Naked Brunch: Burroughs Mulls Over 'Celebrity Apprentice' Finale

[From the POV of a resurrected Burroughs turned Hollywood gossip writer, Naked Brunch is my periodically updated, bizarro parody column for Patrick DeLaney's Nations-Strange.]

Great, the Mugwump's show. Twitching tiny lips and squinting eyes, orange soft serve running down a thick salmon pate, slow-motion walking, "For the Love of Money"—all the makings for a junk-sick Sunday evening.

And then I watched the Celebrity Apprentice finale.

Seriously, rubes and fruits—I kid like a eunuch Ginsburg on an Aztec ayahuasca binge. Even a wino walking his Afghan knew the Disk last night: Twang Man vs. the Signer, another dirty cement dustup for a few sawskis and a 7 Up can. A bunko job. Nothing less than for the King or Queen Gimp.

Had all the heat of the fuzz on me for heading a boy-toy ring in dark neon. Marlee looked good, too—sequined and high. A real albino Candace, hands like a madame. She flecks on the Night like an Occidental Geisha. I'd eat Chop Suey off a bathroom floor just to inhale her pink-yen cloud for one mum night.

Then there's the Twang Man: rich John Rich, all business—Rockefeller with a J. Paul lariat, a Texas T in the word "tycoon." ("Trump," even.) Went so far as to put a Stetson on the Pink Protoplasm himself—a wink and a nod for pale kids in teal gowns, St. Jude Children's Hospital, the "keeyuds." God's work with salt-of-the-Earth melisma and a calculated guitar chord. Something too solid about him, maybe. Like there's more in the sausage gravy than he's letting on.

And talk about askew: This finale's about as padded as a grasser with a wire and a mission—stuffed and ill-at-ease, beefing on his dealer for kicks and a new thing to do. I could smoke mescaline in a Lincoln Park rest stop, blear through the haunt of a Transylvanian fever dream, and still wake up to Star and NeNe fussing over Week 8's Bitter Suites.

Too much. Caught some Zs in a deprivation chamber. (I dreamt of Busey's smile, a kite, and Omaha Steaks—the usual. )

Then it's back to the Waking World. The MugTrump huffed with no break in his words aloft some amethyst throne like a sci-fi Genghis Khan:

"...Soon, I'll pick the winner. After these messages, the winner. I'll pick the winner. The winner will soon be chosen. Next, the winner. I'll choose the winner..."

And he did. Finally. Rich is the new Celebrity Apprentice. Now back to the chamber. The outcome's always better there.

Naked Brunch: Burroughs Takes On 'Top Chef All-Stars' Finale

[From the POV of a resurrected Burroughs turned Hollywood gossip writer, Naked Brunch is my periodically updated, bizarro parody column for Patrick DeLaney's Nations-Strange.]

There I was staring. Saw it on the Glow Box, like a rube, eyes like sandpaper. Took it in like a shot of junk in a dark alley. Blais vs. Isabella? Sounds like a spectral French whore with a glow-tipped iron pricking hot olive skin on a gondola ride.

And Padma's the Cat, an electric magenta happenstance. I'd drink her oily Darjeeling on the petals of a nubile rose, pulling on her braids like the ropes of a Ghost Ship. I'd thunder like a cloud: "I'm your IBM Powder Man, up the nose and your ever-living end."

Perched like a sideways U with a shakey-hand drum, long-dripping stale joe, my eyebrows raised. Richard, Blais, "Blaze," made his chip raise: Hungarian foie gras ice cream. Mike's hand better be good. $200,000 good. Huffing-pod-in-a-fruit's-bathroom good.

Then Gail wigged. Mikey Isabella countered as a Bronx Zoo cobra. Pepporoni sauce. Pork shoulder. Like Moussalini's ghost with glinting tall boots, the whim of a giant among day-glow thieves. None lesser than a Buzz Disk in Mexico City. A real dazzler. Colicchio glimmed like an ice-eyed Hannibal, Alps and all.

I took a break. Too tense. Drank a Clamato and ate Popchips from a dirty drawer.

Then back on the Sitter. Corduroy sewage for a ruddy lap. Padma streams on my satellite eyes like a rainbow Hindu WASP. Krishna, take the wheel! And just in time for Judgement Day. High chins and ballpoint pens.

Blais makes a soft-eyed plea like some blind pigeon on the lip of a volcano. Not much for him, raw talent withstanding. He's an overthinker. But Mikey's a Bronx-throated dealer opening his coat, assuaging me to "dive head-first into the Long Time." My kind of creep.

Now the decision. The throbbing music voodoos my ear like a white-eyed shaman. The tribe has spoken: "Blais is Top Chef."

I need some junk.

Featured on Fallon: Tobler-OWNED

Hey, how fun is this? One of my jokes for Late Night with Jimmy Fallon's Twitter hashtag segment, Late Night Hashtags, made it on the airwaves! My thanks to Jimmy and the staff for thinking I'm funny. 'Cause I kinda am. The topic was #NewActionMovieQuotes, so I wrote a few silly quips in the spirit of a late-night Chuck Norris movie, and bingo bango: One of 'em did the trick.

So check it out! My Twitter handle is Exner83—and yes, you're welcome to follow me.

Rabies-Infested Zucker: We Need Tootie

Just days after his absurdly indelicate handling of the Coco-Leno late-night imbroglio—which happens to rhyme—NBC CEO Jeff Zucker has now given equally bizarre and often even impossible orders regarding the Peacock channel's primetime lineup.

"I want CSI on Cartoon Network," he said during a recent press conference. "Words can't prescribe [sic] how many changes I wanna make. We need Tootie from the Facts of Life, OK? And she's gotta be on Law & Order. Period."

Zucker continued before a stunned press corps: "I want a whole show just about apples... and pears. Like, y'know, the fruit. And we'll put it on against [American] Idol. It'll kill."

"And I want Idol on Bravo right after To Catch a Predator."

Many believed the NBC president appeared anxious and confused, often exhibiting erratic and convulsive movements. "He was like a zoo animal," said Don Hagen, a reporter for the Associated Press. "I could swear I saw foam forming at the corner of his mouth. Later he ripped his shirt and just kept yelling."

One big rival is baffled by Zucker's unworkable intentions. "He's talking about moving around and annexing properties that aren't even a part of his network," remarked Les Moonves, President and CEO of CBS. "When did CSI become his?!"

NBC's top exec also proposed a number of other puzzling changes: "We need Dan Cortese on three hours a night. The affiliates keep telling me, 'more Cortese,' so that's what we're doing. And it's definitely a green light on the Jordache Jeans Hour w/ Sheena Easton. I signed the contract in my own blood. And I also got a special phone that'll help me reach Tom Snyder on the Other Side."

Ancient Roman Statue Bears Biden's Likeness

First museum-goers saw Michael Jackson's face on an ancient Egyptian sculpture, and now this? Both media and gallery denizens find themselves chortling at a bizarre and mystifying piece on display at J. Paul Getty's Villa in Malibu, California—the so-called "Biden di Milo."

Though bearing an uncanny resemblance to our current Vice President, the Roman statue is actually of Bidus, a lesser-known deity worshiped as—believe it or not—the Goddess of Gaffes. Roman lore pegs her as the daughter of Venus and Tavio, a mortal senator with a heart for the plebeians who was known for his long carriage commutes to the Pantheon every morning. The Goddess' unseemly face was likely thought to be humorous, as the statue's pedestal features a telling inscription, "DECORUS SOMES, TURPIS VISIO"—which roughly translates to today's "butterface," as in "everything 'butter' face."

And more than just being a spooky dead-ringer for the VP, Bidus was also known for her cavalier slips of the tongue, such as the time she blabbed the Imperial Senate's emergency hideaway and her ominous warning that Caesar's first months in power would see him tried by barbarians curious to test his mettle.

Despite countless parallels, Vice President Biden has yet to comment on what seems like an eerily certain spiritual forebear.

Dumbest Idea Ever No. 239: White Underwear

You showered earlier this morning. It went especially well this time, and you're proud of yourself–your nether zone was exhaustively cleaned and you even remembered to scrub behind your ears. Sparkling!

Then after the satisfaction of a ripping good wash, you stepped out to towel dry and put on your–Heaven forbid–white underwear. (I'm already ruling you a glutton for utter humiliation.) Still–because you're just so clean–you're under the mistaken impression you'll somehow do the impossible: You're gonna go the entire day–morning, noon and night–maintaining the angelic perfection of your gleaming undies in a record-breaking, bravura performance of gold-plated tidy-whitey stewardship.

You're the most naïve person in the world.

But breakfast went great, and after all that coffee on the way to work, you were especially careful in relieving yourself with expert precision. You shook 1, 2, 3 times–even though to some that borders on "playing with it"–and although it's pretty gross, you did a dribble wipe with your hand, because despite the dirtiness of a safety move like that, your wild-eyed pipe dream remains: Never unfair the 'wear.

Well, you got away with it that time, but now it's after lunch, and then you feel it–that familiar peristaltic twinge: It's time to go.

This is the moment of judgment. You've deferred it long enough. God only knows if you can make it past this–your greatest challenge of the day. So you excuse yourself from your co-workers and reluctantly head for the bathroom. "I can still do it," you mutter to yourself, "it really is possible–so long as I wipe... thoroughly and completely."

Uh-huh.

You labor each pass: "For this to work" you think, "all it takes is a little consideration. I mean, skid marks come from carelessness!" Plus, you're not like other people. They're sloppy and disgusting–nothing like you! How could this go wrong?

Ah! And now for the last wipe. Pristine! It's fail-safe: After lavishing your bum with the umpteenth tissue (and a bonus after that one)–fully guaranteeing post-fecal purity–you flush and happily lift up that glowing white cotton you've preciously guarded all day. "I made it," you think. "I really, honestly made it."

Then, just when you thought the worst was behind you, you get stuck in traffic on the way home. And it's hot. And you're sweating. But you think, "I wiped like a pro today. Clean is clean. I mean, a little perspiration won't change anything."

But you're worried anyway, so you rush home and check.

It's like a bomb went off. You feel like you're 6 again. "How?!" you say–"I was so clean!"

Sure you were, my friend–sure you were. But aside from committing to a series of rigorous bidet sessions throughout the day, none of us–and I mean none of us–can live up to the impossible, humiliating ideal that is white underwear.

And that's why gray's here to stay, people.

From Coronated Crush to Hailed Hero

Gerard strikes again! The fine people at Only Good Movies linked to my (bone-crushing) King Leonidas article for their very own list of the Top 100 Movie Heroes. (And talk about one crazy crush of he-crushes, people.) Anyhow, I heartily recommend you pay a hearty visit! With great heartiness.

King Leonidas—the Ultimate Man-Crush?

Move over, Han Solo. Not so fast, Mr. Bond. And why're you leaving the room, John Matrix? ('Cause if this is about Bennett again, I swear...)

I venture 300's King Leonidas—and probably not history's King Leonidas, 'cause we barely cared about him until he was cinematized—may well take the cake, or heavy-laden beefcake as it were, as the most enviable paragon of testosteronic manhood of all time. Period.

This decision didn't come easily. (In fact, my personal favorite remains John Rambo, but I'll resist the urge to lord that over everyone, as my sights were set on a more "universal" candidate.) Many, many traits were considered, and Sparta's warrior king truly oozes all the hunky fundamentals: charisma, decisiveness, righteous indignation, gruffness, beardiness, and of course, selfless courage.

But—all things considered—by which solitary factor does Gerard Butler's King Leonidas far and away exceed them all, thus narrowly placing Your Lordship on the High Throne Machismo? I submit to you one word—yelling.

His yelling is the yellingest yelling anyone's ever yelled. And it's so loud and impassioned, its very content gives way to that sheer guttural quickening—honor, self-defense, survival!

Now that's a man-crush, people.

LJN Announces New DS Release—Michael Phelps' Toke Up and Dive!

It seems superstar gold medalist Michael Phelps is turning lemons into lemonade, as video game giant LJN has announced their latest title for the Nintendo DS—Michael Phelps' Toke Up and Dive! (And yes, the exclamation point is a part of the title.)

LJN secured a major deal in snapping up the rights to all things Phelps, striking an agreement for an undisclosed amount—but close sources suggest a deal of $6.5 million, which isn't exactly Kellog's money... but it's something.

An LJN spokesman said the company is excited about its new title and even plans various spin-off sequels—including Michael Phelps' Drag Race, Puff Puff Pass, and Secret Agent Phelps: Operation Cannabis.

Phelps' doting mother has yet to comment.

Researchers Propose Ultimate Stimulus Package, But Will It Work?

As the threat of a worldwide depression still looms large, analysts and Wall Street pundits remain uncertain of our economic future—but researchers at the U.S. Stimulus Bureau find themselves cautiously optimistic regarding an unlikely proposal to re-stimulate our ailing economy: a thirty-story Day-Glo phallus.

Head researcher Dr. Sidney Bloch is convinced such a last-ditch response may be necessary: "It's looking like an emergency, and our economy needs a stimulus—a whopping, muscular stimulus that'll work acute and lasting waves of recovery."

Dubbed Stimul-U.S. 1, the project will be a lavishly expensive, first-of-its-kind megavibe conceived for the express purpose of parting the reticent legs of Wall Street.

Lead engineer Scott Gravis is perhaps too excited: "It's looking good. It's looking really, really good."

Enlisted for help were a host of seasoned and colorful experts.

"I'm thrilled to be a part of it," said Hustler mogul Larry Flynt, whose advice and creative expertise proved instrumental in furthering the venture—"I was already in the business of stimulus, anyhow: Why not go way bigger?"

Associate contributor and adult film star Diva Janeway also weighed in: "It's so big!"

Construction is set to begin early this Spring, with a stimulation target time of mid-October.

"It's gotta work," says team designer Robert Pueblo—"and we'll make sure it does, because although our economy's been teased and conned by a cocky and insensitive real estate market—as well as a slew of selfish, slick-haired stock-market peacocks—she's indeed got a massive headache and in dire need of drawing a bath, lighting some scented candles, and having a relaxing, recouperative evening with the Stimul-U.S. 1."

Here's Pointing at You, Glam

I've always loved me some glam—you know, that brief glimmering spell of music that gleefully traded flower power for handclaps and cocaine. (And by the way, I'm sorry: The '80s hair metal era was not glam. Or even metal. It was just a shame and a shanda, people!)

True glam was a very British phenomenon: About ten or twelve people in America vaguely understood it enough to say, "Hey, let's play Gary Glitter for every sporting event known to man!" But just clear of the top of the Top of the Pops, few of the lesser B- and C-card acts had a fair hearing in the States. It was mostly a hazy smidgeon of Bowie and a few vague curtsies to Queen.

Plus it all seemed like pretty poofter stuff, anyway. (Not that Yanks use the word, "poofter," but if they saw enough Monty Python, they'd likely cop the word.)

Nobody knew what a Slade or T-Rex was. ("Bang a Gong" did scratch the charts at number ten, let it be said, but it just didn't hold a candle to the all-out "T. Rextasy" of the UK.) Sweet and Suzi Quattro suggested some strippers you'd like to meet. And Mud, Showaddywaddy, or Chicory Tip?

People'd think you're talking about getting dirty and showing a daddy your chicory tip, man: We're talking unknown.

Whatever the case, here we are now—an international, postmodern era where the World's dormant cultural relics are just a click away. And after fully mining all the more obvious glam deposits as a treasure hunter myself, one day I got to digging for lesser-known gems—and then I found RPM Record's compilation, Boobs: The Junkshop Glam Discotheque. And I heard Turtle Dove by the Rats.

Wow! The hook, the melody, the solo, the Cockney accent ("M'tur'le dove!")—and all at a lean two and a half minutes. It's like a quick-and-dirty moonshine quaff of that fay, foamy drink called glamohol.

Well, long story short, I ended up muttering a lot about all my favorite music on MySpace, and—lo and behold!—the big talent behind Turtle Dove, cult guru David "Kubie" Kubinec, sent me a nice cyber hello, saying something like, "So you think I'm third-rate glam, huh?" And he's been very kind to me ever since.

Cheers to you, Kubie, and here's to the Rats' Second Long Player Record! (If you haven't already, get up to speed by checking out the Rats' First Long Player Record.)

Blago Never Says Die

I knew there was something odd about Bogojevich: He looks more like a grown-up Mikey than Sean Astin himself.

Pinchers of Peril!

I Like Jim-Dandy Duds, and...

I really wanna live this picture.

It'd be fun to be the guy with the green-checked pants and ample cravat, and turn up my head and give a good, "Hmmm. Is that so?"—and throw in a few good chin strokes, too. Then, after eyeing my beautiful timepiece, I'd realize it's time to go, and bid my friend a hearty adieu.

After all, I got that epic poem to finish, and drawing tips to give Beardsley, and a portrait I promised Oscar Wilde, and—best of all!—teatime with the mistress. (Napoleon's a quarter the lover I am. That ponce.)

So off I'd go to my resplendent horse-drawn coupé, and I'd say to Jackson—my beloved coachman for coming on four years—"Let's stop by the chocolatier before home, Jackson: I've a gift to buy Lady Swinton-Burroughs."

Right. And to think, soon she'll be Lady Schumacher-Swinton-Burroughs. Too good!

Even Oscar's jealous, that dried-up poofter.

Viagra: The New Flintstones Chewable

Is it just me, or are the models in Viagra ads getting younger all the time? At first, some time in the late '90s, the men they'd cast looked about the part: Salt and pepper hair, golf pants, blazing white dental crowns—y'know, all the marks of a post-midlife gent. And you're given the impression perhaps any one of them might've suffered (or still suffer) from atherosclerosis, hypertension, what have you—and thus their medical need.

But look now! Ain't nobody's gray anymore. Or even graying. Or even old. Some of them've had pubes about ten years max. What possible health problem could you have at that age? Hiding the embarrassing erection you always get in your Robocop pajamas? All those silly auto-chubs about Jessica Rabbit? Never, ever getting out of the water for fear Sarah sees how much you're liking the pool party?

Honest. Honest.

It's obvious: the people at Viagra are broadening their tent... so more can help pitch it.

For shame, y'all. For shame.

Artist Hirst Unveils Latest Fit of Genius

Eminent provocateur Damien Hirst has done it again.

Scheduled for an exotic and unexpected opening in the humid jungle region of Chiapas, the artist's newest work provokes with such provocation, you might get overprovoked and die—but not before snapping it up at Sotheby's for 10 million pounds.

Called In Death I See Life and the Exigencies of Being, Damien's stuffed ostrich is ironically placed in a classical contrapposto, frozen in the twilight zone between nihilistic ambivalence and cheeky despair. Though in this case Hirst tabled lavish use of his trademark formaldehyde, he's instead found a new way to blow our collective mind—TV eyeballs.

Placed in the ostrich's orbits are craftily inserted mini screens showing Damien's personal best speedrun for the 1994 Super Nintendo release, Ninja Warriors. Clocking in just under a mind-blowing half hour, red-clad Kunoichi is preferred and used through much of the game—but for what is perhaps an edgy and surreal commentary on our social perceptions of human mortality, Hirst audaciously chooses heavy-hitter Ninja for a nettling and unexpected finish.

Though the artist is no stranger to brave tour de force projects, this one's perhaps the bravest and most tour de force-y: Slyly cynical with a boorish-but-brainy wink, Hirst is kinda into it but kinda not—knowing full well never to endanger his well-worn visage of the standoffish edgiteer.

Iconoclassic!

Tom and Katie Reach Level OT VIII, Sport New Celestial Visage

It's official! Cruises Tom and Katie have reached Operating Thetan level VIII—the highest spiritual benchmark according to the church of Scientology—only to show off their hot new deific look at a star-studded red carpet event.

Enlightening!

Though not entirely surprising for Tom—who was a VII coming on VIII anyhow—it's Katie's rapid ascent to superhumanity that's got everyone talking.

"I coulda sworn she hadn't even gone through the Wall of Fire," remarked actor and fellow congregate John Travolta, "and now she's not only attained Cause Over Life, but entirely transcended the encumbrances of our material realm—and all in a few short months."

Amazed at her explosive arrival to the state of Clear Theta Clear, actress Kirstie Alley remains skeptical: "I smell nepotism—pure, Thetanic, Hubbardian nepotism!"

Still, Kelly Preston is guardedly optimistic. "It's all so sudden, but I'm truly delighted for her," she said—"I know she'd been solo-auditing wilder than Xenu's temper, so it's with a lot of hard work she's gotten so far."

About Tomkat's eye-catching new look, stylist and entertainment guru Steven Cojocaru can't get enough. "First it was oversized Paris Hilton shades, and now it's that eerie omniscient look," he said. "It won't be long before Madonna and Nicole Ritchie go ga-ga for the glow!"

The Genius of Genial

Arsenio, what're you doing lately? 'Cause you rock.

I'm not thoroughly convinced you're a super-impressive, top-notch comedian in the traditional sense, 'cause your punch lines aren't too hot all the time. But I'll be diddly-darned if you're not the grinningest, knee-slappingest homeboy around.

Who doesn't wanna drink a beer with this guy? His enthusiasm is just plain enthusing, and his wide-eyed elbow nudging smoothes over the lamest of Obama-in-da-White-House jokes.

Awesome!

Sarah Silverman—Just Say No!

Somewhere between There's Something About Mary and Family Guy, it happened.

My, oh my, it happened.

Shock humor. The very phrase sends an ice-cold shiver up my spine. Frightful flashes of cynical, "edgy" punchlines flood my mind—"they went there" moments, kind-hearted grannies "unexpectedly" cussing, semen on X, poop on Y, a penis caught in Z.

Ugh.

No—for the last time, no—it wasn't funny when you "went there." It wasn't daring, it wasn't witty, it wasn't provocative, and it sure as Hell wasn't courageous or cutting-edge.

Now, it's true I'd need all Vishnu's fingers to point out every offending purveyor of this moronic slurry, so lemme narrow my focus.

Sarah Silverman. Just Sarah Silverman—dynamite with a laser beam, Exhibit A: It's the nice Jewish girl with the potty mouth! Shame, shame! She's the one who farts and says racist things! Taboo, taboo! And what did she say about grandpa? You gotta rewind that!

Argh.

It's times like these I know just what to do: When my soul's cut up and infected by incisive this and fecal that, I go and cleanse in the healing comedic waters of Groucho, Monty Python, or Mystery Science Theater 3000.

The perfect one-liner, a knight hitting blokes with a chicken, and jovial puppets reviewing deliciously bad movies—now that's comedy.

Breaking the Bonds of the Western Hegemonic Sex-Music Tyranny (with Foreword by Gore Vidal)

Why is it in popular culture—be it a part of film, television, or theatre—the spitty wah-wah of the saxophone is invariably employed for all things sex? My best guess's it all traces to the beginnings of burlesque houses and some jazz musician going, "Now, have I got the sound for bouncing breasts!" *Wh-wh-wh-whaaa whaaaaaa*

But why the saxophone? Why has the saxophone become the sexophone? Any one of that hypothetical (and pioneering) jazz quartet coulda chimed in: What about the flautist, for crying out loud? *Wh-wh-wh-wheee wheeeeee*

I don't know about you, but when I hear flute, I get horny. Period.

Seriously, though—and why I'm being serious about this, there's no reason—why not drums? Primal, guttural, earthy drums. Yeah, pumping, bumping, thump-thump-thumping drums. Why not? They get bushmen going, don't they? You don't see a Tanzanian tribesman reach for his saxophone when things're warming up: "Hold up, Adimu—before your top comes off... I got me some notes to honk, first-things-first." *Wh-wh-wh-whaaa whaaaaaa*

Anyway, seeing as there's no chance of an entire culture bending on its sextrumental orientation, there'll always be us abnormal fetishists turning up the heat with every thwack of the Jew's harp, seductive strum of the banjo, and gentle caress of the Stylophone.

Take that, hegemonic sex-music tyranny.

Yeah, I said it.

*NEW* from PoMoCo Press... Dunston Durdle: A Detective Story

And now... an exclusive, sneak-peak excerpt from Goldman's hottest thriller!

"Dunston."

"What now, Wellings?"

Dunston lazed his hand to scratch two days' beard growth, eyes like the Frisco bay at 6am. Anyone would be so stunned given a day like his. Harper long-since packed his office wares and left. Too much pressure. Now here's Wellings, the new partner, undaunted, naïve as a playground crush.

Wellings craned his neck with highschool bravado: "We're not done here yet. You got that? You've been on this force too long to unravel right now."

It was a quiet concession, but Ill at ease, Dunston knew it was so. He just needed some time. And maybe even new love in his life. He leaned and thought about it. He never looked or felt so slovenly.

"Maybe my calculator's broken," he said. "Because nothing's adding up."

Some cases are cracked like a nutshell: After some steady pressure you finally make the big break. The case is split wide open, and you find just the nut you were looking for. Still, other cases are cracked like an eggshell: From the outside it seems a clean and easy break, but just a millimeter's journey passed that simple white surface, and the yoke's on you.

"Or in this case—me," thought Detective Dunston Durdle: "The yoke's on me."

—p. 18 of Dunston Durdle: A Detective Story