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Mysteries Revealed…With No Help From You, Chutes and Ladders! November 17, 2006

Posted by doctorolove in Pop Culture Rants.

I won 3 times at Clue! last night.

And what is important is not just that I completed a perfect board game perfecta, but in just the manner of how I won.

Three games, three guesses, winning right out of the gate. The odds against that are astronomical. One game, it can be done. Two games, lucky streak. But three games is bordering on hit by lightning, winning the lottery, Joe Esterhaus writing a script without lesbian innuendo im-poss-ible. Yet, I know there is something more to it. Something that luck, chance and their bastard cousin improbability had nothing to do with.

Yup, I have realized that I may just very well be the greatest intuitive mind in history, rife with detectivity (A new word – use it, trade it with friend, put it on your salad instead of Bacos, what have you.) I could feel the board. I could see in the minds of the motley crew assembled at the mansion. I could feel the tension in Colonel Mustard, the wry sexuality in Miss Scarlett masking her crime. I could sense every inch of the Conservatory; smell the fresh blood on the lead pipe. My mind is wired for detectiving (Another new word – start getting them out there…I smell catch phrase!) and it is because of that that I am now dedicating my life to solving the great unsolved mysteries of our time.

Since the death of Robert Stack and the Fox network’s transformation into American Idol central, there is no outlet for unsolved crime shows anymore. Every once in a while, Court TV or the History Channel will try to break the great crimes of our generation down to some sound bites and news clips, but seriously, nobody watches those stations (Though take away Shark Week and watch our nation’s soul crumble.) It is a daunting task, I know, but one that my newly found skills have been itching to try.

So, here I am, aiming as high as possible. And my skills hope to solve the greatest unsolved mystery they can think of. Not who put the bom in the bom sha bom sha bom (It was actually a collective effort by the Communist Russian government to infiltrate American teens by distracting them with fancy dances.) Nor is it the mystery of just why Jennifer Lopez still gets acting work (Two words: Nice ass.) No, today, I will astound you with the truth as to who shot Biggie and Tupac? (When I aim, I aim high.)

First, let us look at the facts of the case. Both men were killed in drive by shootings in public areas of Los Angeles and Las Vegas. Both were at the top of their respective rap games. And each was surrounded by their entourage, who saw little to nothing of their individual attackers. You see, the small minded police and FBI agents have never looked at the basic facts and have been searching for two separate criminals.

That’s right, the crimes were committed by one man. One man who could a) have been able to be in both locations without suspicion and with ease, b) had a reason to assassinate the greatest poets in rap and c) has the money and the ability to seamlessly blend back into society and never raise suspicion for what he’s done.

That’s right: Biggie and Tupac were killed by Wayne Newton.

Think about it. Wayne Newton has long since been the second tier of lounge act society. He tried to fill the void left when the various members of the Rat Pack either died of cirrhosis or their voices became so caked in scotch and hooker spit that their notes came out like muted kazoos. He did, but the Vegas he wished for, the one of glitz and glamour, was being tarnished in the seventies. Crime, mafia and a general film that covered the city like soap scum. He tried to clean it with his voice and charm. But all the Danke Schoens in the world couldn’t save the place he dreamed of ruling. And Wayne Newton was viewed as cheese, much like the Las Vegas he called home.

So, throughout most of the eighties, Wayne was a joke. His shows still sold out, but the audience was split between elderly patrons who won tickets when they spent a whopping 75 bucks on the Hot 7 slots and Vegas dignitaries who came for the free steak with every ten tickets. The same songs were sung, the same red rose pinned to the lapel. The jokes were fast and furious back then. Lounge music was dying, along with Vegas. Wayne needed to act and act fast.

So, he kept his eyes on popular music, trying to find just what style could he emulate. He thought about trying his hand at punk, but his hair never seemed to get the greasy stringiness he was looking for. He tested the waters of country, but never could get used to sleeping with members of his close family. And hard rock just wasn’t conducive to the longevity of his voice. So that left one thing: rap. And Wayne dove right in. He loved the melodies. He loved the poetry of the words. And his tailored suits and bling-bling style, once dismissed as cheesy, fit right into the burgeoning rap scene of hustlers and pimps. Finally, he could be relevant again.

But the joy and excess that defined eighties rap was not too last. Right before Wayne was about to unveil his new rap persona (Conflicting reports had his name to be Big Bad Brutha Wayne or Vanilla Bean Machine), gangsta rap exploded. Gritty portrayals of the street replaced the chillin’ freestyle Wayne was about to latch on to. And at the forefront were Tupac and Biggie. Wayne was devastated even further when Vanilla Ice, a white rapper that oozed charm and style like he had hoped to do, was laughed off the Earth (or at least doomed to a life of infomercials and bad celebrity television.)

Wayne was distraught. His hopes for a career ‘rap-aissance’ (God, I am like freakin’ Webster – the dictionary guy, not the tiny African-American man-child) were shot. Was there anything he could do before he too joined the Rat Pack touring the shopping malls and tiny civic centers of third rate Midwest towns? Surely, he couldn’t commit…murder?!?!

And he wouldn’t have, if not for his turn as a villain in the cinematic classic that was Adventures of Ford Forlaine. It gave Wayne the confidence in evil he needed. Plus, he was there for the beginning of the “Dice” death knell. And he couldn’t let that happen to himself. SO he targeted Tupac and Biggie, hoping their deaths would sound the end of gangsta rap and its’ death-filled lifestyle. And he would be there to usher in the return of the old school rap he so identified with.

The details of the murders themselves were always sketchy. Wayne knew he could play the two against one another, leaving himself out as a suspect. And what’s more, he relied on the ineptness of two police departments. Both suspects were shot with semi-automatics, and as we all know, Danke Schoen Manor is armed to the teeth to prevent Celine Dion and pre-mauled Siegfried and Roy from launching a full-scale invasion. I can’t go further into details, since Wayne is still out there and to reveal too much might mean I don’t get an encore, if you catch my drift.

My brain hurts after that thinking. I’m pretty sure that this may just cause me to retire from the unsolved mystery business. But I have shed light on a great unsolved crime and I think that may be enough. Clue! has served me well. And my prowess will no fade away into a fog of beer and tiny chocolate donuts.

Though the State Department better watch out. I’m playing Stratego tomorrow….



1. Lola - November 19, 2006

Amazing detectiving!

2. doctorolove - November 20, 2006

Thankings and salutatings

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