I Will Show You What Coming From Behind Means

Greetings Rick-ites!

I feel as though I have been ignoring my fans as of late. From the bottom of my heart, I am sorry, you guys. Soon this troubling period will pass and I can resume my role as the step-father of budget traveling. This Ian Wright ordeal has, however, sapped all of my energy. Yet, I find myself unable to stop from replying, though I lay in a hospital bed in a considerably weakened state.

If you were here, dearest Emily, I would remove my Morphine drip and allow you to taste it's numbing beauty. Just like that time in Turkey when I was pistol whipped and viciously beaten by a small band of Kurdish rebels. You cannot tell me that was not a happy time. We spent weeks in a conjoined opiatic haze, more in love than ever. I remember the tiny growling sound you would make as you futilely pushed the IV's button, knowing full and well you could only get a dose every hour. Oh Emily, life is so empty without you.

And you, Mr. WRONG, how dare you make the implication that:

Perfect Strangers is a ridiculous show

and

That my mentorship was unwanted

To address the first issue. If you cannot plainly see the eerie parallel that runs between our lives and the fictional adventures of Cousin Larry and Balki, then God help us all, because it is painfully obvious. I think anyone with a passing knowledge of the business would recognize that dynamic between us. I await it's release on DVD. When that happens I will send a set to you. I wish I could be there to see the look on your face when you realize what your life could have been.

As far as my mentorship of you......

Already I can sense the regret you feel, claiming that you never wanted it. It is always so easy to say you didn't want something after someone has told you that you cannot have it. Of course, you recall that in my last post I ripped that dream from your hands. I see that you are alredy feeling insecure. I can't blame you. I, too, would be a-quiver with abject terror if I were facing an adversary such as myself.

Mr. Wright, do you actually expect me to buy the shit-farm you are selling? You want me to believe that your "mentor is none other than Eugene Fodor"?

Fodor? FODOR??!!

I am forced to assume that this is an example of the dry humor you Brits are famous for. No sane man would reject the budget-conscious gospel of one Arthur Frommer. Perhaps your philosophy of "traveling the fun way with extreme prejudice" works for the gentrified Lords and Ladies of your home country, but what about the journeyman that cannot afford "fun"?

Emily, are you sure that you want to be with a man that has such a laissez-faire attitude approach to a travel budget? In all of our journeys have I once made you go without your precious rotgut? I guarantee you that Mr. Funtimes has made no booze allocation in his travel budget. Why? Because he has no budget whatsoever. Sometime in the near future you are going to be lying on the floor in the middle of a violent episode of the shakes, wishing that Mr. Wrong hadn't decided that wake-boarding off the coast of Guam was more "fun" that the alcohol you so desperately need. When that happens, do not come crawling back to me. I burned your boozecase in effigy last week.

Also, Ian, insofar as you "kicking the living shite" out of me. I OBJECT. After I sent a considerably sized rock (who do you believe dear readers? A lying, cheating, alcoholic, jezebel or the man that has guiding you through Back Doors across Europe for lo, these twenty plus years?) flying through the window of your sitting room, I scarcely had time to enjoy the sound of breaking glass before you accosted me from behind. Subsequently, I was taken by surprise. So much so that there was little else I could other than claw for my life. And, sir, I found the noogie you administered to be weak. I had better in the second grade, you big English girl.

Fodor? Fucking FODOR??!!

The Shite has Hit the Asphalt

Welcome Readers,

Emily here, blogging to you on my cell phone in the waiting room of The Grey Coat Hospital. Having spent a good deal of my upper adult years in hospitals, getting the routine cosmetic surgeries that my husband likes to remind me that I need, I must say that this is quite a place to park it. The waiting room has overstuffed couches, TVs, and month old magazines. The hospital walls and floors are long and white and devoid of human filth, doctors and nurses (who speak English) are wearing actual hospital garb and carrying around real clipboards…most importantly they sell beer by the glass in the cafeteria.

You may be wondering why I am in the waiting room at The Grey Coat, oh readers, the answer is so simple, my disparaging, hemophiliatic husband has had the shit beaten out of him by my new boyfriend. I am currently waiting for Ian to get out of the ER. He needs two stitches above his right eye where Steve had scratched him with an overgrown nail. After that, I suppose I should go see if Steve is still alive in ICU.

There Ian and I were, readers, pondering over the plan of an adventurous vacation in the barren wasteland that is South Dakota, when a rock came flying through an antique stained glass window in Ian’s beautiful home. The rock was indeed small, since Rick has the upper body strength of a rodent, but it did quite considerable damage to the interior of Ian’s sitting room. I was furious, obviously, as it broke two innocent bottles of Captain Morgan. I knew who had assaulted my two friends in a flash as did Ian who suddenly broke from my grasp and ran to catch the assailant.

I have only a dazed recollection of what happened next, I was in a fog of new love and rum. I saw a scuffle, I saw my husband’s blonde hair crazy in the tussle, I saw Ian’s perfectly chizzled back and his arms driving a force beyond nature into Steve’s face. I heard Steve’s high-pitched, girly shriek and I knew this was going to end badly. Furthermore, I admit, I am not the most reliable eye witness, but I know I caught the stank smell of Baldwin’s cheap aftershave. I know that asshole was involved, I just knew it. If I ever get my hands on him in sobriety, he’ll end up floating face down in the Thames. Which may well improve his smell.

A few hours later, some police, some statements, some ambulances, some local news coverage, some pigeons (pigeons are EVERYWHERE here), we all end up in the Grey Coat, I, of course, unscathed. Unfortunetly, with all the excitement I do have one raging case of the hiccups. It’s getting kind of embarrassing with each hiccup vibrating through the crisp walls of the hospital. Good thing I’ve still got a nice buzz going so I don’t really give a shit about the stares from the proper Limeys. Oh! wait a minute, readers, Ian is coming out…with stitches. Damn Steve and his disgusting lack of hygiene. I’m sure those nails were dirty too. How dare he sullen Ian’s most gorgeous visage? What’s that, Ian? You have something to write to Steve? Okay, readers, Ian would like to address Steve.


All right, Steve, Ian here. Nemesis, du jour, if you will. I wanted to take this opportunity, whist I am not jabbing you in the head, to comment on your last blog, my dear Emily thought I would be interested in reading. She was correct. She has a wonderful habit of being correct 90% of the time, except for how to pronounce “Trafalgar,” right lovey? Hahaha, hmmmmmmm. Okay, Steve, I understand where your animosity and frustration comes from, that is no excuse for your mad behavior. I do see that you are in the purest form of an ultimate fantasy.

Steve, you simple creature, how could you think I could ever enter the world of public television stardom without a mentor? How could you think I was so empty I did not have an image that I was striving to match? No Steve, I already have a mentor, and I have no idea what your reference to this “Perfect Strangers” you speak of. I have a feeling it as ridiculous as your behavior. My mentor is none other than Eugene Fodor, who pioneered the concept of the modern guidebook. His rougish ability to combine information with an unapologetic sense that traveling should be above all “fun” led me to want to travel the fun way with extreme prejudice.

In short, Steve, I do not need you, you are rubbish. You can forget all your illusions of grandeur of becoming the person my head rests on during the difficult nights of wondering if what I’ve done is good enough, if the fans still love me. Please leave me be, please mind your manners, and please stay away from Emily and myself. I will not stop as easily as I did today the next time I feel the need to kick the shite out of you.

My Heart Lies Broken, Twice

An open letter to Ian Wright:

You complete bastard. You could have any woman you wanted, what, with your luminescent pallor, natural charm, and growing celebrity. Why did you have to take her away from me? Granted, I may not have been the best husband. Sure, I maybe could have attempted to better service your needs in the bedroom, but…. Oh Emily! God, sometimes you don’t know how much you care about something until it goes away

Ian, there is something that I should say in the hopes that perhaps you will feel the bitter sting of regret upon receiving it. I know I have been very vocal to the contrary, but when I saw my first installment of Globe Trekker, I knew that the show and you, especially you, were destined for big things. I had envisioned us entering into a mentor/apprentice type relationship. How we would laugh while Johan, the secondary camera operator, fought off another street thug intent on stealing his XL1 in order to sell it and feed his family.

You would have hung onto my every word. You would file away each witticism and antidote, anxiously waiting for an opportunity to share the wisdom of your hero. I would have shown you my most aggressive and punishing Back Door techniques. You would have ripped Europe in two under my tutelage.

I would have smiled at you affectionately each time you came to me with your questions and problems. You would feel like I was your older brother….no wait, scratch that….you would feel like I was an old, trusted family friend, the one that seems really nice until one day when you’re home from college and he comes over and tries to feel you up. Then you would become uncomfortable, but you would eventually live and let die because I threatened to tell your parents about that one time on Spring Break. Also you would be forced to acknowledge that you are a cock-teasing slut that deserved it.

The guys on the crew would start calling us Cousin Larry and Balki, after the two main characters in the television classic, Perfect Strangers. I would be Cousin Larry, of course, due to my obvious superiority when it comes to intelligence, business savvy, and common sense. You would be Balki, full of winsome innocence, ready to absorb all of my teachings. Additionally, you both have funny accents.


Then one day as I began to realize that I have accomplished everything one possibly could in my industry, I would respectfully hand over the reins to you. My fans would accept you without question, and would, on my order, keep very quiet about how you could never really replace me in their hearts. They would be so polite about it that you would scarcely know, except for the nagging feeling in your soul that would tell you that you could never measure up. Here is a picture I created for you, to remind you on what you have missed out on.




Ian, you were the chosen one and you, like many weak men, have thrown it away to lay between the legs of a harlot. I hope that you think about the opportunity that you have squandered and I hope that you are prepared to deal with the consequences of your actions. We are not Cousin Larry and Balki. I do not become comically angry with you when you cause yet another disaster. You do not have a cardboard sign that says “USA or Burst”. I cannot think of a proper analogy for our current relationship, but when I do you will be the first person to know.

Freedom, Sweet Motherfucking Freedom

Dear Rick,

You have really pulled out all the stops now haven’t you? (Oh, I must apologize readers, I can no longer write directly to you as this is the only means of getting in touch with my dimwitted, self-pitying husband since he will no longer answer his cell phone and will not let me back in to our hotel room. Even though all my belongings are in there and I’m pretty sure he’s drinking my shit. This blog is only for him. Having said that, please feel free to continue to read on, I would hate for you to miss the following insults I plan to include in my letter.)

Rick, you motherfucker.

How dare you believe that I am a possession you can track and spy on whenever you damn well please? I am your wife not your money belt. Do you have any idea what I’ll do to you if I ever have my hands on you again? Lets just say that Back Door of yours will need hinges to stay closed, if you catch my drift.

Rick, I’m not going to pretend anymore, yes, yes, yes, Ian and I are making beautiful love daily in his splendid home in Hampstead Heath. I did not go see where Princess Diana lived. I never even liked that Princess Diana. I never believed all that goody goody princess crap. Just between you and me, I think she was popping more pills than yours truely.

Listen Rick, I have a soul that is screaming for more.

I have PRE-menopausal hormones that are begging to be set free.

I have this entire wasted life that the thought of brings me to tears and I want to explore things outside of our marriage. I cherish the times we have spent together traveling, yodeling,dancing, laughing and dream sharing but I need more and in the words of my idol, and fellow South Dakotan, Maya Angelou “you’re just not doing it for me anymore.”

And more to the point of this blog, do you really think I could become frightened of you, you festering coward? Do you really believe I could quake and shiver at the thought of an armed man who I know can only reach an erection by scanning through back issues of JUST LEGAL? Oh yes, I knew what those were for. Don’t think for one minute I believed you when you told me they were for a research study your “friend” is doing on East Timor “human form” art. I hardly think you would keep research materials in the john. No, Rick, I am not afraid. You can follow me, you can spy on me, you can hear me singing drunkenly outside Ian’s window but you and Alec Baldwin will not scare me.

You want to know why I know you will not follow through with this ridiculous idea of offing me and/or Ian? It’s because you are friends with people LIKE Alec Baldwin, a man who never follows through himself. I remember not so long ago when current President George W. Bush was nominated in 2000, and Alec and his then wife, the over-hyped actress/hose bag Kim Bassinger declared they would move out of the U.S. if “that man” became president. And what happened? Well, President Bush still sits comfortably in the Oval Office and Alec, now divorced, has his pristine, white ass parked in front of the plasma TV slowly sinking into his leather recliner eating cereal out of the box. Later his publicist came out to say that his statement was “taken out of context” and “overblown” but PUH-LEASE, we all know the truth. The man just can’t follow through and neither can you, Rick. Being friends with Alec Baldwin is just another example of your weakness.

So Rick, let me do this for myself without your incessant whining and general freak-ness. Let me have some me time and figure out which I would prefer, a self-loathing, rapidly fading from the spotlight, closet homosexual or a young, virile, star-rising, danger seeking, British hottie. I will always have room for you in my heart just not my life.

Oh, the kids say hello. They are really enjoying Ian’s pool.



Goodbye (forever?),

Emily

Lying Boozehounds Must Die

To Rick-ites Around the World:



In my last entry I shared with you the humiliation of my crushing, demoralizing heartbreak at the hands of my wife of over twenty years.

I know that expecting her to take responsibility for her actions is too much to ask of an full blown alcoholic, but I confess myself to be disappointed that she would poison our blog with her vicious lies and manipulations. This blog was once pure as the sweetest song and now is forever tainted. This was to be a chronicle of our love that we could share with my throngs of adoring fans. It was to inspire them to reach within themselves and explore the Back Door.

“But Rick!” you say, “Didn’t Emily say that she was going to Hampstead Heath to see Princess Diana’s estate?”

Why yes, dear fans, she did. But unfortunately she is a lying whore who cannot be trusted.

May I present to you exhibit A )

I found this disturbing note on the desk next to the phone in our room. I guess Emily was too drunk to remember to throw it away. Or maybe she just didn’t care. Nothing is surprising anymore.

Meet Ian at 15:00. I don’t think any further explanation is necessary.

I begged off early this morning, telling my jezebel of a wife that I wanted to take an early morning walk along the River Path. Little does she know that I secured a car for the day and am currently waiting for her to emerge from the Sephora on Oxford Street. I guess she wanted to buy new makeup for her big day.

Ah, there she is, reaching into her bag and taking a nip from her flask. She thinks she is so clever. She will never out smart me. I have the power of the Back Door on my side. She is hailing at taxi and….

I’ll report back soon, it’s hard to drive and type at the same time.



Three Hours Later

Any pain that I may have ever felt before in my life pales in comparison to the scalding knife that Emily has plunged into my back. I am currently blogging from the bushes on the eastern side of the Wright Estate. My Emily entered the premises around 45 minutes ago, greeted by a middle aged man that I did not recognize. I am staked out underneath the window of what should be the sitting room, according to the blueprints I obtained. I can hear Emily singing drunkenly to herself and occasionally catch the tinkle of ice from her gin and tonic.

I’ve just gotten off the phone with my dear friend back home, Alec Baldwin. (you may remember his unforgettable turns in “Married to the Mob” and the action classic, “The Shadow”) This is a man who knows a thing or two about getting screwed by an evil woman. He advised me to stake out the house and to “Blow that bitch’s head off the minute you hear something suspicious.” I don’t know about you, but when Alec Baldwin tells me to do something I listen. After all, I’m a celebrity and everyone knows that celebrities are allowed to kill their wives. Or ex-wives. I mean, you probably only get to do it once, but I’m willing to cash it in. More on Alec later, as he told me that he has a surprise for Emily and Ian if I see anything.

Hold the phone, folks. Ian Wright has just pulled into the driveway. Let me just tell you all now that I have a Bowie knife and I’m not afraid to use it.

More on this later, as I have things to take care of.

All my love

Rick

...and you are a raging drama queen

Hello Readers of my soon to be ex-husband,

(sigh) I hope this entry finds you all well because I have many things on my mind that I would like to share and I’d hate for you to begin to read my thoughts then not get the full story because you keel over due to any preexisting diseases or disorders. I would just HATE for that to happen. So sit back, relax and listen to nearly clear-headed fact.

Now, if any of you believe the insecure nonsense that comes out of Rick’s mouth you might think you have an explanation from me coming to you. Well, you’re right. I have a deep appreciation for Rick’s fans especially the accoutrements it has afforded our two beautiful children and myself. I must apologize for any ill visions running through your head of Rick sitting alone in a hotel room with only his Snickers bar, tighty whiteys and sob stories. He is pathetic on so many levels. I have really not been so embarrassed since Rick was caught stumbling around Malaysia in a stupor mumbling something to a 101 year old native woman about how he wished he could get it up in the hot weather. It was, of course, heatstroke, but good lord. He thought she was a prostitute and might be cheaper because she “looked sad.” Anyway, I digress, I hope for no one to stray due to the insane, homoerotic-sounding rantings of my husband’s last entry. I want to assure everyone that Rick has not lost his ability to provide quality thirty second travel tips and his employment with PBS will hopefully not be affected because of the fact that he has temporarily lost his mind.

Rick, I cannot believe what an attention whore you are being. I have been married to you for many years and this is the first time that I believe you have overreacted in such a way that I have to apologize to your FANS for you. Can’t we discuss the possible dissolve of our marriage like adults and friends? We are not divorced as of right now. There might even still be a chance of reconciliation if Mr. Wright shows me no return of affection. I don’t want you alienating your gradually diminishing fan base due to a crush. It is just a CRUSH, after all. We have not done anything yet. That train ticket to Hampstead Heath has an explanation! I was going to see where Princess Diana lived! You know how much I envy Princess Di. It was as innocent as that, honestly. I really don’t think I owe you that apology you demanded in your half naked, alcohol-induced screech. Nothing has happened with Ian, but the day may come, mind you. And may I remind you, you were the one who decided that I should leave our room at the Mad Hatter Hotel. It is really too bad you are being such an ass. And now, these acerbic and hurtful entries to our blog really seem unnecessary. I swear to God, if you had not talked me out of taking those shooting lessons I would be sitting sniper-style somewhere outside your hotel room window.

Rick, I cannot help being attracted to a man as talented and roguishly handsome as Ian Wright. He is just so much like you used to be when I fell in love with you. He’s full of spunk and glamour. He skydives, scuba dives, takes on adventures and throws caution to the wind. Sometimes, he goes through the Front Door. He dares to travel without a moneybelt! I swear, I just got all hot thinking about his perfect bare chest without the hindrance of a moneybelt. You have no idea the kind of freedom you have without it, Rick. I think this should show you readers, you can take all the safety measures in the world, but it won’t save you from everything! You could wear a moneybelt and still be robbed blind, and you could pay for every corrective surgery your wife needs, buy all her pills and alcohol, take her by the back door and still lose her to another man. There's no use fighting it, lets things happen organically, and...and...

Wait a second, RICK!! DO YOU HAVE MY BOOZECASE! YOU WILL PAY FOR THAT, RICK! You will pay.

Emily

JUDAS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

How do, Rick-ites?

I wish that I could muster up the cheer for my usually chipper salutations, but its difficult to be happy when you are sitting alone in your underwear in a cheap motel room sobbing and eating whatever you can get your hands on.

Why Emily?

I can accept the drinking, the drugs, yes, even the additional chins. I can handle the insults, the insinuations, the infidelities...but why him?

I know that you fans have probably built me up in your heads as some sort of travelling demi-god with the perfect marriage and perfect life, and just a week ago I would have agreed with you. But now I would like to give my dedicated fans a glimpse into their hero's soul. Two days ago I envisioned myself as a glorious Phoenix rising from the ashes. My plume shining brightly, my beak held at a jaunty angle, silently daring anyone to come in my Back Door. Now all I can envision is Emily in the arms of that pale, snaggle-toothed usurper. Damn you, Ian Wright, with your dreamy accent, tight upper body and powerful thighs. I cannot compete with your unbridled sexuality. You have not only stolen my spot on the PBS lineup, but you have stolen my heart. I mean my woman's heart. Her heart. Not mine. Hers. You hold it in your powerfully calloused hands, caressing it gently, then harder, and yet harder still. You cling to her like honey on the ripest peach, never letting go. Then you ravish her like no other man before. This will not do. I will not allow you to do this to me...to touch me....I mean her.

And you, Emily, why must you spit on me in my darkest hour? The cancellation of my show coupled with the degredation of being demoted to the "thirty second travel tips guy" should have been enough to slake the thirst of even your most sadistic fantasies.

And the picture? Each gin and tonic soaked line of the heart you drew upon his puckish, charming smile breaks my heart. I think of you sitting at the computer desk with that girlish smile on your face. You were probably smoking a joint and drinking a diet Coke and giggling about the new love in your life. I remember when you used to giggle with me. We were so happy then...

At this time I find that I can't be angry with you, even though you called me a child molester and started in on the lawsuits even though I told you THAT WAS NOT TO BE DISCUSSED ON THE BLOG!!!!!!!!

I suppose the anger will come with time.

For now I am going to drown my sorrows in Emily's boozecase (that's her little nickname for the bag she keeps her travel liquor in) and order pay per veiw pornography from the hotel. I have a feeling she won't be home tonight. I saw a train ticket to Hampstead Heath in her purse yesterday. I know that there have been times (i.e. the Philippines, that time in Holland with the he-lady) when I have disappointed her, but nothing compares to this betrayal.

That's it for tonight. I washed down a couple of Demerol with a chug of bourbon and my face is starting to go numb. Numb, much like my entire being feels after being coldly passed over for my nemisis. If it is even possible, I hate Ian Wright even more than before. He WILL pay for this.

Goodnight to you, my fans. I love you all.

Steve Ricks

Brand New Crush

Hello fellow lovers of Rick,

First of all, I would just like to extend my heartfelt admiration for those fans who are dedicated enough to stick it out through the valleys (as well as the mountains) with my husband, Rick. He works very hard, as you all know, to bring quality travel information, and (dare I say it?) entertainment to those of whom he assumes still actually watches his shows. I know its hard tuning in every week for what is now only quick glimpses of Steve and snippets of his vast knowledge of back doors. I know that there are much more hip and alternative means of getting your travel tips and vacation ideas what with the new PBS travel lineup. I am not going to play coy, as we all know I am discussing the show “Globe Trekker.” But, as I was saying, I appreciate your insistence of keeping Rick on the TV for a least a few more years so that we can pay off some of our steeping debts due to several lawsuits the subject of which I’ll have to discuss at a later date.



Secondly, I have to admit here, readers, I have a crush. I am so giddy I feel like a schoolgirl back in North Dakota! Now, I know what you’re going to say “But, Emily, how could anyone smite the majesty that is Steve’s eternal travel flame and make you stray? Who could be so dashing, so savvy and handsome? Who could have stolen your heart away from a man who has stood beside you through all the years of steady weight gain, grey hair and undeniable alcoholism?” My answer is Ian Wright.




Yes, I know this might come as a shock to many of you, he being an adversary of my husband, but you must remember it was my burning need to love a man who loved traveling that attached me to Steve oh so many years ago. Don’t get me wrong, loyal readers, I am still in love with Steve and his backdoor antics, but this Mr. Wright is someone I’m thinking might be Mr. Right for me! He’s athletic and tan, he laughs in the face of common sense and just between you and me, I think he was eyeing me at the PBS Fundraiser last year. More on my crush to come, I think Steve is walking into the room….

...So in case anyone was wondering, marriage counseling went phenomenally! Oh, if you didn't realize, that's where we were while taking hiatus from the blog. We discussed on end my drinking and eating problems and also Steve’s unwillingness to compromise and pedophilia. All in all I would say it was a smashing success. As you can see, we are on vacation together in Jolly ‘OL England. There is so much history and foreigners here. Today I saw an Asian woman with her child in the middle of a pool of pigeons balancing one of these regal creatures on her arm while her husband took a picture. Exotic! Although no restaurant, store, or cab has a god given air conditioner and no hotel has a shower (only baths here, aye?) it is a nice place to visit. London is a great place for lovers, especially lovers on a sixteenth honeymoons like ours.



Keep those emails coming, readers! Steve and our bills appreciate your support!!