Here at the Stony Lonesome offices, high atop a glittering skyscraper rising majestically heavenward from the undulating dunes of Abu Dhabi, we are nothing if not brutally, transparently honest. Just this morning Vicki, my gorgeous statuesque sexually adventurous assistant, said to me, "Your grace, I believe the sexiest thing about you is your journalistic integrity and steadfast commitment to truth and precision."
"Here, here," said Clive, my orangutan valet (or "gentleman's simian"). "You have built here an island of honesty amid an ocean of deceit from which we shall execute our mission of shooting straight and aiming true."
Clive has become an invaluable member of the staff since hiring him away from his post as vice president in charge of development at CBS. He is personally responsible for CSI in all its myriad incarnations and as such, for CBS's ascendancy, but we were able to poach him as the appeal of ape-authored police procedurals seemed to be on the wane and Clive felt his days there were numbered. Their loss is certainly our gain. Since installing ceiling rungs throughout the officers for ease of brachiation, Clive has become a veritable avatar of efficiency and rendered himself quite indispensable in a very short time.
Today at our daily strategy session where we brainstorm story ideas and sip martinis, midway through Clive's pitch about tennis hooligans, Vicki put on a sexy little pout and stamped her perfectly pedicured, shapely, Jimmy Choo-clad foot. "We've been working for nearly five hours and I want to go on vacation!," she said. "Capital idea," I responded. "But where shall we go?" "Ibiza!" Vicki said. "I'm afraid Paris Hilton has made that fair isle completely uninhabitable. Only she and the iguanas live there now," said Clive. "Oh, pooh," she said. "What about Prague?" "Slug season," I said. "They're everywhere, sliming up the statues and ruining expensive loafers. Prague is out." "How about Mendocino?" said Clive. "Ah, Mendocino," I said, dreamily. "Jewel of the North. Hypotenuse of the Emerald Triangle. Her rugged coast, her towering sequoias, her succulent pears, her analgesic herbage. Home of America's last newspaper and her first economy based entirely on illegal drugs and donated food. Mendocino indeed!"
"And," said Clive, "I have several relatives in the public defender's office!" "Sounds super. Let's go to Mendo!" chirped the lovely Vicki, breaking into a celebratory dance to Doug Salm's Mendocino which Clyde had queued up on the office sound system. "Clive, add Music Director to your list of titles and get packed. We are going to Mendo," I said.
"Very good, sir," Clive said.
From there it was simply a matter of addressing the remaining staff and ascending to the roof where my dirigible, the SS Kefauver, was moored. The pilot, Captain Ralph, and steward, Legume, remained onboard at all times on standby in order to cater to my peripatetic whims. I donned my floorlength Kolinsky-trimmed traveling cloak and shouted, "Let us away!" The three of us climbed aboard and we were off.
"Legume, what is our ETA in Mendocino?" I asked. "Well, sir, depending on the prevailing winds — jetstream — migratory patterns — atmospheric disturbances — astrological considerations — Kübler interference — we should arrive sometime in early spring," said Legume. "Settle in, troops, it's going to be a long ride," I said. "Meanwhile, how about I tell you a few things you probably didn't know about our destination?"
"You probably know Mendocino County is big, but I doubt you know how big. Exact measurements are difficult due to ongoing border disputes at Cloverdale and Crescent City and subducted elasticity along the Lake County line, but it hovers around 55,000 square miles or over 37% of California's total area. That's big enough to contain all of Lake superior, the Oklahoma Panhandle, the Grand Canyon, and the island of Madagascar." "Jeepers, that's big," explained Vicki. "You're darn tootin' it is," I said.
And speaking of big, let me tell you about the Mendocino County redwoods. The biggest one, Bubba, is three miles high, a half-mile in diameter and houses a cookie factory inside. Not staffed by elves, though — there's no such thing. But if you cut down all the redwoods in the county and laid them end to end they would stretch all the way to the sun. 93 million miles, imagine that." "It boggles the mind," said Clive. "Prepare for further boggling," I said. "Did you know that no fewer than seven US presidents were born within Mendocino County's empyrean confines? Yep. And her dogs are among the smartest in the world."
"Let me tell you about the sheriff there, Mr. Tom Allman. He wears seven league boots and can kill a man with a glare. He's so handsome he can't be viewed directly or he'll burst into flame. He combines the wisdom of Solomon with the raw charisma of JFK and uses it to police so effectively that the jail has been turned into a community garden/recycling center and all the deputies have been redesignated "helper monkeys" for the County's old and infirm. His title may be Sheriff, but he's the HMFWIC, the spiritual leader, the gray eminence, the grand panjundrum, and indeed Lord of All he surveys. Most folks just think of him as 'Father'."
"He sounds real dreamy," cooed Vicki. "Funny you should use that particular adjective, because he just instituted a countywide 'no bad dream' policy," I said.
"You certainly do paint a vivid picture, sir," said Clive, "but wouldn't we get a better grasp on the subject — and have more fun — if you were to sing about it, musical comedy style?" "You may have something there, quiet old sock," I said. "Legume, a little music, Maestro?" Legume took a seat at the below standard boatswain door for grande and flexed his fingers dramatically. He played a sweeping introductory flourish and turned back to look at me. "F sharp, sir?" he asked. "You know me too well, Legume. Hit it."
There's places in Cali with weather like Bali where palm trees do sway in the breeze.
Where citrus fruits grow and the children all know lives of leisure enjoyment and ease.
There's places where beaches boast star-bellied sneeches who motor in star-bearing cars.
Who sneer their disdain at the populist main who exist without stars upon thars.
There's places where bears and carnivorous hares grow to truly colossal dimensions
Where lions predaceous and orcas cetaceous evince anthropologic intentions.
There's one place I hear of that I live in fear of but not for the dangerous fauna.
What makes it a bummer is that in the summer abides there a certain madonna.
There's towns of renown where the parties go down, and orgies are frequent and free.
Where if you're not mindful you may get an eyeful of nude gymnosoph debaucee.
To number the bounties of 56 counties would take me from now to Thanksgiving.
But I'm here to warn ya that in California there is only one county worth living.
See, in Mendocino, it rains Pellegrino, and Camembert grows on the bushes.
The indigenous ladies are all hot as Hades and sit on spectacular Tushes.
The men are all made of a very high grade of corundum admixed with cashmere.
Which makes for a chap with a very smooth nap and a firm callipygian rear.
The vintners produce the most savory juice which increases one's judgment and taste.
Try a pert pinot gris or a saucy chablis to become very sensibly-’faced.
There's no politicians and excellent fishin', the children are all well behaved.
And don't be concerned, no one ever gets burned as the tweakers have all been enslaved.
In short, it's a place anyone can embrace, but if Mendo you should forsake—
Head east till you smell something ranker than hell, sir, and then just go jump in the Lake!