By Lindsay Toler
By Chad Garrison
By Brett Koshkin
By RFT Staff
By Lindsay Toler
By Riverfront Times
By Danny Wicentowski
By Pete Kotz
Sesame Place, an Anheuser-Busch-owned theme park outside Philadelphia, bills itself as a family attraction "for your kids and the kid in you." Modeled after the legendary children's TV show Sesame Street, the A-B amusement park came under fire early this month when it was revealed that the National Rifle Association was offering its members free tickets to Sesame Place in return for donations. Responding to heated criticism from the anti-gun lobby, A-B ended the promo and issued a statement calling the NRA's involvement an "inadvertent error" and apologizing for any confusion stemming from associating the show (or the theme park) with guns.
But what, Unreal asks, is the confusion? We've always associated Sesame Street with bullets and Budweiser. Indeed, one need not look any further than the show's theme song for hidden messages praising both the Second and Twenty-first Amendments.
Don't think so? See for yourself. Below, printed in boldface, are the lyrics to the theme. Following, in italics, are their unspoken subtexts:
Sunny day Oh my pounding head! Where are my sunglasses?
Sweepin' the clouds away Napalm them cumulonimbi!
On my way to where the air is sweet Do you smell the hops and barley?
Can you tell me how to get Maybe this twelve-gauge will jog your memory?
How to get to Sesame Street? Let's get wasted and play with Muppets!
Come and play Guns aren't toys, children. They're way cooler!
Everything's A-OK Fuckin' A! I'll drink to that!
Friendly neighbors there A safe 'hood is an armed 'hood.
That's where we meet It's gonna be a kegger, yo!
Can you tell me how to get Don't make me ask you again, punk!
How to get to Sesame Street Where'd I put those friggin' car keys?
How to get to Sesame Street... I didnot just repeat myself! Did I?
There's a new reality show called Murder premiering on Spike TV Tuesday, July 31. Brought to us by the creators of The Real World, Murder will chronicle the trials and tribulations of "real people as they try to solve a real homicide pulled directly from police files." It's a competitive thing, we're told, where teams of three race one another for forty-eight hours to determine the killer(s).
"Currently, Stephanie is a trophy wife as her husband is in the final stages of flight school for the Army National Guard. However, don't let her trophy wife status and sister of Sigma Sigma Sigma sorority mistaken you for a vulnerable girlie girl! Stephanie used to work for the City of Columbia, Missouri running the Special Olympics program, is an Ultimate Fighting Champion and Pros vs. Joes fanatic, and believes that nothing can beat the smell of cold beer, hotdogs, and pine tar!"
We thought you'd like to know more about Perry, too. Here goes:
Unreal: How does an Ultimate Fighting Champion become a trophy wife?
Stephanie Perry: Why does it say that I'm an Ultimate Fighting Champion? I'm a fan, but I'm no champion.
How did being a Sigma Sigma Sigma sister prepare you forMurder?
It looks fun, but you learn to think on your feet when things go wrong. You come up with new ways to do things, and on the show there was a lot of abstract thinking involved.
What are the similarities between being a trophy wife andMurder-er?
[Laughs] Well I joked that on the show I was Team Mom. I brought snacks for me and the guys; I made sure everybody was OK.
Why'd you do this show again?
In college I planned on majoring in criminal justice and psychology. I wanted to be a profiler. I talked to my academic advisor and was told that there's only ten in the whole country, it was a really lofty goal, and I should consider something else. I was heartbroken. When I saw the commercials for the show, I thought they were speaking to me. They said, "Do you think you have what it takes to be a homicide detective?" I was like, "Hell yeah!"
Is there a correlation between the smell of cold beer, hot dogs, pine tar and good detectives?
Heck yeah. That's St. Louis Cardinals baseball, and any good detective would know just by going through the records that we're the best baseball team ever.
I know you are frustrated. You're short, overweight and your girlfriend doesn't look too happy with you. You likely have a crappy job where you work thankless hours of overtime and don't get lunch breaks ample for stuffing your face to maintain your level of obesity.
I feel for you. Really, I do. You wanted a night out. Actually, it's more likely that your girlfriend dragged you to that Keith Urban concert at the Scottrade Center. You probably don't like Keith Urban, country music or happiness and revelry in general.
So there you were, angry at us for standing up and dancing. As far as I know, we were not violating the Geneva Convention by enjoying the music just like the other 49,998 fans. Even your girlfriend looked miffed that she was expected to sit still. I saw her toe tapping. I saw her singing along.
You got angrier. "How about you sit down, girls."
(Do not for one second think that I didn't catch that tone of down-talking in your voice when you called us "girls." You said "girls" with the tone most people say "filth" or "Ann Coulter.")
We didn't sit down. You still couldn't crane your fat, barely-distinguishable-from-your-bowling-ball-sized-head and neck around us. "You are a f****** b****," you said to me.
Now, I've never been that shy about expletives. I can even say that they enhance our language when used in moderation and in appropriate situations. However, there were children around. You, Tubby, were out of line. I asked you to speak up so everyone could hear what a gentleman you are. You were happy to oblige. You then told me that I was lucky that my boyfriend wasn't there because you'd "kick his a**."
I doubt he'd be dumb enough to bury his fist into your dimpled, pudgy midsection, for fear of never getting it back.
Thank you for reminding me why "general admission" really does mean that all the restless excrement of society can slither on in and make themselves at home. I hope you had a lovely evening and that your girlfriend dumped you in the parking lot. She looked horrified at your behavior.
I'd say that I hope we meet again, but I don't go to donut shops that often, so it's unlikely that I'll see you.
P.S.: Next time, get a larger "Pujols" jersey. The buttons on that one were under an insurmountable strain to hold in your gut.
Ever get the urge to jump up and ____ this damn town? Tell Unreal about it! firstname.lastname@example.org.