Hear Me Phineas Worrell!

I’ll admit, the first time I watched the story of Lloyd Worrell, I was put off.

Scared, more like it. Who was this guy who kicked dogs, pretended to eat invisible steak, and loved to watch his equally creepy boy smash up his cinder block toys?

And that house – junky, cold by appearances, open and empty.

Yet.

Underneath, it’s Ernest. Ernest P. Worrell.

I don’t remember the first time I met Ernest P. Worrell. Probably through one of his commercials, though I don’t remember a product. Maybe a bit about him on TV featuring a commercial – I grew up in Idaho and I believe we had one local dairy then – actor Jim Varney did his Ernest character for a lot of dairies – but not much else.

But I watched the Ernest movies. Oh, did I watch them. I’ve got the books. I was a member of the Ernest P. Worrell fan club to the end, when the club folded and they sent me a free bumper sticker as a thank you.

I sold the car the sticker was on. Probably the most valuable thing on that car was the sticker.

I’m reading now Justin Lloyd’s biography of Varney and loving every minute of it.

Almost every minute. The writing is a little rough around the edges. But that’s okay. It suits Ernest – and Uncle Lloyd – just fine.

I never knew, for example, that “Never Get Poop on Your Shoes,” was the alternate, “English” title to the film “Dr. Otto and the Riddle of the Gloom Beam.” Which I love. Nor did I suspect Monty Python was an inspiration for Dr. Otto’s writers, though I can see that a bit now in retrospect. I’m learning a lot about Varney and the character of Ernest.

Part of me wonders if there wasn’t a bias against Varney in Los Angeles and in New York that kept him from meatier roles. Yes, he was typecast as Ernest, but clearly had a range that could have made him a much more prominent character actor than he ever was. But as Varney was from the South and played to Southern stereotypes, the elites may have just let him fly under the radar (though Disney certainly saw the potential when Ernest got more cheers at the Indianapolis 500 than did their own Mickey Mouse).



I’m gratified he did win a Daytime Emmy in 1989 for his TV show, which I loved as well.

Lloyd’s book feels pretty comprehensive. And I also have to wonder – who else but a relative would write this book (see coastal elitism as a reason why nobody else would).

There’s one thing I feel lacking – photos. There are a few, but I kept hoping for a lot more.

It's Tax Time!

I finally have enough paperwork to start on our taxes in earnest. Why I should involve Ernest, who, while being a nice guy, isn't exactly the brightest guy in the world, is beyond me. Must be because he was man enough to admit he'd lost his finding device.

Anyway, it's tax time at our house. A few days ago, a friend of mine asked how we always managed to get good news at tax time, rather than bad. Three simple reasons, and they're all asleep right now. I hear a lot of people, of course, get upset that because of the child tax credit, people with children have an unfair advantage over those who do not. To them I say this: Bullcookies. I'll trade you any year you like, pal. Kids are way more expensive than the little tax refund we get for having a few extra dependents lying around the house. Yes, I know that since we opted to have children we ought to be prepared for the expenses. And we are. And we don't look at our kids through a spreadsheet, either, figuring out the costs and benefits of having children. We just had kids because, on occasion, they're fun to have around. For example, thanks to my kids and a round of Mad Libs, we now have a new rallying cry at our house: "Let's Get Frumpy!" And we do that a lot, folks. Oh, we do.

Because of our dependents and associated tax credits, tax time at our house is a happy time. And this happy time couldn't come at a more fortuitous time, because with the refund we get we can knock out our credit card debt once and for all. Then we re-jigger and cut up the superfluous cards and set ourselves on the road to fiscal responsibility. Take that, Karl Marx.