little 8-year old on my father’s dirt farm in Thief River Falls, Minnesota. I was shooting squirrels when disaster struck. Not paying attention to where I was going, I tripped and fell right into my daddy’s well. It was a few days before my parents noticed I was missing, but when they finally found me down there, they rang up the local constable and he rescued me after a good bit of digging. It’s funny how life can go full circle like that. Here I am, back in a well so many years later.

Anyway, I was enjoying a little sleep when I was rudely awakened by a bucket repeatedly smashing me in the head. It seems that Anson goes out every morning to fetch some fresh well-water for his coffee. I yelled up to him that I needed some help, and he took off a-runnin’. Now the well is surrounded by firemen, policemen, television reporters and fans of The Showman as everybody prays for my speedy recovery. Anson tells me there’s quite a vigil going on up there on the surface. In fact, that hippie Neil Young is supposed to come by and sing me some songs of encouragement. I just hope he doesn’t bring Crosby.

Knowing that I had time to kill, I got out my cell phone and rang up my pea-brained assistant, Steve, and am dictating today’s column to him over the phone. I just hope he spells all the words write.

(Note: I am not stupid! – Steve)

So that’s it for today. There’s not much I can do besides sit here and wait for them to dig me out. I don’t mind so much, except my neck is bent at a 45-degree angle, my left arm is jammed between two big rocks and somehow I’m staring at the bottom of my foot. Other than that, I should be okay.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

I'm Stuck In A Damn Well - Day 2

Greetings, sportsfans. Bumpers here. Unfortunately for The Showman, it’s been about 35 hours since I fell down Anson Williams’ well, and there hasn’t been much progress made toward getting me out of here and into my favorite chair with a tall glass of Jameson’s. Apparently, before they can start digging, they have to locate the original blueprints of the property to check for power lines, gas lines and that sort of thing. Personally, I think they should start digging away, consequences be damned, but they don’t let me call the shots from way down here.

Like I said yesterday, it’s not all bad down here. I’ve been stuck in a well before, so I pretty much know the drill by now. And the volunteer rescue staff was kind enough to lower down a bottle of Wild Turkey in a bucket. Of course, I polished that baby off in about 10 minutes and I’ve yet to see another bottle. And it’s nearly impossible to light a cigarette with my left arm wedged between two rocks.

The early reports from the surface indicate that they’ll have me out sometime Sunday night. Which is kind of a drag, because I had huge plans for this weekend. I won’t go into details, but I will say that they involved Dyan Cannon, Chevy Chase, Glenn Close, a rental car, three pounds of unsalted butter and a chimp named Boots.

Well, I think I’m going to wrap it up for today. I know you’re probably thinking it’s not fair that it’s such a short column on a Friday, but hey, I’m stuck in a well. So cut me some slack.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

Out Of The Well And Into A Dry Martini

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. Well, they finally dug The Showman out of Anson Williams’ well. It took 10 stout men, four Clydesdales, a 10-gallon drum of grease and about 58 man-hours, but I’m back home safe and sound and wearing my favorite robe.

I tell you what, friends, when you’re trapped in a well over a weekend, you have a lot of time to think.

By the way, kudos to Adrian Zmed of T.J. Hooker fame. He was clearly the lead celebrity in the evacuation effort. Apparently, Anson and Adrian spend quite a bit of time together at Anson’s ranch. Adrian showed up as usual for their Saturday morning shirtless horseback ride, when he found out there was a situation at hand. Adrian quickly put on his signature lime green headband, oiled himself up with a little help from Anson, and dug, dug, dug until he couldn’t dig anymore.

I guess I can extend my thanks to all of the non-celebrity volunteers that helped me get out of that damn well. Even though you guys aren’t famous, it doesn’t mean you’re not important! Thanks again and keep up the good work.

And Anson? Next year, let’s do the wine tasting at my place. You won’t be invited, but tell all of your friends. And while we’re at it, let’s forget the wine and do some single-malt tasting instead.

I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to have my full range of motion back. It felt good to grab hold of the newspaper with both hands when I handed it to my assistant, Steve, so he could read me the top headlines. It was a bit of a surprise to find out the NBA playoffs went on as scheduled over the weekend. I thought for sure that the network would’ve pre-empted the games to air around the clock coverage of Rory’s Rescue 2000.

So, the Blazers and the Lakers blew their chance to sweep their series, and the Knicks got a great effort from that Heisman Trophy winner to even the series at two apiece.

The Sixers are down 3 – 1, and I see that they had a little scuffle on Saturday. Apparently, the guy from the Sixers got suspended for two games and the Pacer guy is suspended for one. Plus, the Sixers are being fined $50,000. I know that life isn’t always fair, but what the hell is that?

That’s about it for today, kids. I’m going to take a bath in Epsom salts for a few hours and then get ripped for a few more. After that it’s time to catch up on my sleep. Man, there’s something about coming out of a well that makes me finally feel alive!

I’m winkin’ at ya and thinkin’ of ya,
The Showman

Ask Me A Question And I'll Tell You No Lies

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. How is everybody doing on this fine Tuesday? Super. Me? I’m walking through my well-manicured grounds and sipping on a cocktail while I look for mistakes so I can yell at my gardeners. So far I haven’t found anything wrong. All the weeds are pulled, the lawn is mowed to 5/8th of an inch as requested, and they did an excellent job of carving the hedges to resemble me.

Well, since my grounds are as I want them, I suppose it’s time for me to go through my mail and see if I can answer any reader questions.

Dear Rory,
Have you ever had to stand up and defend your woman’s honor?
- Brenda B.
St. Paul, MN

Brenda,
First of all, excellent question! Second of all, no. However, there have been plenty of women that have fought for my honor. One instance that comes to mind involved French sex kitten Brigitte Bardot. We were shooting a film about a renegade park ranger in Tasmania called Deadly Picnic Basket. Anyway, Brigitte and I were in the middle of a steamy sex scene when there was a knock on my trailer door. One of the gaffers was seeking my autograph. Of course, I refused and told him to get lost, so this cat started calling me all sorts of names. I was about to step outside and give him a nose job when Brigitte came flying out of nowhere, tackled this chap to the ground and proceeded to beat him into submission. God, that was sexy.

Dear Rory,
Being in the spotlight for so many years, did you ever find yourself using unhealthy dieting methods?
- Gary T.
Benting, ID

Gary,
What the hell kind of question is that? Of course I’ve used unhealthy dieting techniques! That’s how we become stars, chubby! One of my favorites is called the Dublin Gut Buster. Basically, you eat whatever the hell you want, then wash it down with Irish Whiskey until you "recycle" the meal. That’s a great one. Another one I’m partial to is called the Portuguese Helper. Rather than stick your own finger down your throat and get it all slimy to regurgitate a meal, you hire a Portuguese boy off the street for about $1 a day and have him stick his hand down your throat after you eat. It’s a real time saver. But stars don’t have to resort to such drastic measures these days thanks to plastic surgery. And with plastic surgery costs at an all-time low, you don’t have to be famous to get in on the action!

Dear Rory,
If you had the opportunity to go back in time and change something, what would it be?
- Don L.
Dallas, TX

Don,
If I had some sort of new-fangled time machine, I would definitely travel back to 1964 and advise myself not to write, direct, produce, star in and promote the film A Monkey Could Do That. One of the suits over at Paramount took his daughter to the zoo one day, and she loved the monkeys. So of course she begged Daddy to make a movie starring a monkey. Unfortunately for me, I was under the haze of some imported substances, so I took the ball and ran with it. The film ended up being just me and Rip Torn sitting in a studio apartment and watching a spider monkey trash the joint for 85 minutes. There wasn’t a single piece of dialogue in it. It even bombed overseas, and they’ll watch anything over there.

That’s all the mail for today. Well, I shouldn’t lie. I have a huge stack of letters here next to me, but I just don’t feel like reading anymore.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

Find The Showman On eBay

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. I hope Wednesday finds you well, and if it doesn’t, I hope the sun starts shining on you soon.

I didn’t have much going on yesterday, so I decided to have Steve clean out the attic. I hate the idea of having that kid just sitting around all day admiring me. When he came down from the attic five hours later, his hair was full of dust, he had cobwebs in his pockets and he needed a tetanus shot.

But all of his hard work should pay off for me. Steve uncovered boxes and boxes of old crap that I had completely forgotten about. Valuable crap. And after seeing this vast load of Hollywood memorabilia, the ol’ light bulb went off in The Showman’s noggin. A garage sale would not only clear out my attic, it would also put some gambling money into my pocket.

So this Saturday morning, stop by The Showman’s First Annual Garage Sale. We’re holding it at Steve’s house because, frankly, I don’t want a bunch of weirdos and hangers-on trampling my petunias. If you’re wondering, Steve’s address is 746 Centinela Avenue here in Los Angeles.
Here are some of the highlighted items that I’ll have on sale this weekend.

Steve Allen’s First Hairpiece - $1
Steve-o started going thin on top in 1952 when he was a mere 31 years of age. Knowing that America hates a bald comedian, he ran out to the nearest taxidermy shop and got this birds nest to hide his dome. I won it off of him in a game of Texas Hold ‘Em in ’58, and I’ve haven’t figured out what the hell to do with it since.

The Showman™ Action Figure Doll - $25
In 1960, Mattel put out a doll of yours truly. Unfortunately, it was taken off the market in 1961after 10 kids choked to death on the miniature scotch bottle that came with it. C’est la vie, I guess. Steve says that if we sold this on Ebay, we could get some primo cash because geeks love old stuff. I don’t know what Ebay is, but I do know that the last time I took Steve’s advice I ended up in the back of a pickup with a band of migrant workers and a crate of berries.

The "Rory Sings On a Beach in Hawaii" Album - $3
I laid down this wax back when I was the tops. Man, how I could croon back then. If you listen closely to the song titled "Conch Shell", you can hear my ex-wife Tippi Hedren regurgitating tequila in the background.

My Assistant, Steve - $5
You want him, you got him.

Promotional Poster From the 1950s Anti-Homosexuality Propaganda Film No Parking In The Rear -$7
When scientific studies funded by the Army proved that communism and homosexuality went hand in hand, Uncle Sam released this bittersweet melodrama to set confused teens straight. Starring an adolescent Dennis Hopper, the film centered around Billy Davis, a boy who had to make a difficult decision on what was more important to him: his nation’s freedom, or his sexual urges.

I think it’s safe to say you can find some major deals if you swing by Steve’s place this weekend. This is just a smattering of the terrific things I’m making available to the public. You won’t even believe some of the things I have for sale. Which reminds me, let’s try not to get the cops involved.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman

Bumpers And Grinding

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. I hope everyone is doing well on this fine day. I know I sure as hell am. Of course, when you have an assistant that does all your dirty work for you, life can be pretty damn good.

In sports, game one of the Western Conference finals between the Lakers and the Blazers is this Saturday. Everyone is looking for a thrilling and exciting series and I think they’ll get it. Both teams are loaded with talented players. In fact, there hasn’t been a collection of talent like this since the suits took, "Three’s Company" off the air.

Speaking of which, am I the only guy around who wishes he had a neighbor/buddy like Larry? That cat lined up more bush than my landscapers. And it wasn’t just about quantity, with Larry, it was always about quality. Like quality stewardess twins from Sweden.

Over in the Eastern Conference, both series are coming down to the wire. The Heat went up by a game over the Knicks, 3-2 in this best of 7 series. And Spike Lee took a much needed break from making movies about basketball to watch his favorite team play basketball. And hopefully, when the Knicks are done playing, he’ll be able to get back to work and make a movie about basketball.

And the Sixers are making a series out of the other match-up in the East. The Indian state bird, Larry Bird, is in his last season as a coach where he is making a push for another ring. He has shot at getting to the finals with the help of the handsome Rick Smits and Cheryl Miller’s brother. If you ask me, Rick Smits has a career in the movies waiting for him when he’s done with the round ball.

It’s Thursday night, which means it’s Disco Bowling night down in my basement. Last week Jaleel White was the big winner, when he got to make out with the lovely and talented, Tina Yothers. Could you imagine if those two beautiful people had a baby? It wouldn’t be fair to have a child with that much talent. Speaking of talent, I sure hope Denise Richards stops by. I don’t know how the hell she can bowl wearing that tight of an outfit, but it works for me.

Well, heck, if you can’t tell already, I’m completely out of things to talk about. And besides, it’s time for another one of my three martini lunches with Joe Piscopo. I hope he doesn’t try out his "new" material again on me today. I’m not the actor I once was and it is getting increasingly hard for me to pretend I am floored by his Letterman bit. Of course, that’s where the martinis come in handy.

I’m thinkin’ of ya and winkin’ at ya,
The Showman