As H. Ross Perot once said, "Hear that giant sucking sound?" That was the sound emanating from this very office until scant moments ago. We're sorry for being so late. As calamitous world events unfold, we find You-Know-Who in the eyes of the storms, and just as often at the helm. Assimilating the global impact, and reporting it quickly and fairly, can be overwhelming. And sometimes we just plain fuck up, as you'll see. But when we're wrong, we admit it. And boy, were we wrong. We offer this musical mea culpa to our readers (and to JOE), by one of His favorite bands, as proof of how seriously we take all this. For the record, JOE feels they got a bum deal.

 

Rightly shaken to His creamy core over the recent foot-fetish allegations, JOE cut off all contact with us again while He went a-sleuthing on His own dime (actual amount spent) to unmask  the filthy cretins who would besmirch His good name. Yes, there were odd behaviors. Yes, there were bizarre and unlikely coincidences which remain unexplained. Yes, JOE employs a barely-legal Asian pedicurist. Yes, He carries an 8x10 glossy of Sandahl Bergman standing on her toes. Yes, actually, to pretty much everything we've reported on the subject so far. But there's a tragic underside to all of this which is still unraveling as we speak.

 

As it turns out, a shamefully misunderstood (by us) JOE has been suffering for years from a rare affliction known as Reverse Transference Psychosis. JOE's own former shrink (before He decided they were all quacks), Dr. Shtigmund X. Bedvetter, cited the crippling disorder in his 1972 book, Nutjobs Obsessed With Women's Feet: "It is essentially an inverted form of projection wherein subjects, rather than blaming their situations on others, seek to gratify desires by overwhelming said suckers with those unfulfilled cravings." In layman's terms, by lavishing His boundless love onto all those feet with such dogged intensity, JOE was merely crying out for some foot-love for Himself. We had no idea that He A) was dealing with His own painful foot ailment, B) recently underwent surgery for it, C) refused narcotic painkillers [citing Patrick Swayze's line, "Pain don't hurt," from the magnificent Road House], and D) was restricted to maximum bedrest while wearing one of those enormous, cumbersome, ortho-boot-cast things and stumbling to the bathroom with a CANE for nearly a MONTH! This explains everything. (Almost...read on.)

But we also didn't know that He'd used His convalescance to such thoughtful, creative, and typically generous ends. This is exactly why we'll always love Him. "That boot meant no booty calls," explained JOE with all the heart-tugging humility of Albert Schweitzer, without the moustache. Inspired as always by Vietnam-era idealism, JOE seized the moment. Timing was crucial. Thus, the "Occupy JOE's Bed" movement was born: "I wanted to recreate the spirit of the time, while re-beefing the concept for the new generation. And clearly, it called for a soundtrack. I wrote the whole album in 27 minutes, but I needed a like-minded female counterpart to really seal the whole "sensitive" deal. Buffy Sainte-Marie was busy, so I had myself cloned, then had the clone get a sex change. It was the only logical solution." Recording right from that snuggly bed, the finished product was shipped within the first week. Asked if any hanky-panky went down while shacked up with his new musical soulmate, JOE quickly replied, "Are you kidding? That broad's crazy!" 

Reminded that the original Bed-In was for p-e-a-c-e, He simply shrugged: "If we get some of that too, I have no problem taking credit for it." As well you shouldn't, JOE! We only hope that His next medical crisis doesn't involve hemorrhoids and He starts singing "Moon River." Even though He nails it.

But the unsettling fact remains that someone with a twisted agenda instigated this entire ordeal with the documents we revealed in our last issue. The clone has been ruled out, since she didn't exist when the story broke, although she has shown an unhealthy jealousy toward JOE's sole source of solace throughout this fiasco---His ceramic chicken soap dispenser. Creepy cut-and-paste, ransom-note style kidnap threats toward the item were left here, including one promising to kill it, even though it's not alive. But it might as well be, given the peace of mind it has brought this genuine saint of a man. The FBI is now trying to crack the case. They already cased our cracks, which yielded no results beyond extreme discomfort. Many have suggested that "Clucky," as JOE has since named him, was merely another of His elaborate, whimsical pranks, or that all this was merely a publicity stunt gone awry. So for those who need proof, here's JOE cradling Clucky in His own precious palm. The background is shrouded to thwart further location attempts. Fellow pinball enthusiasts will note His famed supple wrist, so crucial to championship play:

In other shocking, but no less bittersweet baloney, JOE's sold-out Broadway show is closing at the end of December, by His own decision. But fans know, when He closes one door, something thrice as sweet lurks behind the next one. Those with heart conditions, brace yourselves: JOE has retooled the entire production, retaining the autobiographical theme, and is schlepping the whole shebang to Branson, Missouri! "Check out the link. Just look at the roster of megastars I'll be rubbing elbows with on a daily basis!" He said with equal parts pride and all the giddiness of a low-watt schoolgirl. The best part? In keeping with tradition, He's purchased His own theater there, and the show will run indefinitely! "New York and Hollywood are pretty much over. Branson's the real deal, and I plan to revive the careers of some of my favorite performers," crowed a triumphant JOE at a swank press luncheon of crumpets and Gatorade. We could hardly believe our ears:

Regular cast members already signed include Hayley Mills, Patty Mullen (Oscar-worthy in  Frankenhooker), and Linda Blair. JOE feels that Blair, most especially, deserves the break: "She's been unfairly maligned since her stellar turn in Roller Boogie. That's all about to change." Most of the details are still under wraps, but we have learned that JOE and Hayley will duet on the song she made so famous in The Parent Trap, "Let's Get Together." JOE had offered the part to His clone, but she ran off in a snit after a custody battle over Clucky. "It's all for the best. Hayley and I make it more suggestive, of course, but without the cheeky smug thing, and certainly without the 'ick' factor the clone might have induced among more sensitive audience members." Linda sings 'You Light Up My Life' directly to me while levitating and throwing up, and in the finale, Patty provides a truly happy ending right before her head falls off. I can't believe I'm getting paid for this!" Believe it, JOE. No one has earned it more.

If all this weren't enough, the bone-crunching score will be played live, at every show, by JOE's new all-time favorite band---the one and only---Foreigner! "I considered The Beatles, but with Jacko gone and Yoko furious over the Bed-In thing, the copyright litigation would have taken years. These guys are ready to rock right now. And really, the lyrics aren't nearly as foofy. This is a street-level view into my rough-and-tumble existence that pulls no punches," spat a leather-clad JOE, puffing a guttersnipe and pointlessly slathering his shaven dome with Vitalis and pretending to comb it. While numbers like "Jukebox Hero," "Hot-Blooded," and "Dirty White Boy" are givens, feast on the sheer poetry of some of their lesser-known tracks to see why they resonate so deeply with JOE:

(From "At War With The World") Never had no need / For any military aid / And I never took charge of the light brigade / I got no castle to defend or attack / But still I seem to be picking up flack / I am the captain of this body of mine / I'll send fear into the enemy lines / On the ground, in the air or at sea / They're all pointing a finger at me / I'll fight while I can / To put an end to this misery / Nobody's capturing me...