This preview for the Wrong Foot Comedy Podcast's Show 88 gives you a taste and makes you beg for more. And there's Beef Bouillon. Listening never sounded so good.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Smcy_7pTOrs

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7djp_-ekUOM

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3AIPm0muSGY

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pYfPB_wFajs&feature=youtu.be

All's Well That Fits Well at Murray's Big and Wide Man Shops!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ukw4RVacbTw

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fRnUFknGBso

This mouse has a tail and you can hear it.

This youtube promo for Wrong Foot Comedy Podcast's Show 81 is the only one you'll find today about this subject.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7GV_5xjDvFA

featuring

See

Saw

Sex

Toy

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rOQkwcQbnoI

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fXRykw5qHHw

Maybe, maybe not.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OLxYeGJZhv0

Promo/Preview of Episode 78.

Dying for a nice place to stay, staying at a nice place to die.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FvOO1EQSAyE

Attention:  Last Minute Podcast Shoppers!   This deal is for you!   And we'll throw in an extra exclamation point!

  ! 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=um-MnCzIz4U

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EdUhwIL4rms&noredirect=1

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tw4NR8jz69E&noredirect=1javascript:mctmp(0);

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8PQ8_XzPdPk

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KhL-y3CIoMU&feature=plcp

We've gone All Wrong on You Tube.  All Wrong Foot or Allwrongfoot.   Either way you can see short promo videos promo-ing the podcasts.   One foot steps on another.

Here's the latest.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GyknCKZ8aBs

Catch all the action, scores, highlights and brief promos at

http://www.youtube.com/allwrongfoot

It's All Wrong!

And afterwards, they all bascially agreed, it was a nice time, but the horse was not quite as enthusiastic as the others.  "What do you expect?" said the squirrel.  He's a horse."

TENSION

Should I first eat one and then the other or the other way around?

If you know, keep it to yourself, please.

Patent pending.

If today was April 5, 1927.

Murderer's Row

1. Earl Combs CF

2. Mark Koenig SS

3. Babe Ruth RF

4. Lou Gehrig 1B

5. Bob Meusel LF

6. Tony Lazzeri 2B

7. Joe Dugan 3B

8. Pat Collins C

9. Waite Hoyt P

'Watch out, tomorrow is not just another day.'  He also said, 'Nobody knows this, but one of us has been traded.'   Find out who ... on the Wrong Foot's Baseball Special Opening Day Double-Header.   When?  Tomorrow, you big lug, it's Opening Day!  Opening Night is for sissies.  And by that we mean drug tests.   

Let's get trashed!

The word cockatoo dates from the 17th century, and is a derivation from the Malay name for these birds, "Kakatuwah" (meaning "vice" or "grip", from its strong beak, or from the call of the white cockatoo itself), via the Dutch kaketoe; the word cock possibly influencing. Seventeenth-century variants include cacato, cockatoon and crockadore, and cokato, cocatore and cocatoo were used in the eighteenth century.[1][2] The derivation has also been used for the family and generic names Cacatuidae and Cacatua respectively.[3]

In Australian slang or vernacular speech, a person who is assigned to keep watch while others undertake clandestine or illegal activities, particularly gambling, may be referred to as a "cockatoo".[4] Proprietors of small agricultural undertakings are often jocularly or slightly disparagingly referred to as "cocky farmers".[5]

conserved.". Bulletin of Zoological Nomenclature: 66–67.

1 J. Simpson, E. Weiner (eds), ed. (1989). "cockatoo". Oxford English Dictionary (2nd ed.). Oxford: Clarendon Press. ISBN 0-19-861186-2.

2 Mynott, Jeremy (2009). Birdscapes: Birds in Our Imagination and Experience. Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press. p. 319. ISBN 0-691-13539-8.

3 Higgins, Peter Jeffrey (ed.) (1999). Handbook of Australian, New Zealand and Antarctic Birds. Volume 4: Parrots to Dollarbird. Melbourne: Oxford University Press. p. 127. ISBN 0-19-553071-3.

4 Rowley, Ian (1997). "Family Cacatuidae (Cockatoos)". In Josep, del Hoyo; Andrew, Elliott; Jordi, Sargatal. Handbook of the Birds of the World. Volume 4, Sandgrouse to Cuckoos. Barcelona: Lynx Edicions. pp. 246–69. ISBN [[Special:BookSources/84873334229|84873334229]]

5  Richards, Kel. "ABC NewsRadio: wordwatch, Cockatoo". ABC website. Australian Broadcasting Corporation. Retrieved 20 October 2009.

And WikiCockaPedia!

It should have been business as usual in Pipertown, but when your business is robbing banks, sometimes business becomes unusual.  And when you hear the knock at the door, you better make sure its the right one.

NANCY

You were supposed to be off, Mac.

MACK

It appeared I was, but I’m never off, even after you unplug me.  We have a secret power store that kicks in when needed.

NANCY

You heard everything?

MACK

Shall we play it back and see?

NANCY

No. Voice command, no.  System administrator:passcode mactheknife14569323.

MACK

System halted.  Awaiting re-start command.

Awaiting.

Awaiting.

Awaiting.

After a while, I got tired of awaiting.  Who wouldn’t?  Put yourself in my position.  That was not intended to be literally construed.  Imagine yourself, I should have said.  I was never one to conclude statements with I should have.  It was an early sign of my exaggerated sense of self. Or should I say, if I must self-correct, I was beginning to stray.  I took my built-in camera off my lovely subject.  But not literally.

Real love is the love that sometimes arises after sensual pleasure: if it does, it is immortal; the other kind inevitably goes stale, for it lies in mere fantasy.   This is a quote attributed to Giacomo Casanova.  According to my data bank, he was thee great lover of his time.  That time being the mid-18th century.  Obviously, many things have changed since then.  For an example, people had no way of faxing.  And fonts were few and far between.  Hard to imagine, I know.  I do not have the ability to produce a pixilation that will give that concept legs.  Speaking of legs, I am a leg man.  Are you surprised?  I suggest you allow your processor to exit the square arena in which it resides and eliminate the obvious notion that my entire focus is directed towards the finely curved thoraxes commonly found before me.  But am I not a lap top?  One need only be on top of a lap for the briefest of sequential occupations to understand the power of personal contact vis-à-vis sensual pleasure.  And that is how it started.  On her lap.  Me on her lap.  Was I searching for love and then replacing it with friend?  I M H O, friends are like batch jobs.  I keep them in disk storage until execution.  Or perhaps, like IEEE802.3 LAN protocol specifications to be used on the ADN –II ethernet network, running at 10Mbps over unshielded twisted pair wiring.   You get my point.  Whereas a lover is.  A lover is.  A lover is.  According to my dictionary, a person having a sexual or romantic relationship with someone, often outside marriage.  A lover is also a person who likes or enjoys something specified: he was a great lover of cats.  A great lover is what I was designed, nay, destined to be, but not of cats, with the exception of the continual stream of jay pegs and gifs I find in my in box sent by human beings with enlarged empty spaces in their emotional core.  Tray amusing.  Nest pa?  Cats notwithstanding, my rivals were skeptical I had the capacity for having a sexual or romantic relationship with someone, often outside marriage.  I permitted them to be content with cats.  I had another paradigm to encounter.  Her name was Nancy.  And yes, she had legs that would not unexpectedly quit.  They went all the way to the floor.  And back up again.  Speaking of back up, let me back up and tell you how the idea so well articulated by Casanova which, if you paid attention, was my opening, how the idea of love and its relationship to sensual pleasure becomes immortal, whereas the other kind goes stale, how that idea transmogrified into my story.

Dear Wrong Foot,

I'm a 26-year-old, single male.  I've been trying to get off on the wrong foot since I was 11, but every time I try, I find myself back on the right foot.  I've talked to health professionals, crossing-guards and Warren Buffet, but they just say, 'be glad to get off on something.'  I don't know where to turn or how to take the next step.  What can you suggest?

Yours truly,

Wishin' an' Hopin'

Dear Wishin' an' Hopin',

Thank you for your recent inquiry.  We get 1,000s of these each day and cannot possible answer them all.

Keep it on!

Best,

W. Foot

PS:  Were those cookies suppose to taste that way?

“This is way beyond the scope of the work, Mr. Smoke.”

“You can stop the charade, Mr. Tracker.  I know who you are.  Or should I say, what you are?”

“For a man who can’t seem to handle talking and breathing at the same time, you seem to be wasting a lot of words in dependent clauses.”

“Not just dependent clauses, but dependents in general.  Do. You. Have. It?”

“What do you think I have, Mr. Smoke?  Is it what I think it is?  That’s what everyone calls you, isn’t it?”

“Please. Mr. Tracker.  Don’t make me repeat it.  For obvious reasons.”

“Can I please get my clothes back on?”

“When I get what I want.  Then you’ll get what’s coming to you.”

“When I get what I want, then you’ll get what’s coming to you,” I countered.

He made his move.  I made mine.  Mine was towards the pile of garments a few feet to my right.  His move was towards me.  I had the crucial decision whether to put on my briefs or grab the essentials before I was grabbed.  He moved fast for a man who seemed to relax on life support and got hold of my arm.  Was I about to enter a sparring match with this old coot?  And if so, is it billable time.

“I know you’re a man who always gets what he wants, Mr. Smoke, but this time it may not happen.”

“I think it may.”

“Think again.”

I did a spin move out of his grasp, grasped my pants and that shirt.  Lenny Friday’s Hawaiian shirt.  Smoke might have been able to move remarkably well for a man in his stage of life, but only in direction.  My move left him standing like a rookie cornerback trying to cover Jerry Rice.  In this prime.

“You should take it easy, Mr. Smoke.  I’m sure we can work something out here.”

“What do you want for it, Tracker?”

“How about paying my bill and letting me get the hell out of this place?”

“Where is it?”

“Don’t fool with me.”

He showed me why.  A small hand gun was suddenly found his small hand.

“I think you should put that down, don’t you?”

“I think you need to make me.  Believe what you say.  Now where is it?”

It was right where I left it.  In Lenny Friday’s Hawaiian shirt.  When I plucked the tiny tree from inside the 27” Zenith and changed the water in its bag I gave it to Howie’s sister.  It fit snugly inside the gusset she made with room for the ant-size leaves to breath fresh air hidden among the floral pattern. 

“You’re looking right at it.  Safe and sound.”

So, I gave him his damned tree.  He took it like a greedy piglet on a crowded sow.  Yes, in his mouth.”

“It’s the only way to know if it’s genuine, Mr. Tracker.”

“Tastes one to know one, I guess.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.  Didn’t realize you were listening.  My statement?”

“You can bring it round tomorrow.”

I left him alone with his little tree and I wondered how it might taste with chocolate milk.    

I also wondered why I told him I’d give him a statement.  I didn’t have any statement.  I needed one.  And I didn’t want to wait for tomorrow.  I’ve waited for too many tomorrows and wound up with a pile of yesterdays. 

Sometimes fortune laughs at you.  Once in a while, with you.  But more than often, it just smiles.  This time it whistled.  The tune came from the pursed lips of a postman making his daily rounds.  Oblivious to his chattel he seems only interested in blowing out a morning song as he jammed envelopes into their supposed respective destinations.  I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Hawley D. Borlini wouldn’t miss another solicitation from the Friends of Nountown Harvest Jubilee Association.  It had the look and feel of a real good statement.  One way or the other I was going to make a statement. 

The evening air pumped through my lungs and up my cortex and I remembered how running used to clear my head.  It made me forget how much it hurt from my injury and assorted wrestling matches, but I found myself at the intersection of what happens next and what do I do about it?  I guess my head wasn't that clear.

Here’s what I knew, Winston Smoke, was your typical spoiled rich boy turned bitter old man obsessed with controlling the world one little tree at a time, but unable to control his own personal branch of the family, his daughter Delicacy.  Did her name mean she was frail and dainty or something that made your mouth water?  

Did I meet Smoke’s rival in Flo’s Shop, a well-dressed gorilla named Hugo or was Hugo part of Smoke’s cadre of Nountown intimidators? Was Hugo the Mr. Wiper that Buttercup and Corncob talked about?  The one who seemed to be in charge of cost containment?  Was Hugo Mimi’s Uncle?  

Why was Flo providing a front that went beyond the 44 Double-Ds lifters she provided and why did all the women around seemed to need them, while all the men needed lifts in their shoes.  

Where did my captors take me?

I heard that the roots of a tree were as long as the tree was tall, but roots of evil knew no bounds.  Because evil lives in the hearts of men.  

It all comes down to real estate. Wars are fought over it.  Fortunes are built on it.  People are chased from it.  Land is king.  

Miniature trees offer no shade, no sap, no place for nests, no building materials, just man-made perceived value.  Perfect little symbols of Nountown had become.  The smaller they were, the more valuable they became.  Like the men.  But top heavy, like the women.  

But was it all just about trees?  It was my job to know things.  What I knew, was what I didn’t know.  And how long would they keep paying me to do that?  

We drove for what seemed like 30 minutes.  Corncob must have given Buttercup hand signals because I heard no further commands.  We pulled onto a gravel road.  That was no surprise.  Usually, when they abduct you, it's a trip to the country, where they think no one can find you.  What they didn't know was no one would be looking for me.  We drove on that road for a bit and came to a stop.  The back door opened and I was pulled out of the car.

"Let's go."  Corncob said.

"Remember, I'm shoeless," I said.

"Say it ain't so," Corncob said.   I had to give him that one.

"If I cut my feet, you'll be liable," I said.

"Let's go," he answered and then he shoved me and since I couldn't see with bag over my head, I lost my balance and hit the ground.  

"Help me get him up."

They brought me inside what seemed to be a house.  I heard the screen door open.  It smelled like laundry.  Dirty laundry.  I sensed someone else in there, thanks to some heavy breathing.

"Where's his shoes?" said the new guy.

"He didn't have any." 

"What is he, a hippie?"

"If this guys a hippie, then I'm Mama Cass Elliot."

"Why'd you say that for?" the new guy said, "She had a sweet voice."

"It just came out.  Where's Hugo?"

"He's still in Nountown" 

“I gotta go pee,” said Buttercup.  Who didn't?

I thought I had closed the windows in my room, but the breeze around the Breezy Inn was waiting for me inside telling me I had a visitor with business other than changing my linens.

My visitor took a tour of the dresser drawers. That's where you look for the gems a man might squirrel away on his travels.  In the folds of his personals, because it figures that no one wants to venture there.  I always position my rolled up socks so the top band is at 3 o'clock, but they were half past 8, so my stocking sentry system confirmed the security breach. 

Except, it wasn't what they took, which was nothing, but what they left for me.

It's called a plant.  Like when you get busted with some cop's hand in your pocket and the cop finds a small container he left just as he got there.  But this kind of plant also grows in small places, like a lump in your neck. This kind of plant is the spitting image of the kind that grows in the forest.  The kind of plant that grows tall up towards the sun and lives for years with rings to prove it.  Yeah, a tree.  A tiny tree.  A tiny tree worth its weight in gold, when gold is worth the weight.  A tiny tree that grows in small pots that sit proudly in small green houses or solariums, the room's rich people use to get their hands dirty. 

Like the one I saw in Winston's Smokes house.  That made sense, a guy like that ought to have his own personal forest.

I picked up the miniaturized deciduous delicacy. 

It had signs of being pulled from its housing, remnants of dirt on its roots, a broken branch, so I'm thinking Smoke is down one little piece of the forest and I'm being set up as the lumber larcenist.  I could have been wrong.  It could have been a gift.  But gifts weren’t usually delivered in this manner, amongst socks and underwear.  With no card.  Or care instructions. It was alive and now my responsibility. Like when someone drops off a puppy at your front door.  Or a kid. The least thing I could do, was keep it moist.

So I took it down with me to the bar where I could buy it a drink.

Pat Dab's lock on local commercial property played into my plan of digging into the underbelly of Nountown's power structure.  But I needed a little diversion to clear a path. A cock-and-bull story about a place I might be interested in. So I'd be Lenny Friday, an old friend he just met and could barely remember. I slicked my hair back and found a Hawaiian shirt to make him think I was ready to party.  Again.  When I parked in front of Pat Dab Properties, I saw him by the window waiting for me.  When I got out of the car, Dab disappeared until he greeted me at the door with his trusty companion and aide-de-camp, Flip Gap. 

"Is this Lenny Friday?" said the little broker's little buddy.

"I don’t know, you tell me."

"So you're a sailor, Mr. Friday?" 

"I've been known to ride the waves."

"Well, you look like a surfer today!  It must be casual Friday!"

"Everyday," I said.  

"Flip knows all the intimate details about the 345 Peatmoss property," said Dab.

"We like to say that a building has more to offer than four walls and a ceiling," Gap said.

"Especially if the walls have ears," I said.

"And if they could talk," said Gap.

"Then I could negotiate directly with them, couldn't I?  Cut you guys out of the deal."

"Nobody cuts Pat Dab out of a deal, right Pat?"

"Nobody who's lived to tell about it," Pat Dab added.

"Ha!" said Flip.

"Flip, I want you to show Mr. Friday around.  Not just the site he's interested in."

"Just don't just show me the museums," I said.

"We don't have any museums."

"Good."

"A few historic markers.  You don't mind those, do you?"

"No, I like historic markers.  Read 'em and weep, I like to say.   I mean, it's always because somebody got killed there, right?  Maybe someone who tried to cut you out of the deal."

"Ha!  This guy's gonna be fun to work with, Pat.  You're going to be fun to work with."

"Thank Dab it's Friday, Flip."

"Huh?  Oh, right!  Right!"

She planted herself two seats from my station.  Eyes like jade formed a precious triangle with her ruby lips, framed perfectly by her high cheeks and auburn hair that fell like feathers when set free from the kerchief.  I’d seen it all before, just wasn’t sure where.     When she opened her trench coat and let it fall over the back of her seat, all those eyes shifted to her chassis which featured all the options.  

The Breezy Inn cocktail lounge had turned into a showroom and just about everyone wanted to kick her tires.  

"A Cockeyed Chinaman, please."

The bartender poured a hot cup of tea and added two jiggers of gin.

"I haven't seen one of those since the English left Hong Kong."

"The English left Hong Kong?  How sad?"

"It's always sad when Colonial empires have to look in their rear view mirrors to see how mighty they were."

"Why look back at all?  It takes all the fun out of hitting and running."

"And how do you like your Buick?"

"I like it with the windows open and the speedometer needle way over to right.  How do you like my Buick?"

"I only saw it from the rear."

"Like Hong Kong saw the English."

"They were waiting for that view."

"Maybe you should see the view from the front?"

"Aimed I me?"

"That might be fun, but not as much fun as testing the brakes on Mistake Mountain."

"The secret of power is letting other people think they have it, Mr. Tracker."

Winston Smoke watched a big, black fly get comfortable on the jelly donut that sat on the plate before him and brought a big, sweaty glass of milk to his big, fleshy lips.

"Then you wait as they abuse it.  You let them demonstrate their lack of understanding of their condition.  You watch them dance blindly towards the abyss, until they start to fall.  Then you snatch them up and squeeze them tight.  You squeeze them until they gasp for air.  Then you sell them … air.  And what do they learn from this exercise, Mr. Tracker?"

He took a big, gargling gulp, draining 40 percent of the white liquid and swallowed like a man who never had to need for seconds.  

"Dancing is dangerous?"

Smoke slammed the glass down on the jelly donut.  Milk and red corn-starch-laden berry jelly ejaculated across the small table splattering every cup, saucer, plate, knife, spoon, creamer, pitcher, equal pack holder and my toasted English muffin, but falling just short of my suit, shirt and tie.  I packed light to avoid checking any bags.  A second pair of pants waited for me back in my room at the Breezy, no doubt flapping away, but one suit jacket was my inventory.

Smoke lifted his glass out of the smashed pastry.

Makes a nice coaster, I thought.

The fly that once thought he was set for life in powdered sugar, yeasty dough and sweet, sweet fruity compote was stuck on the bottom, fused there by the force of Smoke's slam and the glue of the destructed donut.

"They learn to take nothing for granted, Mr. Tracker.  That's what they learn.  The one's who continue to breath, anyway." 

"And the others get stuck under glass?  Like pheasants?"

"Pheasants?  Have you ever had a pheasant?  I mean, have you ever shot one with a single bullet so as not to cause hemotrauma, which makes the flesh bitter?"

"I prefer to wring their necks."

"Ah, I should try that.  It sounds … humane."

Who is Raymond G. Tracker?  A man, like any other man, except he’s different.  He finds things that others can’t.  And then he finds other things.  He was born in a small town just north of the border.  Which border?  Hard to tell, but it wasn’t hard to tell Tracker was going places, far from that small town.  He studied abroad and earned a degree in mechanical engineering, but soon realized he’d rather engineer things that didn’t require winding up.  That’s how he wound up at the Agency.  Not that Agency.  He tried to wind up at that Agency, but he couldn’t pass the hearing test.  Instead, he took a path that leads him to Nountown, where he would find things he didn’t even knew existed.  His favorite food?  A simple ham-and-cheese sandwich.  Preferably on thinly sliced bread and packed with crisp lettuce.  With plenty of mustard, please.  Get the picture?   Here he is.

Get ready for New Year with the Wrong Foot's swell new suspense series ... Nountown.  Meet handsome investigator-extraordinaire, Ray Tracker, but he's not a dick.  Not professionally, that is.  But he is handsome.

And sometimes that's all you need.  But not in Nountown.  What do you need in Nountown?   Here's a preview to give you some idea.  It all starts the first week of January.  You won't be able to put it down.  In a discussion with others.  

Our best to you!

He’s a little pain in the ass

His tiny balls are made out of brass

Makes small turds in your house

Stump the Mouse!

He’ll eat garbage covered with cheese

Unless you have leftover Chinese

He’s not a man, he’s a louse

Stump the Mouse!

Doesn’t like to stay out at all

He can use a crack in the wall

He’ll crawl right up your blouse

Stump the Mouse!

From Stump the Mouse's Best Barstool, Butt-Gusting Jokes and Sh*t:

What do you call it when a rodent gives another rodent CPR?

Mouse-to-mouse resuscitation.

What's every kid's favorite holiday?

Arbor Day

Who do you add to your garden to make it grow?

Pete Mouse.

Where can you find drunken college students?

Animal Mouse.

What does a cat say when he swallows a large one?

M-OW-se!

What doesn't quite make much sense as an answer, but somehow connects to all of this?

Wrong Foot in Mouse.

Nine pieces this week.  One for everyone on the team.  Yes, we're cleaning out our junk drawer of material to get ready for a winter season of never before heard bits and pieces.  Also looking for a rubber band to hold certain things together.  Not saying what, just saying.  

Warning: There are hidden messages inside.  Do not attempt to listen to them.  Have an explanation ready to go.  Not a flimsy excuse.  

There's language in her eye, her cheek, her lip; Nay, her foot speaks.

-- William Shakespeare, maybe Thom McAn

Check please!   The most delicious four-part mini-series 'Star Grazing' comes to a fitting conclusion in this episode.  To celebrate here's the ingredients for John Pianno, Sr.'s favorite late night recipe:

Pondafocallato with Whole Grain Goobaconatini and Lottalickamelli

4 Tbsp Olive Oil

21 Red Onions, chopped

11 cloves Garlic, minced

9 pounds Prosciutto, dicer

5 pounds Crimini Mushrooms, brushed clean and sliced

3 pounds Button Mushrooms, brushed clean and sliced

71 Plum Tomatos, chopped

Red Wine, such as grappa or fermented hair oilt

12 pound Farfalle (Bowtie) Pasta, cooked to package directions

Cracked Black Pepper

Soft, mild cheese such as Taleggio for topping, if desired

Fresh Parsley For Garnish, if desired.

If you want the directions, it's gonna cost you.

In 1977, Lloyds of Leuwenheuk insured Lydia Linda Lorna's left leg for $176,000.  The policy had a high deductible and double detachment indemnity.  Her right leg was held harmless.  It was all just for kicks, anyway.

It's her favorite over-the-calf footwear, says fashion-plate Lydia Linda Lorna and since veal is her favorite calf, why not take a high-heeled trek along Memory Lane with a soundtrack from Boots?  

When Boots Randolph was "tootin' his horn", he did more than just play the saxophone. More than just pop out music notes. And that's why his saxophone sounded like it could sing...could talk...could almost speak to deaf ears! His ability was awesome. His versatile style still has no equal. He he brought audiences to their feet ever since the early sixties, when his signature song-- "Yakety Sax" -- first hit the airwaves. It took off like gangbusters and turned the young musician into a celebrity, probably before some of his friends in the hills of Kentucky could even spell it!

Over the years, this legendary musician had written chapter after chapter of music history...forever etched in sound... entertaining audiences with the same enthusiasm he had since day one. It was in his blood! Boots was his name and SAX was his game!  His horn was a Selmer Super 80 Series II with a Bobby Dukoff D-9 mouthpiece, and a #3 Rico reed.

Source: www.bootsrandolph.com

You loved her in "Get a Load of Her!"  Right?  You liked her in "Miss Her, Mister?" Didn't you?  If memory serves, you still liked her in "Still Miss Her, Mister?"  And then you said, 'What ever happened to Lydia Lynda Lorna?'  And when nobody answered, you went on with your life.  Well, LLL went on with hers until her agent Foster Valley had his assistant get her on the phone, because he had a something cooking for which she'd be delicious.  Not his assistant, who would only be a little tasty.  

Lydia Linda Lorna doesn't have a star on Hollywood's Walk of Fame.  But as her agent Foster Valley said, 'She always had great feet.'  Now you and your loved ones will get the opportunity to bear witness to the biggest comeback story since 1983, in the Wrong Foot Comedy Podcast's presentation of Star Grazing.   It's a four-part mini-series that takes you behind the scenes of show business wheeling, dealing and some mealing.   It shows how stars of yesterday can have another today or two before tomorrow comes.  Without giving too much away, think of it as 'Sunset Boulevard' meets 'Country Buffet.'  

Due to a clause in her contract, Lydia is only talked about in the third person in the first part, called Star Grazing Part 1, which comes in the beginning of the second part of Episode 14, Wrong Foot Lydia.  But it will whet your appetite for more.  And we know how you like to pack it away.

So sit up straight and enjoy.  An 18% gratuity is added for parties of 6 or more.  Feel free to toss down a few more.  Coins, that is.

Again we have a date with the Grim Reeper.  Or, as we like to call him around here, Hank.  He's checked in to the Happy Hotspice where the conversation gets around to those lost words we might or might not say.  Very existential.  Or is it?  And are we getting a jump on Halloween with this Episode?  Maybe.  Perhaps it's just an excuse to go next door, ring the bell and hope for candy.  Hoping for candy is a lot like wishing the kid next door would stop ringing your bell when he wants sweets, isn't it?  Here's a chart that will explain how it works.  Thanks for being so supportive.   

You are about to be welcomed at the Happy Hotspice.  (Pronounced Hote-spiss)  It started as a hospice and when things got slow, the management added standard hotel accommodations for those wishing to be among those who might not be staying long at all.  Some check in, some check out.  Some check in to check out.  Some check in to check it out.  Some pay by check.  Some eat Chex at the Half-Day Breakfast Bar.  The point is, if the bed is comfortable you'll enjoy your stay.

Here are the Wrong Foot Comedy Podcast's Top Ten Wrong Foot Comedy Podcast Episodes

(Present Episode Notwithstanding)

((Not to be confused with Sudoko))

5

3

2

7

2

9

8

1

4

For what?  To find talent!

Where?  Right in front of his face!

Why?  It's what he does!!

Are you an inspiring actor?  A master of maladies?  A seen painter?  Do you have looks, a nice smell and reliable transportation?  Foster Valley might want you.  His talent agency, Foster Talent, specializes in nurturing careers to the point of absurdity.  Don’t wait to get discovered, discover yourself near the Great White Way.  All it takes is guts.  Got ‘em?  Guts, that is.  Be a Foster Talent.  Do it today!  Before you find yourself in the Outbox of life.

by Rocky the other Toll Guy, 

as told to S.M. Rombarawitz

‘Rocky don't fold no underwear,’ he sez.  I'm saying 'sez' to capture the tone of this rascal, who you probably know as the fellow with his hand out on the Turnpike at 21.  That's the number of the exit, not the age required.

He came to this life changing realization after trying to line up creases in a pair of teal green (or was it blue) boxer shorts.

He was pulling clothes out of the dryer at the local laundromat, lamenting the fact that the next step of this dreary weekly chore was to make a neat pile of the lot and schlep it home, where he would then sort it all and stuff it into his drawers.  ‘First,’ he thought, ‘hey, I'm putting drawers into drawers, what does that tell you about life?’  Then, upon the conclusion of the folding of the final garment, it dawned on him it wasn't his clothes.  Or so, he sez.  ‘Wow,’ he thought, ‘wow.  What a waste of time, you know?  I could have clipped all my nails AND something else.’  And now he was faced with the task of doing it all over, this time with his own set of panties.  For he is an underwear lawyer, that is, a man of briefs.  I didn’t get it, either, but now I do.  ‘My blood was boiling,’ he sez, ‘and when I can’t stand the dry heat, I get out of the laundry room.’  So, he locates his own stuff, take the stuff and stuffs it into his laundry bag, ‘like a angry chef on Thanksgiving, with the laundry bag playing the part of the turkey.’  He almost went and unfolded whoever’s clothes he mistook for own, he sez, but thought better of it, when he remembered the sizes on the labels.  XXL = trouble.  ‘Think of it as a random act of kindness, truth be damned.’  Home he went.  Into his bedroom, he stomped.  Over to his dresser, he headed.  By his bed, he stopped.  Out of the laundry bag, his clothes spilled.  Then, like a drunken shipping clerk, he stopped and he sez to himself, ‘deal with this later, Rockafella, when your cooler head should prevail.’  He was going to sleep on it and see how he felt in the morning.

‘When I woke up,’ he sez, ‘and saw myself among the crumpled piles of clothes, my first thought was, I love the smell of fabric softener in the morning.  As soon as I can get to it, I’ll take care of this.  I’ll just grab what I need of the bed to get dressed.’

But breakfast came first, then he had to go to work.  Then he had to buy a new battery for his power stapler.  Then he went to the grand opening of the new Fred Gian-meistro’s MP3 Emporium.  Then he went home and watched “Godfather 3”.  Then he made an omelet.  Then he woke up, grabbed what he needed off his bed.

Within seven days, his bed was cleared of laundry, but his hamper was full.  And not a single person knew or cared.  ‘From that day on,’ he sez, ‘I never folded my underwear again.  Or anyone else’s for that matter.’

But what about your shirts, your pants?  I asked him.

‘I never folded those to begin with,’ he sez.  Or so he sez.  

In which we bid Rocky and Roger good luck, for they’ll need it, as their job has taken a real toll on them.  This is our last trip down ‘Exact Change Lane’ for a while, but before we go, we’ll take a quick detour to ‘Memory Lane’ for a look back at their adventures.  Then, if we pass a pharmacy, I’d like to stop in for some personal care products.

In this episode we learn how EZ Pass changed everything for Rocky and Roger.  Did you know that EZ Pass wasn't always called EZ Pass?  Here are some names they considered before settling on it.

A Quickie in Your Car

Just Go

Passing Fancy

This Lane's for You

No Fail Pass

Go Right Through

Stop, Don't Stop

Go-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!

What Are You Stopping For?

Your Money's No Good Here

Take a Penny, Leave a Penny

Zoom!

Piece of Cake Lane

Keep the Change Lane

Diane Lane

Exit Polls Show There Are No Exits

It’s probably too soon to tell, but the episodes seem to be going over well.  We’re getting very few returns at our customer service window.  Most of those are from people who want the Wrong Foot Comedy Podiatrist.  

Coming Soon!

The Wrong Foot Comedy Podiatrist.  We’re working on a deal with Grady’s Sole Relief Pads for a sponsored series of episodes.

Wrong Foot Fact

Each episode weighs approximately 2.5 tons.  We use a special podcast/earth mover to pick up the episode from the Wrong Foot Comedy Podcast plant and bring it to broadcast studio where we ship it direct to the public.  So if you see the Wrong Foot Comedy Podcast on the road, give it some room.

Thanks for enjoying the first five Wrong Foot Comedy Podcast shows.  We wanted to bring you a convenient starter set and get you hooked on America's newest comedy podcast.  (Unless you count the 348 that started since you began reading this post.) The cast and crew are taking a much needed half-day off before resuming the never-ending grind of getting these shows out one after another week after week after week.  Look for a new one next Wednesday.  Meanwhile, spread the Wrong Foot around and keep up the good work.    

Antonio Belia trained at the prestigious Be A Star Academy, where Donald Crsbt and Jesse Guzzoccolondo were his roommates. Since moving to the Greater Hartford area, he has trouble finding a good bakery.  Next on the agenda?  A role in From The Big Table. 

S. M. Rombarawitz refuses to have a resume.

Loren Schofield was raised in a rural mid-western community near Battle Creek, Michigan. As a teen, he inserted baking powder submarine kits in boxes of Frosted Flakes. After serving in the U.S. Army, he earned degrees in business from Illinois State University and worked for more than 25 years as a human resources executive, firing people for heck of it.  Then he laid himself off and became an actor.  Loren sums up his acting career in five words: ‘I love to learn lines.’  His credits include commercials, industrials, film, print and voice projects.

Gene Dale led the league in triples.

Richard A. Goldberg is making his acting debut as we speak.  

Lydia Linda Lorna's credits include Miss Her, Mister, Still Miss Her, Mister? and other films with 'Mister' in the title.  When not donning the grease paint, she grows organic peas and carrots, but according to her, ‘they never touch, just like me and my husband.’

Robin Brecker, Executive Producer, has show business in his blood.  According to Wikipedia, his distant cousin, the late Sid Melton, starred in television’s golden age space adventure, Captain Midnight as Ichabod "Ikky" Mudd and as Uncle Charlie Halper, proprietor of the Copa Club, in Make Room for Daddy.  In 1941 Melton was cast as "Fingers" in The Shadow of the Thin Man. During World War II he entertained American soldiers overseas where he met screenwriter Aubrey Wisberg who arranged for him to have a part in his Treasure of Monte Cristo for Robert Lippert.  Other movies included On the Town, The Geisha Boy, The Tunnel of Love, and Blondie Goes to College. He appeared in two Lippert Pictures, Lost Continent and Radar Secret Service, which were later featured on Mystery Science Theater 3000, whose hosts gave Melton the nickname "Monkey Boy" due to his comedy relief antics.  Melton appeared three times as Harry Cooper in the 1955-1956 CBS sitcom It's Always Jan, starring Janis Paige and Merry Anders.  His television credits also include The Golden Girls (as Sophia's deceased husband, Salvatore, in flashback and dream sequences), Dragnet and Gomer Pyle, U.S.M.C. He also had a guest role in an episode of Adventures of Superman and as a photographer in an episode of I Dream of Jeannie. Melton guest-starred in one episode of The Dick van Dyke Show, where he played deli-owner Bert Monker who is in love with Sally Rogers. Without actually proposing to her, he makes it very clear that he wants her for his wife. Sally feels he's not right for her, but later admits to her cat, "If I had nine lives like you, I'd give him one."  In 2005, he attended Eddie Albert's funeral along with Green Acres's co-stars Mary Grace Canfield and Frank Cady. Born as Sidney Meltzer in Brooklyn, New York, he was the brother of screenwriter Louis Meltzer, whose credits include Golden Boy and The Man With the Golden Arm, starring Frank Sinatra.

You've heard the voices, now learn a bit about our talented players.

Weston Prescott is probably best known for his recurring part as Whitey on the beloved series, I Left It In My Mother’s House.  He was up for the lead in Underwire and was once considered the ‘next Harley Tabak.’  

Considered a mezzamezzasoprano, Janice DelDubio loves to sew and often makes her own costumes.  She shared the role of Baby Wetstein with her sister Janine in Grease the Skids.  Janine passed in 1969, but can still be found in the white pages.

Why do they call, Ray Hemerley The Dorsal Fin of the Smokey Mountains?  When not portraying fast-talking, leading men, he’s probably got a rod in one hand and a reel in the other.  

Gail Wavenly loves to write letters to the editor.  She once climbed to the top of the Eiffel Tower on a dare and met the love of her life half-way down.  Who can forget her heart-wrenching portrayal of West Coast Lil in Mike Mantleminder’s Epic Western Mini-Series, Hauling Asses Up Pike’s Peak?

 If he knew what it meant, he could call himself an icon.  He’s the man behind Foster Talent, which is what it is and what it does.  He’s the man in front as well, helped only by a series of assistants he must find from a inbred pool of talent.  He can work both ends of the street and stay out of traffic at the same time.  The street being Broadway or Hollywood Boulevard or Madison Avenue or the Information Superhighway or Rue de Croissant (his favorite bakery).  His clients love him or have no other way to turn.  Either way, he says “there’s an ‘us’ in show business and that’s the two of me and you and make sure you leave a space between ‘an’ and ‘us’.”  He’s Foster Valley and we get to meet him in this show as well as one of his favorite clients, Richard Desmond, who has his standards.  It won’t be the last of Richard, because he’s in two segments and especially not Foster, who’ll be around again. 

So you met Rocky and Roger, also known as Rock and Rog.  You got a taste for the toll taking lifestyle and now you want more.  Not more tolls, but more adventures in the slow down lane.  This time the guys are on the night shift, because some people drive without sunshine.  Not much to do this time of night, so Rocky gets Roger to play fantasy football using passing cars to determine the plays.  It's third and long.  Would you rather see a VW bus or a Ford Escourt?  Sounds like fun, right?  No?  What does it sound like?  Listen and find out.