Archive for the 'Comedy' Category



It’s about freaking time I got a review.  Yay!  We’ve screened “When I Sing” five times now.  Two screenings for Film Festivals – and we won both…and then three more, independently. Not only that, but our “little indie that could” has also received press.  Let’s do this!  

“When I Sing” Hits Many Sweet Chords 6-29-18

Review by
Jordan Rich
WBZ Boston, i-Heart Radio


For those who decry the lack of story, spirit or creativity found at

their local movie complexes these days, allow me to introduce

you to one Linda Chorney—-musician, writer, producer, and star

of her own inspiring cinematic story “When I Sing,” one of the

most endearing and entertaining indie films in years.

If you were to ponder, “Who the #@$%$ is Linda Chorney” you

would not be alone. It just happens to serve as one of the more

memorable taglines for the film. The question speaks to why

and how this “little movie that could” works as well as it does.

Audiences will find themselves (for a welcome change) cheering

for a real-life underdog, possessing tenacity and heart. And it’s a

sound bet that you will laugh, cry and empathize with the

characters along the way.


Linda Chorney has been a working musician for decades.

Gigging in clubs, opening for A-list artists, composing and

creating at a frenetic pace, she has managed to self-produce

several musically rich albums, albeit for limited audiences.

After many years of pursuing her dream of making it big (that

elusive dream shared by thousands of her fellow musicians) Linda

surprised the entertainment world in 2012 as the first truly

independent artist nominated for a Grammy award. While many

were excited for this talented artist who finally got some national

recognition, others in the industry attacked her for allegedly

“gaming” the system to acquire the nomination. The attacks

were often personal, demeaning and ugly. But through it all

Linda retained her unique brand of spunk and cutting sense of

humor. We witness her more delicate human side as well, as she

occasionally succumbs to the pressure, crying herself to sleep.

“When I Sing” is a film that musicians as well as plain

old civilians should find engaging.


The film spotlights certain friends and heroes she meets along her

way.  They include Jonathan, the “Rock Doc,” played by veteran

character actor Chris Mulkey. It’s Jonathan who encourages her

as a fan and offers a generous financial boost to produce what

would become the Grammy nominated album. Another key

character is Scott, played with warmth and likability by

actor Maxwell Scott. Scott becomes the friend and lover whose

adoration and support for Linda is unwavering and real. Her

journey is made easier and much more fun thanks to Linda’s

steadfast soul mate Scott.


A couple of actual family member of Linda’s, as well as genuine

music industry people in her story, appear in “When I Sing.”

There’s her teenage nephew “Eli” who aids Linda in navigating

social media during the run up to the Grammys. Eli Panero is a

scene stealer (which tends to run in the Chorney family). Linda’s

real life Dad, Paul, plays himself and adds a loving, humorous

touch alongside vivacious actress Bari Hyman portraying her

Mom. “When I Sing” is lovingly dedicated to Linda’s Mom,



The most important bit of casting however is that of Linda, the

central character. She’s energetic, exuberant, fragile and quirky.

We’re rooting for her from the opening scene, witnessing the

emotional rollercoaster this talented, complex, lovable musician



When asked about playing herself, the star of one of the most

original, heartfelt, hilarious indie films in years told a preview

audience that she tried hard to woo Sandra Bullock to play her in

the film. I was in attendance conducting the Q&A  that evening

and the consensus was that while we all agree that Sandra

Bullock is a superb Oscar-winning actress, no one could have

played the role of our fearless heroine with more conviction and

heart than Linda Chorney herself. She turns out to be one heck

of an actor.


Don’t see this movie expecting even the briefest of car chases

(although there are some hysterical moments involving Linda in

cars). Thankfully, there are no explosions or gunshots and

certainly no superheroes in tights to be found. What you can

expect is a movie about a real woman, reaching for her brass

ring, and dealing with identifiable setbacks and triumphs along

with a handful of well placed “F” bombs along the way.

The film concludes with Linda’s touching performance of the title

song “When I Sing,” an anthem for anyone who’s been bullied,

beaten down or neglected. Her lyrics address the hope that lies

at the core of the movie…


“There’s just one thing makes me feel as light as a child on a

swing, where no one can hurt me…when I sing.”

This “little movie that could” is well worth seeing and supporting.

For more visit


Maynard MA JR


Clap, clap, clap!  And now for the press so far!







And here’s what other folks have been saying as they leave the theatre on WHEN I SING WICKED AWESOME WORLD TOUR. Please request a screening in your town. And I’ll sing a few songs for you, too. (Enough Linda til ya puke!) Just go to and sign up for tour dates, and say hello!



I found the book on a plane. I read it. I thought the two leading characters were fucking idiots. Yet, I read on, hoping there would be some explanation for the popularity of this trash. There was not.

However, it has inspired me to write my version, where the woman is the billionaire, and the subservient role is played by an equally stupid ass clown. It won’t be difficult to improve upon the original. Enjoy my Valentines gift to the world…


Chapter 1


I was in my limo driving cross-country because I was bored. I spoke through the intercom to my driver, Harvey.

“I have to pee. Pull over at the next exit.”

There, was an ihop, in Hayes, Kansas. I entered. The inner goddess in me wanting chocolate chip pancakes so badly that I ordered some, before I went to pee. Buttermilk, no powdered sugar. Extra chips. Not too much butter, but enough for lubrication. I texted Harvey to bring in my platinum to go box. I hate styrofoam. And I hate waiting even more than I hate styrofoam. Hopefully the pancakes will be ready by the time I finish peeing, so I don’t have to wait. Billionaires hate waiting.

I have had to stop and pee at least sixty times since leaving New Jersey. I suspect that I have a urinary tract infection from shoving so many kitchen utensils up my twat.

As I strolled by many fat fucks barely fitting into the blue booths, I glimpsed into the kitchen area behind the metal shelves. Ooh. That metal makes me so hot. I felt my vagina twitch as it reminded me of the metal shelves in my playroom.

There, in the kitchen, I spotted the most beautiful, pure creature in a white puffy hat. My left eyebrow  uncontrollably raised. He was blond, blue-eyes, bluer than the blue of the naugahide upholstery of the ihop booths. I hate fake leather. But blue is my second favorite color. No, wait. I like green better than blue, so, it’s my third favorite color. Red is my favorite color. My limo is red. My lipstick is red. My nails are painted red. I like red because it reminds me of when I had my period. I no longer get it. I’m fifty-two.

As I was peeing, I couldn’t stop thinking about the blond in the white puffy hat. My pee was orange. A really beautiful shade of orange, from the pyridium I was taking for my burning urine. I was thinking on Friday, I might have Chang Quan paint my nails the same shade of orange for a change. As a billionaire, I can have my nails painted every day.

 As I wiped my aging lips, they spoke to me.

“I must have that boy in the white puffy hat! Bring him to me.”

I pulled up my crotchless pantyhose, that were opaque white, but now they had spots of orange on them, because I don’t like to sit when I pee in any public bathrooms.

“Double crap!” I said out loud, angrily, in the stall, because this was the eighteenth pair of opaque white pantyhose I had ruined by my orange pee on this trip. Luckily I have another sixteen pairs in my red limo. That should last me until Colorado, where I plan to ski. I have a mansion in Aspen. Its brown. But I plan on painting it red as soon as I can get approval from the town. I hope my urinary track infection is better by then. Sometimes I have to pee when I am heliskiing. One time I skied into the woods to pee. I pulled down my one of a kind Bognor ski suit I had made at Gorsuch, that was red and crotchless. Anyway, as I was peeing, an avalanche started. I was still peeing, but I had to go before I would be burried alive! The avalanche came too fast. (Like the last nineteen year old carnival worker I picked up waiting in line on the Jersey Shore, to go on the Round-up ride.) I was burried, head first, red ski boots up in the air. I could feel ice on my pubic hair, which I dye red. Fortunately, there was a trail of my orange pee, which led the rescue team right to me. A Saint Bernard licked my exposed crotch. It was so hot, it melted the icecles from my pussy.

I left the ladies room, after washing my hands with my own personal red soap I keep in my Red Gucci crocodile tote, that I picked up for forty-one thousand dollars. As I turned the corner, there he was.

He said, “Excuse me, Ma’am,” as he tried to get by. He was so hot. I could see his tongue, which reminded me of the Saint Bernard. I heard my lips below screaming to get him in the limo.

“What’s your hurry, handsome?” He blushed my favorite shade of red.

“Umm, I, I, have to pee.”

“YOU CAN WAIT!” I said with authority.

I put my arm out to block the entrance of the Men’s Room.

“Do you know how attractive you are?” I asked.

He put his head down, bashfully. I love bashful boys.

“Look at me, bashful boy,” I said softly.

He looked up with his sparkly blue eyes, completely lost in my green eyes. I tried red contact lenses, but they looked creepy. My eyes are actually brown, but I have a bunch of green contact lenses in the limo. I can’t wait to strap bashful down and plunk them into his eyes as he plunks into me.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said to bashful boy.

“But…but…” I interrupt by putting my index finger over his lips to quiet him. I hope it doesn’t smell fishy. I thought I washed my hands well enough.

I take him by the hand, dragging him out of the ihop. Harvey had the platinum to go box of pancakes. It was a whirlwind of excitement I could never have imagined would happen in Kansas. I love driving through Kansas, because it reminds me of The Wizard of Oz, and Dorothy’s ruby red slippers. Oooh. Those shoes made me so hot, that I purchased them at Sotherby’s auction for ten million dollars. But it was getting to the point where I couldn’t leave the playroom anymore, where I wore them. They were too small for my size 9 foot. My damn feet keep growing. So, I have temporarily loaned them to The Smithsonian, until I get my feet operated on, so they can fit me.

As I threw Bashful Boy into the trunk of the limo, I noticed a stench. The poor boy had peed in his pants, since I didn’t allow him to go to the bathroom. I laughed hysterically. How adorable!

After stopping one more time to pee at a rest stop on i70, we arrived at my ranch, which I built where they filmed the tornado scene in The Wizard of Oz. Besides the slippers, I am also a fan, because I like to wiz. Harvey opened the trunk, where bashful boy had been banging on the door for the last eighty miles. He looked pretty confused. It was so cute!

I removed the red duct tape from his perty mouth and ordered him to join me in the ranch. I opened up the platinum to go box of pancakes. They. Were. Cold.

I was so angry that I turned a deep shade of red. “Crap! The pancakes are cold!”

I went into the kitchen and threw my entire Le Crueset red set of cookery on the floor, stomping my feet. I was so mad also, because I had purchased the entire collection at the Outlet Store on i10 in Palm Springs, on a previous cross-country search for the perfect piece of ass, and then had found it for half the price in a Home Goods in Boise, Idaho. Even billionaires like a bargain every once in a while.

“Bashful Boy, its time to make some pancakes. Are you ready?”

“Uhhh, I..I, guess so. Do you really think I’m handsome?”

“Ooooh, you are so hot, you have no idea. Actually, do you have any ideas in that pretty blond head of yours? No matter. Its time to bite into hotcakes.”

I cracked an egg on his forehead and added it to the Trader Joe’s Buttermilk pancake mix I had Fedexed to Kansas from Shrewsbury, New Jersey. These hicks out here in Kansas only use Bisquick. I hate Bisquick. And the box is yellow. I hate yellow. I do like Aunt Jemima though, because the box is a bright red. The Trader Joe’s box is more of a Burgundy, but that counts as a shade of red; plus no preservatives.

I had Harvey take off Bashful Boy’s cloths and scrub him down, while I put all of the ingredients into the red overpriced Le Crueset bowl. Once he was clean, I dismissed Harvey, instructing him to leave the red duct tape. We were alone. Just me and what’s his face, and the pancake ingredients, and my set of red Le Crueset.

I took out a whisk. “Do you know what I am going to do with this whisk, bashful boy?”

He gulps, “No.”

Bend over, I said, as I put a red apron on his rock hard chiseled body. I gently stuck the thin whisk up his ass, after using a little of the whipped butter for lubrication, and placed the red bowl of Trader Joe’s buttermilk pancake mix on the floor. I started with small girth.

“Now whisk Away!….faster…..faster! And make sure that white puffy hat stays on. It’s so sexy.”

His ass was churning round and round like that Round-up ride in Jersey. It was hot.

He finished mixing to make the batter as smooth as the skin on his hairless chest. I took two chocolate chips and tried to place them on his nipples, but they kept falling down. Crap! I made him eat them off of the floor. I hate wasting.

As he was down there, I placed my left hand, gently under his balls and started tickling his taint, while plunking green contact lenses in his blue eyes with my right hand at the same time! So erotic. His erection put the kickstand on my red bike to shame.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about, hotcakes!”

I grabbed the roll of red duct tape, and took my red spatula with the thick handle, and taped it to his throbbing hard cock. I was dripping like the photo of the syrup on the Aunt Jemima pancake box. Yummy.

“Now, you have to flip the pancakes using this spatula. If you lose your boner, you won’t be able to flip them, and I will get angry. You don’t want me to get angry, because if I do…I might have to take you into the playroom and punish you.”

“Uhh, if you keep talking like that, I might lose my erection, Ma’am.”

“My name is not Ma’am. It’s Matwatsonfire. Named after my Great Grandmother from Botswana. She was the first white woman to fuck an elephant. You will keep your erection. You are young enough. How old are you, anyway?”

“I’m 25, Ma’a…”

WHACK! She takes the whisk that is still in his ass, quickly removes it, and spanks his hotcake cheeks.

“It’s Matwatsonfire. Now don’t drop any pancakes, you gorgeous blond orangutan. You are just perfect. There is nothing more perfect than this dyslexic relationship. I, 52, you 25.”

“You are fifty-two?! You don’t look it. You’re hot. I want you.”

“In due time. In due time, bashful boy.”

“But my name is…”

“Shhh! Don’t spoil it.”

I take his dripping syrup dick dispenser and lick it to keep my human spatula efficiently stiff for flipping.

But, just as I was lifting up, he went to flip a pancake and it fell on the floor, as he blew his load. I laughed inside, but pretended I was angry, and ripped the duct tape from his penis, stuck the red spatula in his perfect butthole, and then lovingly dragged him by the red apron around his neck, towards the playroom.

I wonder if all billionaires are this romantic?

This portion of my blog is sponsored by Pancakes in Red Boxes and Orange pee.

aunt jemima



My Brain During Yoga

So yoga is supposed to be really good for your body and brain. My instructor is awesome, calm, and always mentioning to free our minds and concentrate on our breath. When she says that, I wonder how my breath is? And the dialogue begins in my noggin…

“Does it stink? What did I eat last night? Oh yeah, I had those perogies from Costco. They were pretty good. I sautéed onions with it. At least the onions weren’t raw, so my breath should be okay. I like when Costco does free demos on food. I wonder what amount the check will be this time from Costco? Do people know you don’t have to spend it? You can just cash it in. But we always end up spending it anyway. We have enough Pace Salsa to last until I die.”

Then we move on to these balancing exercises, where I yell “TIMBER!” in my head, as I can only hold the position for 2 seconds. The dialogue continues in my head: “I can just picture myself walking on a tight rope attempting to cross the Grand Canyon. Bu-bye. I’d be dead in a second. How do those guys do that? What was the name of that guy who did it, while saying, Jesus is my savior, or something like that? Okay. Linda. CONCENTRATE! SHUT UP!”


TIMBER!  (This photo is not in class, but notice the”RELAX” plack I bought. Yeah, right.)

Next we go into downward dog, and I wonder if anyone is looking at my butt and how big it has gotten, as she reminds us to relax our face muscles. I undo my knotted expression, and think about what I refer to as my “what the fuck” wrinkles on my forehead, because I’m always thinking, “what the fuck? Then I wonder if I will ever be good enough at yoga to smell my own crotch.


Everyone is wearing really zen overpriced Lululemon yoga outfits, while I am wearing cruddy shorts and a T-shirt from Sudbury Pizza. As I bend down during my downward dog, I look at how dry my skin is on my thighs, and how hairy my legs are. “Yuck! When did my skin get like this? I have to moisturize more often. And what a pain in the ass it is to shave my legs. I wonder what is more of a pain? A woman shaving her legs, or a man shaving his face? Should I post that question on Facebook? Man, I’m hungry. I wish they had Sudbury Pizza in Arizona. Nick, the Greek was so cute, there. He drove a BMW. That place was always packed. He must have made a lot of cash. The Roast Beef subs are the best! They don’t even know a good pizza here, and the best subs available are from friggin’ Subway! I can’t believe they used that chemical in their bread that they use for tires! What the fuck? …Jersey has great pizza, too. I wish Sea Bright Pizza would come here. At least they finally opened Bianco’s in Tucson.”

My thought is interrupted as the instructor reminds “us” to relax the face again, as she looks specifically at me, and I start to giggle.

Then we proceed with some ridiculous position and I see myself in the mirror, and compare to the other people that look way more graceful.



Next the instructor says we are now going to do “badanahsa” or something like that. So another dialogue begins in my head. “If Italians had there own sort of yoga there would be a bedaubing position. What would it be? Would it be some sort of movement with the hands going up when they say Gabagoo? And what about the French? Rather than reaching for a block, the instructor tells les yogevons (I just made up that word) to grab their  vin and cigarette. Slowly motioning to puff and sip. And rather than relaxing the face, she says in a heavy french accent, to make that ridiculous pouty face the French women do. And of course the outfits would have to be tres fashionable.”




Finally, at the end of my relaxing yoga session, my lovely, calming, slow pace voiced instructor says, “Now just relax and let everything go.” At that moment I think about ripping a huge, loud fart. “Wouldn’t it just be hilarious if I did that? Could I? I really do have to fart right now. Must be the perogies. But would anyone laugh? I would. If someone else did it, I would. Oh God. Hold it in, Linda. I wonder if anyone else thinks this much during yoga? I hope at least I lost some friggin’ weight after this torture. I do feel pretty good. And I’ll feel even better when I get into my car and let her rip. Namustgo!”



Would you let your kid go to Kenya right now? Rutgers is.

Rutgers University, (the same institution that paid Snooki $32,000 dollars to speak to their students) is about to send 6 of their students to Kenya at the end of this week, for a one month mission.

Now, an important fact about the Snooki deal, is that a student committee made that decision. Which to me proves that at the ripe average age of a college student, well, they are not old enough to make some decisions. (Although, ultimately, Rutgers allowed $32 Grand to go to the awe-inspiring Snooki.)


And I have nothing against Snooki, however, as an inspirational speaker at a University? Negative.

And I have nothing against Snooki, however, as an inspirational speaker at a University? Negative.


In the case of the trip to Kenya, Rutgers is responsible for making the decision, whether to cancel or not.

 According to the State Department, who always scares the shit out of anyone traveling anywhere…Kenya is on the top of their list, as an orange alert, to not go there. England also has the same warning. (Hence, I have used orange script! How cute.)

 According to the mother of one of the students going, Mrs. Teja Anderson, she spoke to a friend, who happens to be a U.S. Senator. His response, when she informed him of her son’s plans?

 “It’s like the Wild Wild West there. You are crazy to send your kids! Riding in a van on a two lane road for eight hours is insane. It’s on alert for a no fly list country for us!”

 Just TODAY, The Washington Post released this article on the latest bombing in Nairobi, that killed 10, and injured 70, “in the string of the recently increased terror attacks.”

 And this photo was released in an article from May 16th, 2014, warning folks not to travel to Kenya.


Should Teja pull "The Mommy Card?"

Should Teja pull “The Mommy Card?”

 Within this article, from a foreign media source, I am displaying this particular section for it’s relevance to Mom’s difficult decision to make:

Travel companies flyng out tourists

Just hours before the two attacks on Gikomba Market, British travel companies flew out some 300 tourists after the British governement had issued renewed warnings of possible terrorist attacks in Kenya.
“I’m very sad. We don’t feel threatened. I think everybody is overreacting. We wanted to stay for our holidays,” one tourist told DW while she was checking in for her flight to London.
She was one of approximately 300 tourists who had left their hotels in a convoy of buses, guarded by heavily-armed members of Kenya’s elite paramilitary unit GSU. On Thursday, some 300 tourists had already left the country on chartered aircraft.

So what would you do if it was your child about to leave for a month to Kenya?

I spoke with Teja Anderson this morning, after reading a post she put on Facebook, struggling whether to pull her son out, or not.
All of the students are traveling with Engineers Without Borders. (EWB). They are building two rain water catch basins and water filtration systems for a couple of schools. (I am not going to mention specifically where they are going as a precaution not to alert any bad guys.) There will also be two professional engineers traveling with the group.
As of now, the locals carry the water to school by hand. Her son’s role is to take care of any immediate medical emergencies…of the Rutgers’ group.
They will stay in a nearby city and commute every day to the village, by private van. It’s about 30 minutes to an hour away.
“He’s the only one trained in CPR, first aid, and knows how to use a defibrillator. He’s there to tend to any cuts, or minor injuries.”
Ummm, my first red flag. Is Rutgers giving that medical responsiblity to a nineteen year old?!
I’m not insinuating that her son is not well-trained, or irresponsible in the least, but they are solely relying on his experience to take care of the students in the field? There is no back up plan? What if there is a real emergency?  (Although that is the case with anyone traveling anywhere.)
But that’s number one of…fifty. Then there is always the possibility that their private driver told someone about the trip of U.S. students. That someone could tip-off sickos that can profit from their kidnapping, which has been reported as an increasing activity, along with the increased terror attacks in Nairobi, where the trip begins. Then of course, it is most likely that NOTHING will happen….
Anderson, understandably panicked, has called the Dean’s office and other decision makers, only to receive one returned phone call from a female Dean, who understands her concerns, but the trip is still a go.
She also spoke with one of the professional engineers that is going. That person has been corresponding with ISOS. They have allegedly advised no concerns, because these bombings have been in the very poor sections of Kenya.  (Yeah, that narrows it down, Linda says like Rodney Dangerfield.)
Anderson has personally paid for her son’s airfare, and shots. (The shots are supposed to be reimbursed in Africa.)
But screw the expense….is this trip potentially a huge risk?
I was in Kenya a couple of years ago. We landed in Nairobi, spent the night in a high-end hotel, and then took a small craft to various Safari areas. When we did travel by mini-van from A to B, we never did at night, except once, and it was a little nerve-racking day and night, but I would do it again….in the day light.
But would I go now? Ummm, I think I would wait until things cool down. 
That being said, I think Rutgers should wait until things cool down.
I have empathy for the locals who must carry their water to school, but they’ve been doing it, historically, and can wait, too.
This coming Monday, there is a meeting scheduled with Rutgers, the students going, and the parents, to voice their concerns and make a decision.
To put it in perspective, there are many exchange students from Europe who have cancelled their stays in the U.S. because of gun shootings in schools here. They see the News, it scares the shit out of them, and they think it’s nuts to send their kids here!
Our reaction? Oh, that is a rare thing to happen. We still send our kids to school. (Although I feel gun deaths in the U.S. are out of control…yet we could control…yet we don’t. Because our heads are up our asses, and our society is so fucking warped that a major university paid Snooki MORE money to speak to their students, than they did to a Nobel and Pulitzer Prize winning author, and recent receiver of The Presidential Medal of Freedom, Toni Morrison.)


I asked Mrs. Anderson what she will do if Rutgers decides to go ahead with the trip?
“Well, if I decide to pull the plug, my son will be pretty upset with me. But I may have to play The Mommy Card.
My personal note to all of the students: Please don’t be mad at your folks. They love you. This next month will be hell for them every day, worrying about you! You are young. You can always go later. (And maybe Snooki can come, too!)

OMG! Jon Stewart wants me on his show?!

Saturday afternoon I was hanging out at home, chilling before my performance in Tucson. I get a friend request from Jon Stewart. Yeah, right. The Jon Stewart? I clicked on Jon, and it went to what appeared to be an official Facebook page, where you could just “like” the page, which I believe I had liked over a year ago.


This was the actual photo on the conversation, and when I clicked on it…it went to what looks like an official page.



And the photo of Jon corresponded to the same exact photo of him on the site, that is liked by 24k people. That’s not a lot for Jon….nevertheless, about an hour after accepting his friend request, I wrote a private message. It began with referring to whomever this was as Santa….because if this was really Jon Stewart, it would be a dream come true for me! I have watched all of his shows since day one. In my “Tea Bag Party People” video, I hold up a sign saying “I heart Jon Stewart”. He is in another video of mine when I interview Neil Degrasse Tyson, who has been a guest on his show, numerous times. I’ve been racking my brain, trying to figure out how I can get my book to him…I met him years ago in Austin on a movie set, where we were both filming different things. When I met Springsteen for the first time, my opening line to him was, “I am so jealous that you met Jon Stewart! He has presidents and world leaders on his show and maintains his cool, but when he had you on, he acted like a giddy school girl!” I’ve been in the audience on his show. I have his book…let’s just say I am a fan.


Ummm, is this really Santa?
17 minutes ago
yes it is me
Santa?! Am I your favorite Jew on your list!!??
Thank you for liking my page , Support you showered on me, I hope you never stop watching my movies and shows and reading my books…
ok. Prove it’s you. I met you in Texas on a film set….you were sitting with Bebe Neuwirth. What town were you in?
you tell me what town you met me ?
nope. not the right answer. Shoudn’t pull on my strings that way. Jon is my hero, Santa.
you don’t know the town you met me what a pity
I do. I’ve met Jon Stewart twice. But I have not met you. But thanks for makikng me think for a split second that just maybe this was legit. Peace. Have your people call my people.
what do you mean this is legit
duh. You are not Jon.
Gotta go. I have a date with Colbert now
i am jon
ok. What was the name of the Rabbi who circumsized you?
and what town do you live in the Shore?

Message cannot be sent based on either the receivers’ privacy settings or yours.

See you in Red Bank.

Message cannot be sent based on either the receivers’ privacy settings or yours.

I was obviously testing him to see if it was really him. After the circumcised statement, I was blocked. So, there are three possibilities.
1) The Daily Show has a staff that is reaching out to people who have liked the page, randomly.
2) I was actually speaking with Jon Stewart, who had nothing better to do, and he found my circumcision question offensive, or put his nose up, because I spelled it, and a few other words, incorrectly. (There should be a “z”in it…I hate spelling.)
3) It was some asshole, pretending to be Stewart.  (Perhaps Fox News strategizing to alienate his fans.)
If it’s number one, that is very lame, and most likely not the case. First of all, the page only has 24 thousand likes. Stewart should have millions.
Secondly, a marketing ploy to boost support for show and products? If that was the strategy….lame.
If it’s number two, well….it can’t be. Jon has a great sense of humor. So, I would think his responses would be more clever.
If it’s the third, you suck….pretending troll.
I think there should be some law that does not allow anyone to pretend they are just anyone on the internet. It’s out of control.
But I let it get to me! You know, that little part of you that hopes something is true. These hopes are what pariah prey upon. When people get things in the mail that are too good to be true, some dreamers go for it. They get swindled out of something by the lowlifes who take advantage of their naiveté.
But I. Let. It. Get. To. Me.
I was in a shitty mood after being blocked, (just in case it was really Jon, and I blew my big chance to get him my book…so he would have me on the show, because my story is just so awesome that he couldn’t resist.) And I actually took the energy to go over what I could have said instead…to test if it was really him, like, why are you writing me? (Like he knew about my videos, that I owned his book, rave about him all the time, etc.) Or, when is your documentary coming out? Or, what’s the name of the toy store where you hang out in Red Bank…with Bruce Springsteen? Or, how cool is Neil Degrasse Tyson?
I couldn’t snap out of it, and it affected my performance that night. I was mad at myself for not being able to just shake it off.
Then last night, I watched the show, but was slightly bitter, just in case it was his people…
Then this morning, I went back to our conversation on facebook, and all of his comments had been removed, and marked as spam. Being the pessimist that I am, I was glad I had taken a picture, and made a copy of my alleged conversation with my hero.
This message is no longer available because it was identified as abusive or marked as spam.
Anyway, Jon, the real Jon Stewart, if you happen to read this blog, I’m quite sure this douche bag was not you. And I hope you do reach out to me someday soon, so we can chat, and maybe you can read my book, and have me on your show.
NEIL DEGRASSE TYSON FOR PRESIDENT – LINDA CHORNEY’S DREAM 1  (My moronic interview with a genius)
Just in case you want more Neil….PART II…
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Back by popular demand,

Here is my first interview with Neil Degrasse Tyson.  You may have seen him this week on Bill Maher and/or Jon Stewart.

This guy rocks…(And is a rocket scientist!)

My first of three videos of a fictional dream about Neil, posted last September…


All is Quiet on New Years’ Day

“All is quiet on New Years‘ Day…”

Every New Years’ morning when I wake up, (well, technically, normally, afternoon),  that song just won’t escape my head!!  Thank you….2.

But at least today that head is not throbbing with pain!  No hangover!

I have had many a new year celebrations, I would say 75% of my adult years, where I woke up feeling like shit, but with NO regrets!  Worth burning a few brain cells.  Hell, I think too much as it is!

I feel for you guys going, “Ehhhhh, I feel like a cow pooped in my mouth and danced on my brain…but what a blast!”

And then a giggle as you reminisce the events of the night before…..that you can remember.

I had a woman come up to me last night at my show and say, “Last night I think I made out with Rita!  Well, at least I think I did!”  (She rang in the New Year a little pre-maturely.)

We had a good laugh, and I thought it might make a good song.

Then I read a friend’s post on Facebook that said, “Yes, I fell asleep before midnight, doh.”

That has happened to me maybe twice, since my legal drinking age.

So, what does that mean to fall asleep before that ball drops?

Well, yeah, we are getting older.  Maybe not as energetic as we used to be.  Maybe just wiser and more content.  Not out searching for something that is missing.  Maybe not.  Maybe because it’s too risky to go out and drive anywhere.  Maybe we are more responsible, and don’t want to drive drunk, like we used to.  (I am hearing Mic Jagger in my head now, from Miss You…”like we used to”)

Or maybe it is too friggin’ expensive to go out.  If I was not a musician, that capitalizes on New Years’ Eve, as it pays well….and if it doesn’t?  Why bother?  But last night was a blast playing with Nick Clemens Band, Ralph Notaro and Bob Polding!

However, if and when I’m not performing on Dec 31st, I love to have an evening with good friends, make an extravagant meal.  Lobster, Filet, caviar, good champagne.  Tons of Hors d’oeuvres (Thank goodness I am not hung over right now, because my mind could not take the meltdown of going over how ridiculous the French language is to spell!  Really?  Vanna, can I buy another vowel?)

Which brings me to another subject.  Content.  Real conversation.  For me, I just don’t have the patience for superficial conversation.  This is for any eve.  Sometimes I just sit back and listen to nonsense.  And at the risk of sounding pompous, I get bored.  What is the point?

And then also, (and I am sorry to be judgemental here), but being in the entertainment biz, I am surrounded by people who are wasted, that do not know when to stop.  When you need subtitles.  When that limit is exceeded, (not the legal limit… the one that reaches a level that activates a switch within your own mechanism that changes you.)   One person who is normally quite charming, becomes a complete ass.

Being funny is one thing, but when someone becomes vile, and even violent, I just don’t enjoy being around it.

Now, when they make out on the floor with Rita?   That’s cool!  It’s hysterical!  Why not?

(I guess as long as it doesn’t lead to a new addition to the family the following September!)

Sorry to get preachy back there….it’s just where my head went.  I am proud to say I am perfectly capable of being an ass without the influence of alcohol!  Yep, I got that going for me!

I dedicate this blog for those of you waking up…..or eventually waking up, and feeling like a sledge-hammer dropped at midnight, after dreaming about drinking a silo of water, looking by your bedside only to find the glass is empty.  Just getting up to pee is challenging enough, but to have to fetch a pail of water?  Ahhh!  Where are Jack and Jill when you need them?

…that rambled on….BUT most importantly, about you guys waking, that you are LAUGHING because you had a great time!  A memorable evening.  I am kind of jealous!  Enjoy the carbs you are craving!  Eat that delicious salty, fried food!  My favorite is a chocolate milk shake, some Mexican, Chinese, Steak and Eggs, and a little more hair of the dog!!  The diet will start tomorrow!  (Man I am hungry, better wrap this up.)  Hope that last sentence doesn’t make you hurl!  That, we could all do without.

So giggle away; call the friends you shared the evening with, and say,  “Hey!  Remember last night when you fell after coming out of the bathroom, and Joey picked you up and carried you around the dance floor on his shoulder, and your crack was showing, as you screamed out, “Get me another Red Bull and Vodka BABY!!  Wahooooooo!…where is my iphone?  Take a picture of the noise maker in my butt!”

(I wish I had the photo!)  Let me go to google images and put that in….hold on….

I didn’t quite find that shot, but I did find a few others that made me laugh out loud….

And just for the record, this is MY idea, shitfacebook!  Linda Chorney @copyright Jan 1, 2012  (Darn it!  I just found out, somebody else thought of the same thing.)  Yeah, and I wrote “Let it Be”, too!  What are the chances?

May I suggest putting on, or at least imagine Louis Armstrong singing “What A Wonderful World” , as you gaze at the photos!



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Linda Chorney

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December 2018
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