Posts Tagged ‘dr. clavicle’
The Indefatigable Rich Glanzer
Thursday, August 12th, 2010An Unauthorized Biography
By “The Chairman” Ben Chadwick and Adriano “Muscles Marinara” Bratta (with supplementary material by Dr. Byron Clavicle, DDS, LDS, NIMBY, and BTO)
The Early, Canine Years
Rich Glanzer was born on February 30, 1957 in Southampton, New York, the child of Arthur Miller and Marilyn Monroe. Controversy came immediately when the nurse told him he was “such a cute baby,” and he disagreed. Refusing even to cry, he announced a boycott of the hospital and crawled off into the woods. There, he was raised by a pack of coyotes who taught him everything he knows about diplomacy, a skill he still uses today.
Guest Columnist: Dr. Byron Clavicle
Sunday, November 29th, 2009The following views do not necessarily represent those of the editors or of BTSH. They do, however, represent those of Dr. Byron Clavicle.
Pleasant Memories of Street Hockey Moments That Never Were
As a board-certified neurosurgical cosmetologist, I’m often asked by BTSH players to modify their cerebral cortices to create memories of events that never actually transpired. For example, a certain What The Puck player whiffed on what would have been a game-winning goal in the championship. Haunted by this recollection, he would naturally prefer to remember scoring the goal. A certain Mathematics player requested I replace all memories of his team’s last season with memories of playing viola for the Kirov Ballet orchestra in last year’s world tour. A certain Happy Little Elves assistant captain wished to have his brain wiped clean and replaced with the late Wilt Chamberlain’s. Two of these players even shaved their heads in preparation!
Sadly, none of these requests are covered by any insurance policies that I am aware of, and the multi-trillion dollar cost of the procedure can be daunting for some. But I have come up with a far cheaper alternative that may alleviate this psychic discomfort, allowing second-rate players to imagine themselves as street hockey superstars, instead of as infantile mush-heads growing increasingly torpid and lazy-lidded while shovelling one Cheeto after another into their drooling gullets and reading some half-baked off-season filler on a sub-par sports blog.
So, feel free to augment your mediocre memories with these fictive fantasies.
