The Post about Why We Don't Like Wearing Suits

We here in the PB&J room are very concerned as of late by a growing number of phenomena occurring in our world (as we know and create it), things like RFID chips and the pervasiveness of surveillance and the demise of Mayberry RFD, but nothing has captured us quite like the lawsuit against TEEN POP SENSATION (hereafter knows as TPS) Miley Cyrus, aka, Hannah Montana.

Briefly, in case you do not feel like googling for an article: her fan club is being sued because fan club members were not fast enough to buy tickets for her concerts, living under the false assumption that fandom membership equaled guaranteed tickets when she comes around to the aforementioned fan’s locality.

Allow us to enumerate our concerns:
1) Is the TPS’s Daddy’s Heart still achy breaky considering the TPS’s cumbersomely rampant success (and bulging coffers) as a Disney Channel diva?
2) Guaranteed tickets? To the hottest concert ticket this year? (Seriously, read the article.) When there is, apparently, an infinite number of fools willing to part with $29.95 a year to be a part of a TPS’s fan club, and a definitely finite number of seats for (and ergo, tickets to) the hottest, fastest-selling concert ticket this year?
3) Miley?
4) Why not Peppermint Patti (new) York? Or Arapaho Idaho? Or Soda Dakota? Or Mina Carolina? Or Emily Tennessee? Or Heidi Mississippi? Or Lorna California? Or make up your own for Kentucky.
5) Does this report have a cover sheet?
6) How is going to play in the homes of the wonder-struck children who, on the one hand have their TPS idol’s face on their lunch pails and on their backpacks and on their barrettes and on their Croc buttons and on their too-pretty-to-wear underwear, and on the other hand have their parent(s), ostensibly acting as “role models,” ostensibly acting at the behest of their child(ren), ostensibly capable of reproducing again (be oh so afraid and remember that there is no immunization from the capabilities of our fellow planeteers’ (In the spirit of Disney’s mousekateers…) stupidity), and ostensibly not suing on any grounds other than their rock-steady principles.
7) Our enumerations are too long, longer than we planned (this is often the way it goes with our enumerations we have discovered, our discovery being that our enumerations go on longer than we had originally planned or allotted for) or allotted for, and we are woefully unclear as to why this occurs but as we have not been challenged with this post to “keep it short” we should maybe spend less time worrying about our enumerations (which we have attempted to type as “enumberations” so far every single cotton-pickin’ time we have typed said “enumerations”) and begin to spend some time worrying about A) our vexing problem with typing something as plain-jane as enumberations and B) our overwhelmingly strong desire to use “cotton-pickin’” as an adjective at least five times during this post.
8) #6 is a long-winded way of saying that we bet the dinner tables in certain parts of Jersey and Tennessee are very quite for a while.
9) Or Heffer (new) Jersey? Because what child wouldn’t want, in big bold script, “Heffer” writ large on their underwear?
10) Why can’t we just not quit but not show up either?

That, oh by the way if you are counting at home, only counts as once as one is a reference to the other not an actual adjective, per se, so there are three other adjectivial instances to which you can look forward.

But as we were saying, what is truly disturbing about the lawsuit(s) facing the TPS formerly known as Hannah is her fictional nature, that is, the fact that the TPS does not actually exist, as it were, in the world as we know and create it. Yes, yes, you say, it is actually the Miley Smiley fan club that is the recipient of the summons for the suit, but the suit’s nature is still regarding unavailable tickets to a concert by a – technically speaking – non-existent TPS where, theoretically, existent fans in sold-out seating will stomp and cheer for a mirage on stage.

(WE PAUSE FOR A DIGRESSIVE TPS NOTE: If a TPS falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it – technically speaking – make a sound? Even if said TPS is, ostensibly, a singing TPS? Technically speaking, no. If a TPS falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, even if it is a singing TPS, the TPS’s fall will not register as a sound as sound is actually produced in the ear of the beholder, not in the event of falling TPS-falling noise production. According to noted neuroscientists everywhere. END PAUSE.)

Anyhoo, we think this opens a whole ‘nother new realm of potential litigiousness, and we here in the PB&J room would like to pass along to our readers some - considering the Hannah Montana lawsuit – theoretically possible class-action suits to jump in on while the jumping is jive, given that we feel the courts will be au courant (we know what you are thinking and you are thinking, French? to which we reply, Yes, French) and sympathetic in light of what we will now begin calling the TPS Ordeal.

Given the courts’ disposition, let there first be the Zimmerman/Dylan suit, and the suit will consist of a hydra-headed three-pronged attack:
• first, there is the implication that “three chords and the truth” (an early Zimmerman/Dylan proclamation from the stage, mainly said while he was still only proficient, if that’s the right word, with two chords and the half-truths) are all you need which lead to many ill-thought-out campus-level mini-revolutions during the Sixties (which lead to everyone realizing the indisputable power of bathing during longish ill-prepared-for sit-ins) but, more disturbingly, to many more untalented singer/songwriters who can’t play above the level of winsome beginner and who wouldn’t know the truth if it slapped it them stupid and called them “HoneyBabyPie;”
• second, the is the misguided notion that blowing into a harmonica will lend an air of “authenticity” (whatever that means) to your “three chords and the truth” coupled with the endearing quality of writing gibberish that is supposed to pass for meaningful but only when not stealing like a badger from the mystical poets of 16th Century England who are no longer around to protest the lifting of their lines and themes;
• last, for giving the impression that an ostensible “voice of a generation” can essentially imitate the squawk-slash-honk of the rare Male Blue Flamingo (during mating season, no less) for his entire career, thereby engendering countless descendant Squawkers-slash-Honkers who call themselves singers, leading to countless salon-style argument/conversations regarding what is talent and what is simply catching a momentary whim of the buying public’s fancy (cf., James Blunt, Jewel, Mr. Mister, Neil Young, Joni Mitchell, Donovan, Joan Baez (who does frankly imitate more the not-as-rare Female Blue Flamingo (who never thinks it is mating season)), and most famously, Bruce Springsteen).

If we can sue Zimmerman for imposing Dylan on the world, let us then also sue the Grateful Dead for engendering the Deadheads.
If we can sue the Deadheads, why not sue any number of comic-book characters?
• Let’s get Spiderman for letting us believe we can crawl up walls and not need a net beneath us.
• Let’s get Superman for A) leading us to believe that we can leap over tall buildings (without mentioning that even if you are only attempting to leap a cotton-pickin’ doghouse, it will hurt like the dickens if you do not clear at least the first ledge of the front eave resulting in a bit of a splatter against what are probably hot shingles as one does not attempt a tall-building leap when it is cold outside), B) letting us think that we can take a bullet in the chest and it will bounce off without causing harm when heretofore not even rubber bands shot across the fourth-grade classroom did not leave a lasting bruise, and C) that unless you are Light or Sound personified, there is no such thing as being faster than a speeding bullet, no matter how fast you think you are when the Boxer that lives behind you gets out of his pen and starts to chase you around the neighborhood because you are not smart enough (at age seven and a half) to think to run back into the Boxer’s pen and close him in.
• Let’s get Wonder Woman for those goofy gold bracelets.
• Let’s get Sgt. Rock for glamorizing combat.
• Let’s go after Daredevil for misleading the blind and the Flash for misleading the slow.
• And let’s get the entire pantheon of characters created by Marvel and DC for never ever, no matter the façade they create, having to lift a finger to make a dime or two to afford their off-the-clock hobbies of saving the world, righting wrongs, and wearing tights. Never have so many, gathered in one place, under one heading, been so independently wealthy. Something to do with capes, we imagine.

Is anyone actually keeping track of how many times the adjective “cotton-pickin’” has been so used so far?

We are also, by the way, now free to go after all characters, some from fiction and literature, some from the supposed real world:
• Huckleberry Finn for covert and overt racism.
• Snoopy for making us think beagles can fly.
• Moby Dick for his various attacks on humanity (of which we consider ourselves a part).
• Holden Caufield for defiling youth.
• Calvin for showing us how we should have acted when we were six.
• Hobbes for providing the friendship and comfort to an otherwise pathological Calvin that our dog could never hope to provide for us during the same trying years.
• Tiny Tim for blessing us, one and all, when maybe all of us didn’t warrant blessing and by blessing all, the lame little urchin willfully diluted the blessing for the one.
• The Other Tiny Tim for tiptoeing through the cotton-pickin’ tulips.
• Elvis (the Presley not the Costello) for making us think a white boy from Tupelo can have rhythm.
• Wham! for misleading an entire generation of star-struck, teeny-bopping adolescent-slash-teenage girls, while at the same time vindicating every single pimple-faced, Van Halen-listening adolescent-slash-teenage boy who said, “Wham!?!?! They’re Gay!” when asked what they think of the early to mid-eighties music(if that’s what you want to call it)-fashioning of the hairmodels known as Andrew and George (NOTE: some of us were one of those boys - just one PB&Jroomer talkin’ out loud.).

We think that what we are saying is that the possibilities are endless now that the tiresome notion of reality vs. make-believe has been broached and broadsided in the fun, festive, frolicsome world of judiciary findings.

We can barely contain our delight.

In fact, to test our reality theory, we might, after this sees the light of day, sue ourselves to see if we exist; it is our thinking that if we win our suit, we exist, whereas if we lose our suit, we do not exist. One’s notion of one’s own existence is challenged, nay, waylaid by the existential possibilities.

Anyway, where were we?
Oh, yes, somewhere between the grey flannel and the zoot, somewhere between the penguin and the double-breasted, which we don't like wearing.

You had to know it was coming to that, that we'd get around to it, you just had to cotton-pickin’ know.
Where’s Peterson when you need him?