Monday, June 08, 2009
Rock of NEXT
There has yet to be an iteration of any exploitive trashtastic reality shitshow at Vh1 called "_____ of Love" that I won't watch. In fact, I'll watch any show involving the word "love" produced by Mark Cronin and Cris Abrego Vh1 cares to air. "Flavor of Love," "Rock of Love," "I Love New York," "Real Chance of Love," "For the Love of Ray J," and of course "I Love Money": I will watch them all. Trust that there's more than one episode of "Daisy of Love" saved on my DVR.
Of these shows, I have had a major love-hate affair with "Rock of Love." I LOVED season one, yawned through season two until finally giving up out of boredom, and started paying attention halfway through season three when I realized they'd abandoned all pretense of Bret Michaels finding love and made no effort to disguise casting a posse of utterly shameless, drunken sluts with careers in the adult film, "glamour modeling," webcam whoring, prostitution, and stripping industries. However, I'm a little sick of Bret Michaels. I'm totally over listening to him whine about his damn diabetes and laud the (WORST TEAM IN THE NFL EVER HATE HATE HATE) Steelers. I wouldn't mind if they traded him in for a newer model of washed-up rock star. Give Nikki Sixx or Richie Sambora a season on the casino tour circuit with a busload of skank-ass hoes because I'm so sick of hearing "don't need NO-THIN...but a GOOD TIME..."
Apparently all the theater queens on Broadway thought so too, because as Bret sang that very song at the (*snicker*) Tony Awards this past weekend, some sort of stage prop "accident" nearly ripped his cheap-ass HairDO by Jessica Simpson QVC clearance bin tracks out from under his bandana.
Bret should take heed the signs and at least take a leave of absence. He should pass the torch before he is too overexposed to keep booking shows at the Emerald Queen casino–AKA "the entertainment capital of the Northwest"–in my charming hometown of Puyallup. Seriously, hang up the decorative cowboy hats and give some other has-been a chance to share pubic lice with the tattoos-and-fishnets set.
Labels: buttrock, Rock of Love, sluts, TV, Vh1
Monday, June 01, 2009
Will the real Slim Shady please sit the fuck down?
Last night the MTV Movie Awards were on, and it was basically a big snorefest, except for this choice moment:
Having Sacha Baron Cohen's junk in my face would be a sublime experience. He's swarthy, hot, and hilarious, plus he's like 10 feet tall so I'd wager he's packing. Should SBC–as himself, Brüno, or anyone else–ever descend from above like a flamboyant, ridiculous angel, my response would be similar to Eminem's "Are you fuckin' serious?" However, my response would NOT be in the vein of the humorless crybaby attitude exhibited by Mr. Mathers. I would be shocked at being in such great luck as to be blessed with a live closeup of SBC's business end, not demonstrating that I'm the asshole who can't take a joke.
Eminem is really one to get pissed off about this, considering that his signature videos mock many of his colleagues in the entertainment industry. Speaking from experience, if you dish it out, you'd better learn to take it because you will get it. He should have learned this in 2002 when he stormed out of the VMA's because Triumph the Insult Comic Dog ragged on him. Eminem's apparent steadfast inability to accept a little criticism continues to support my suspicions about his diminutive penis size. Also supporting my Eminem small weiner theory is his knee-jerk homophobia, and I do mean PHOBIA, since the mere proximity of Brüno's crotch sent him running from the theater.
As he's trying desperately to claw his way back from obese complacency to cultural relevance, he should be glad for the association with a hot movie that's about to drop and will most likely be very successful. Hell, considering the state of his career's stagnation, he should be glad he even got an invitation to the MTV Movie Awards, whether his seat came with surprise SBC ass or not. Being on the radio for the first time in four years with that forgettable "Crack a Bottle" song does not restore the kind of celebrity gravitas excusing being a whiny, insecure bitch who can't take a joke. Can Eminem's comeback just fail and send him back to Detroit to verbally abuse his immediate family members, get fat again, and generally drink a tall glass of bitch, shut your trap? Because his very presence just reminds me of how over him current popular culture ought to be. Please, Eminem, make like your song and LOSE YOURSELF...in obscurity.
Labels: assholes, ranting, rap, retard rage, TV
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
This is a threat?
You'd think that with all the important stories in today's news (new ho shooting to dethrone Ruth Bader Ginsberg as hottest bitch on the Supreme Court, prop 8 sadly stands, economic collapse, etc.), CNN could come up with a better use of their journalistic resources than THIS FUCKING STORY:
I've really had it with bitches who fall for this fucktard's antics. Ashton Kutcher is a snake oil charlatan with no talent save that of being inexplicably tolerable to stupid people. Everything about this motherfucker is despicable, and I don't know why people haven't recognized that since the late 90s or whenever "That '70s Show" was on. I basically hated him from the moment I gazed upon his guffawing, trucker hatted visage. A quick review of his CV reminds me that he came on the scene playing a dumb, lazy, unemployable stoner, then morphed into an annoying pest playing contrived pranks on people. Then he was mistaken for a celebrity anyone cares about by fucking and marrying Demi Moore. Then he became disgustingly overappreciative of his own value, made two years' worth of absolutely terrible films, and obnoxiously embraced Kabbalah. Now he's become my own personal multimedia gadfly, goading me with a deft combination of COOLPIX camera ads and self-aggrandizing pretensions that I should care about how this knuckle-dragger's Twitter habits influence his fickle relationship with his own media whorishness. Big deal: more assholes follow Ashton's Twitter feed than CNN's. He probably has more Facebook friends too. WHO CARES?! Larry King, please explain why you cluttered up your valuable primetime cable news space with this asshole's Twattery. It takes the average person about 30 seconds to not feel sorry for Ashton Kutcher being impaled upon his own proverbial e-sword. I'm losing approximately NO sleep knowing that Ashton worrying that someone might intrude upon and irritate him via the very media conduit he has used to torment the entertainment industry-consuming public for the past decade. Karma's a bitch, and so are you, Kutcher!
Labels: assholes, celebrities, internet domination, ranting, retard rage, TV
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Excuse me, but WHAT, BITCH NAMED KATE GOSSELIN?!?!?!?!
I am a glutton for punishment, and I really couldn't help myself. I went to the gossip internets and read more completely unsubstantiated, totally unreliable, and most likely false bullshit about the entirely loathsome "Jon and Kate Plus 8" family drama. It seems that there isn't much going on with real famous people, because the Gosselin parents are being thoroughly owned for their incompetence at media whorecraft. I could pretend that I'm the level of classy that stops after one glass of Franzia and takes the high road about obviously obnoxious twats, but let's be real about it: my new life goal apart from professional success and landing lots of hot ass is that THE GOSSELINS MUST BE STOPPED. I don't want to see them or hear about them and their gigantic litter of brats any longer, and I'm more than content to see the tides turn against them so severely that they are uniformly hated by the world and thus fade into the obscurity where they belong.
I'm clearly not the only one. The esteemed journalists at Us Weekly are obviously feeling me. The only thing they fail to point out is that she looked like a massive cunt even when she was just "a mom". She looks like the kind of mom who would force you to drink milk, eat raisins, and say unfamiliar Protestant prayers when you went over to hang out with her kids. This one girl I was friends with in sixth grade had a mom who did that, and she looked just like pre-monster Kate Gosselin. I bet if fleeting reality fame/infamy hadn't come her way, Kate Gosselin would have presumptuously overparented other people's children and decorated with God's eyes, framed needlepoint, and gingham-patterned geese just like Mrs. Gesch.
And due to their highly competent reportage, Us Weekly has managed to distill everything I hate about Kate Gosselin into a quick blurb, courtesy of a probably misappropriated quote from an obscure Associated Press features brief published in 2005:
Kate Gosselin said she feels society has a responsibility to help with the children, since modern medicine promotes the use of fertility drugs, which can lead to multiple births.
Kate Gosselin ought to get down on her knees and thank OctoMom's shameless social parasitism for distracting everyone from the fact that she is the true pioneer of egregious, infuriating media gaffes. However, Kate is finally getting the credit she deserves for her equally obnoxious attitude about subverting nature to achieve such a massive brood and then passing the responsibility off on the rest of us, and that's not going to translate into great "Jon and Kate Plus 8" ratings. Much like a predatory lender or American auto executive, it's a bad time to be a money hungry not-actually-that-famous reality star with eight mouths to feed and a broke-ass equally subfamous stump of a man who may or may not be banging some lesbian fifth grade teacher on the side. Probably because HOW *DARE* YOU BLAME SOCIETY FOR YOUR OWN VAIN BABY-OBSESSED CRAZY BITCH PSYCHOSIS THAT MY TAX DOLLARS SUBSIDIZE YOU FUCKING STUPID UGLY SELF-RIGHTEOUS TROLLOP-ASS CYPRESS MOSS-ESQUE-LABIA-HAVING PROSTITUTE!!!!
I would like to go around telling everyone that society has an obligation to support me because it encourages me to rule their faces off, but for reasons of not seeming like a delusional lunatic, I refrain from doing so. The vast majority of the society that supposedly encouraged Kate to take fertility drugs certainly won't embrace an annoying, shrewish, totally unendearing frigid nagfest pompously informing them that they need to pick up the tab for her own manifest selfishness. As someone who works in the field of "modern medicine" and an avowed child hater, I assuredly did not encourage Kate Gosselin or anyone else to take fertility drugs, and I strongly resent the implication that this bitch did so at my behest rather than her own arrogant desire to overbreed. And her suggestion that somehow I need to shoulder the burden of her own bad decisions makes me want to kill a bitch.
Kate's about to learn the hard way that it doesn't pay to be a mega cunt (literally and figuratively) with a detestable reproductive history and a fucking HORRIBLE Rosie O'Donnell circa 2002-meets-rabid Old Yeller's raised hackles haircut. People are going to quit that bitch and her show's going to get canceled, and she can go back to firing nannies and emasculating her husband without having a television audience to detest her. As far as I'm concerned, that joyous moment can't come soon enough. Down with the Gosselins!
Labels: assholes, destroy all children, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, TV
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Jon and Kate Plus HATE
An ill wind blows. Lately, every time I go onto the internets for some celebitchery, I am confronted with the unattractive visage of Jon and/or Kate Gosselin. Even worse, I'm confronted with headlines suggesting that one or both of them has been getting freaky with their busted asses...and not with each other. Either I have to picture Jon's fugly pedophile eyes humping drunkenly on some bitch with low self-esteem who thinks he's a celebrity, or I have to picture Kate's haircut doing ANYTHING sexy, which is about as titillating as the notion of watching two rabid prairie dogs mating.
For those of you who may be unfamiliar with this fugly little pair, they are the stars of the TLC reality show "Jon and Kate Plus 8." This show is basically about these two IVF junkies who wound up churning out a set of sextuplets to go with their twins, and all the consequent grossness that ensues. I watched this show once, and in that hilarious installation all eight kids had rotavirus or some kind of nasty gastrointestinal virus. As much as I love watching eight toddlers simultaneously shitting their pants and puking everywhere, I almost immediately flipped the channel to something more classy and palatable, like "Rock of Love Bus." Hey, I'd WAY rather watch drunken strippers and porn stars fall off a pole and puke on Bret Michaels during the "White Trash Olympics" or whatever than watch 60 minutes of this:
I am never going to get into a show about two assclowns whose own outrageous vanity compelled them to bring not one or two but EIGHT bratty kids into the world. I hate kids, and watching eight of them raise hell while these two make annoying commentary (or more accurately, while Kate bitches incessantly in an obnoxious, authoritarian "I'm a MOM!" tone at Jon) is not my idea of must see TV. So while I'm laughing internally that their heavily marketed marriage is falling apart per the gossip internets, I also can't fathom for the life of me why I have to hear unpleasant tales about these two getting some strange on the side.
I can't really blame Jon for straying from his marital bed. I'd probably want to screw faux lesbian kindergarten teachers too, if I had to fight with this harpy about getting some on the regular.
The prospect of Kate's stretch marks alone should be considered a mitigating factor in Jon's adultery. And you know this bitch hasn't given him a BJ in ten years (if ever.) Instead, she uses her mouth to constantly berate and belittle him, so I can understand how a frustrated little fella like Jon might eventually get frustrated and look for a less fortified, non-industrial strength vagina to scribble on with his golf pencil. I don't blame him for making like the Ying Yang Twins and deciding that he's sick and tired of listenin' at ya naggin'. In these pictures from the past weekend, you can almost hear Kate's shrewish bossing-around.
And in this picture, you can almost see Jon's lips forming the words "you fucking cunt":
And in this picture, you can almost see Jon's lips forming the words "you fucking cunt":
The only thing I'm curious about is why anyone would want to fuck either of these tools. As discussed previously, Kate's naked torso probably looks like a leather hobo bag that got dropped on the subway tracks and run over by a speeding A train and her hair looks like the nexus of a lesbian book club and a tragic Flowbee accident. And for any dumb chick who thinks she's star fucking on Jon, should I remind her that he has EIGHT CHILDREN? That means not only will you have to put up with eight uncontrollable monsters every other weekend, but he will always be broke and trying desperately to keep up with his child support. Any self-respecting skank will not settle for Z-list fame and no fortune, especially when he's a stumpy, easily dominated pussy. In the wise words of Lil' Kim, I'll pass; the dick is trash.
The moral of this story is that kids don't guarantee a happy marriage or a happy family, so don't have eight of them. That will take an already fragile and ill-advised marriage and turn it into fucking around and miserable birthdays. In fifteen years, please believe these kids are going to go on the "Jon and Kate Plus 8 E! True Hollywood Story" to describe in graphic detail how much they loathe their reality whore parents for forcing them to publicly perpetuate their sham of a marriage. Just throw in the towel, Jon and Kate, for your kids' sake and for those of us who don't want your fertile asses cluttering up their gossip pages.
Labels: assholes, destroy all children, media whores, oh the horror, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, TV
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
The deadliest night out
I should have been working on my thesis yesterday, but JerseyGirl called me up and said that I had to go out with her. I told her it was not a good time. I'm handing in my thesis this week.
"Razzy, I have a surprise celebrity for you to meet. And YOU HAVE TO COME. I would tell you to skip your wedding for this. You are going to cereally bug when you see who it is."
That was enough to pique my interest. "Who is it?"
"I'm not telling. But you are going to LOSE IT. I can't wait to see your face. You don't have a choice. You are coming out for drinks."
"Okay, fine, I'm coming. But seriously, who is it? Is it R. Kelly? I'm going to have a fucking heart attack if I have drinks with Kells. Is it Lil' Kim? Is it Lil' Wayne?!" Now I was not only sold on coming, I was determined to find out who I was meeting so I didn't act like a total asshole.
"Not telling. I'm going back to work. Just dress classy, but show a little cleave."
"It's not anyone from the New York Yankees, is it?" JerseyGirl is, unfortunately, a Yankees fan, so I worried that she might be bringing me to meet one of Satan's pinstriped minions just because I'm more into sports than most of our other girlfriends.
"I wouldn't pull strings so you could meet someone you hate! It's not a Yankee. But I'm not telling. See you at 8 sharp at the Time Warner Center tomorrow."
So I spent every spare moment yesterday pestering JerseyGirl and all our friends to whom she disclosed this mystery guest's identity about the matter. All I could ascertain was that it wasn't Chris Hansen or Geraldo. I figured that it probably wasn't Belladonna, since JerseyGirl doesn't watch porn and wouldn't know who that was, and probably wouldn't be meeting with her and a bunch of cable news producers. I also figured that it probably wasn't anyone from the cast of "Battlestar: Galactica," since she doesn't watch that, and I cried twice during the series finale neither do I. Despite wishful thinking, I also didn't think R. Kelly was the type who would personally attend such a function. And I knew Lil' Kim is currently in L.A. filming "Dancing With the Stars." So I settled on the notion that I was going to be meeting Morrissey, only because I've had a hard-on for him since I was a moody baby dyke, I'm definitely more into him than any of our other friends, and he was in town this past week.
I was thus really excited, and got to the Time Warner Center a little early. I decided I should eat something to calm my nerves, so I went to Whole Foods and got some fancy pizza. I was still so wound up that I could barely concentrate on mocking the people next to me in the cafeteria who were clearly on a first date at WHOLE FUCKING FOODS via text to JerseyGirl. Normally I have all sorts of scathing things to say about this unbelievably stupid practice, but all I could manage was a text reading "People who go on dates at Whole Foods are lame." JerseyGirl replied, "I know, ew. See you in 5."
So I went upstairs to meet her, and then we went to the bar. Nobody was there. "I'm meeting Morrissey, aren't I?"
"Razzy, SHUT UP. I'm not telling you. You'll see in a minute."
Then the special guests arrived. Morrissey was not among them, but I did see a familiar face. It was Captain Keith from the F/V Wizard on "Deadliest Catch!" And then, behind him, like a hero of Valhalla in the flesh, came the shining, Nordic godlike countenance of ***CAPTAIN SIG HANSEN OF THE F/V NORTHWESTERN***!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I was speechless for a minute, before I advised him that once on MySpace he linked to my blog and declared me his .1 fan. I was disappointed to learn that this wasn't actually him, but someone who runs his MySpace page for him, but who cares? I was meeting Sig in person and that's way better than a MySpace comment any day. He actually blushed when I told him that I once wrote that I was surprised he didn't melt the frozen sea spray off the Northwestern's rigging just by standing near it. He recovered, ordered an Absolut and Coke (aka "Norwegian champagne") and proceeded to match my Johnnie Walkers drink for drink.
I chatted Keith and his wife up for a while, and they were both very nice people. I learned that both Captain Keith and Sig think their wives have much more difficult jobs. I was very pleased to see that fame hadn't gone to any of their heads, and they were really cool, down-to-earth people. Sig was thrilled when I understood that "kukslikke" means "cocksucker" in Norwegian, and was impressed by my proficiency in swearing, which is at the advanced level of any given cowboy mining the Bering Sea for "red gold." Sig thought it was hilarious that I went brunette because my Sarah Palin Halloween costume was so successful. We commiserated about how lutefisk is gross, and I almost wept with joy when Sig told me that being a small girl wouldn't prohibit me from fishing myself. "Jake Harris is scrawnier than you," he told me. I didn't mention that I doubted I was tough enough to handle the extreme conditions or the frequent almost-dying part of the job. And of course I took pictures. This is what I look like when extremely happy on account of being flanked by two incredibly hot REAL MEN.
At the end of the night, there was nobody left but myself, Sig, and his handlers, and Sig wanted to go to another bar. I thought that was a capital idea. He wanted to go to some Irish bar that he got into a fistfight in during his last visit, although he couldn't remember anything about it except that it was around the corner from where he stayed last time, and the owner's name was Mickey. He finally called his brother Edgar (!!!!) to figure it out, and got the name. Unfortunately, his handlers advised us that he had an early morning, and it was not a good idea. So I just finished smoking the unfiltered Camel I bummed from Sig, and hopped in a cab so that I could go home and freak out about having just met Sig in person. The Discovery Channel guy told me to call him today about going out tonight instead, so I've got my fingers crossed that I'll get to witness Sig brawling with some local riffraff tonight. Or at least throw back a few more cocktails with him. If not, hopefully I'll at least get to see him at "CatchCon," which appropriately enough is the afternoon before the annual Crab Feed that I attend at my high school.
And on that note, I better get off cloud fucking nine and get some work done so I can (maybe) go raise hell with Sig tonight.
P.S. JerseyGirl, YOU FUCKING RULE! MAJOR FRIEND POINTS! *MAJOR!*
Labels: celebrities, Deadliest Catch, I LOVE IT, JerseyGirl, NYC, Razzification, TV
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
No longer a pretty Face
The other day I was looking at some sort of "where are they now" montage of actors from my childhood on the gossip internets. When I saw this guy, my first reaction was, "Who the fuck is that? He looks beat, whoever he is."
When I read the caption identifying this man, I was completely shocked. Not only do I know who this guy is, he was on one of my favorite shows growing up. If you were one of the many red-blooded, explosion-loving Americans who were interested in the adventures of a crack commando unit sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn't commit, who promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Los Angeles underground, and where, though still wanted by the government, they survive as soldiers of fortune. That's right, this dude is none other than Dirk Benedict, AKA Lieutenant Templeton "Face" Peck from the motherfucking "A-Team"!
Indeed, Face, the A-Team's smooth-talking procurer of cars and other useful pieces of stylish equipment (he was so adept that his colleague "Howlin' Mad" Murdoch once credited him with somehow acquiring a mint-condition '56 Cadillac which was inexplicably needed for some military mission in the jungles of Vietnam), isn't looking so good. Somehow I think if "The A-Team" were still up and running, Face would be spending a lot more time doing his actual mercenary duties than picking up women. I don't know if he's had some work done, but there's something that's different about his once-eponymous countenance. He certainly looks far removed from the days when he was gracing the cover of Playgirl magazine.
Indeed, Face, the A-Team's smooth-talking procurer of cars and other useful pieces of stylish equipment (he was so adept that his colleague "Howlin' Mad" Murdoch once credited him with somehow acquiring a mint-condition '56 Cadillac which was inexplicably needed for some military mission in the jungles of Vietnam), isn't looking so good. Somehow I think if "The A-Team" were still up and running, Face would be spending a lot more time doing his actual mercenary duties than picking up women. I don't know if he's had some work done, but there's something that's different about his once-eponymous countenance. He certainly looks far removed from the days when he was gracing the cover of Playgirl magazine.
The thing about Face that was most memorable was he was the type of guy who looked the same age. He could have been anywhere from 25 to 55 during the A-Team's heyday, and I wouldn't have known the difference. Actually, everyone on the A-Team was like that except for the timelessly old George Peppard, who played Captain John "Hannibal" Smith. Years later, I was in high school and one of my classes was showing us some made-for-TV movie from the mid-90s about the Montgomery bus boycott and the civil rights movement. Dwight Schultz came on screen and HotLawyer, who was in my class, blurted out, "Hey, it's Murdoch from the A-Team!" The entire class started laughing and Mr. Eckert had to threaten JUG ("Justice Under God," the Jesuit equivalent of detention) to shut us up. Murdoch was easy to spot, because in spite of the fact that he was playing an uptight Alabaman bigot instead of a lunatic helicopter pilot residing in an insane asylum when not needed for A-team ops, he looked exactly the same as he did 10 years before. Now, even as a failed conservative radio personality almost twenty years after the A-Team's glory days, he still looks like the same guy. And certainly even children who weren't born when "The A-Team" was on could probably recognize Mr. T. I don't know what the hell happened to Face, because he looks beat down.
The only possible explanation I can come up with is that age finally caught up with him (Wikipedia tells me he's 62) and he's resorted to desperate measures to maintain what was once his boyish charm and attached recognition. Since his last attempt at staying relevant (apart from working the autograph table at numerous "Battlestar Galactica" conventions in the midwest) was to appear on "Big Brother" in the UK. If he's gotten into reality famewhoring, I would not be surprised to learn that he's also wound up on the business end of a needle full of cut-rate nail salon Botox. It's a pity, because Dirk Benedict used to be a hot piece. I'm currently trying to figure out how to get a copy of that Playgirl he was in 25 years ago. In the meantime, I guess I'll have to content myself with this awesomeness, and reminisce fondly about days long since past, where men were men, bullets were completely harmless, and mercenaries dressed up in zany costumes instead of killing innocent Iraqi citizens a la Blackwater:
Man, "The A-Team" ruled so hard.
Labels: aging, oh the horror, TV, you're ugly
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
The greatest "youth mentor" ever
I got bored with the Eagles' wholesale massacre of the Cleveland Browns last night, so I flipped over to "Keyshia Cole: The Way it Is" on BET. In this episode, Keyshia was getting the key to the city of Oakland, California. In the course of this, she stopped by some non-profit dedicated to job training or something, before donating ten grand to their cause. I was surprised and delighted by the appearance of Oakland's most famous rapper, a certain Todd "Too $hort" Shaw. 
While seeing $hort Dog loitering around Oak-town would not in itself seem shocking, as that is the subject of most of his songs, he certainly has cultivated a novel persona for the sake of good PR. The show listed his occupation as "Rapper/Youth Mentor."
"Youth mentor?!" I thought. "Since when has $horty the Pimp been a youth mentor?" If Too $hort's entire lyrical catalog is any indication, the only thing he is qualified to mentor youth about is how aspiring pimps might break hoes. I guess he can also probably give them excellent tips on how to get blown on an extremely regular basis (as much of his music features a recurring "nuts-on-tonsils" theme), and how to evade the criminal justice system should his misadventures in fellatio result in the accidental death of the tragic woman allowing Too $hort and a host of other men to run a train on her face. Asking Too $hort to give Oakland's youth any sort of non-pimping advice besides "get a good lawyer, like Johnny Cochrane, swear to tell the truth: hell, no, I didn't pop him" might be a stretch. I suppose that Too $hort indirectly mentored some youth from a demographic he didn't expect (loud white girls at expensive New England women's colleges) in that he was one of my go-to guys for music that would piss off the uptight womynists I loved to offend for my own entertainment. However, since East Oakland is a long way from Smith College and I doubt that Youth UpRising is frequently disturbed by rallies or candlelight vigils protesting the patriarchal oppression of women, I can't imagine this is the kind of mentoring that Too $hort provides.
While seeing $hort Dog loitering around Oak-town would not in itself seem shocking, as that is the subject of most of his songs, he certainly has cultivated a novel persona for the sake of good PR. The show listed his occupation as "Rapper/Youth Mentor."
"Youth mentor?!" I thought. "Since when has $horty the Pimp been a youth mentor?" If Too $hort's entire lyrical catalog is any indication, the only thing he is qualified to mentor youth about is how aspiring pimps might break hoes. I guess he can also probably give them excellent tips on how to get blown on an extremely regular basis (as much of his music features a recurring "nuts-on-tonsils" theme), and how to evade the criminal justice system should his misadventures in fellatio result in the accidental death of the tragic woman allowing Too $hort and a host of other men to run a train on her face. Asking Too $hort to give Oakland's youth any sort of non-pimping advice besides "get a good lawyer, like Johnny Cochrane, swear to tell the truth: hell, no, I didn't pop him" might be a stretch. I suppose that Too $hort indirectly mentored some youth from a demographic he didn't expect (loud white girls at expensive New England women's colleges) in that he was one of my go-to guys for music that would piss off the uptight womynists I loved to offend for my own entertainment. However, since East Oakland is a long way from Smith College and I doubt that Youth UpRising is frequently disturbed by rallies or candlelight vigils protesting the patriarchal oppression of women, I can't imagine this is the kind of mentoring that Too $hort provides.
After watching a little longer, I was disappointed to gather that Too $hort isn't even giving pimping lessons of any sort. I didn't hear him say anything along the lines of "she looked kind of young but my dick can't tell" or "I just want to fuck you and cut, treat you like a trampy slut." In fact, the only instructional activities he mentioned were the beat-making and lyrics-writing workshops he leads. However, in spite of $hort Dog's failure to instruct aspiring youth in "puttin' fine-ass bitches on the streets in the hood, every year trade for a new Fleetwood," he does at least seem to be teaching the youth of Oakland how to have nothing but game coming out their mouths. I suppose this is more constructive than learning how to actually manage a flock of top notches, as Too $hort himself has ultimately selected a career as a musician rather than an actual pimp engaged in brokering prostitution services. Probably being a multi-platinum-selling rapper is a more sensible occupation than street pimp in terms of maintaining that California lifestyle that Too $hort lives.
I would just like to take a moment to recognize one of the finest pieces of mentoring Too $hort has engaged in. Okay, well, it's not so much "mentoring" as running down a laundry list of all the conquests who "throw that P" his way in his classic song "Cocktales." Sadly, because Sir Too $hort's language is so salty, classic lines like "Tina, Tina, the sperm cleaner" and "I go diggin' in them guts like a gardener, and if she scream, I'm-a fuck the bitch harder." At least the part with the girl named Angie in the song isn't edited, only because she shows up at Too $hort's house and simply states, "Do me, player." I can't recall ever banging Too $hort, but that nonetheless sounds about right. I see great things in store for Oakland's disadvantaged youth with a mentor like this.
Labels: hilarious shit, rap, ridiculous absurdity, Too $hort, TV
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Confessions of a Teen Idol Domestic Abuser
CorporateCard e-mailed me today this blurb about a new Vh1 reality series entitled "Confessions of a Teen Idol" with the subject heading "super pathetic-watchability debatable." For CorporateCard, who is probably one of the few people who can appreciate the subtle genius of shows like "Real Chance of Love" and the upcoming "Rock of Love Bus with Bret Michaels," to suggest that this show might be "super pathetic" and to question its "watchability" bodes ill indeed. What could be this horrible show? I read her e-mail:
VH1 will premiere its new eight-episode reality series Confessions of a Teen Idol January 4 at 8p. The series takes a group of former teen idols from the 80s and 90s and under the tutelage of Scott Baio, former child star now producer Jason Hervey and celebrity psychologist Cooper Lawrence, each are given the tools and confidence to make a career comeback. The heartthrobs include Christopher Atkins, David Chokachi, Billy Hufsey, Jeremy Jackson, Eric Nies, Jamie Walters and Adrian Zmed. The series is co-produced by Bischoff Hervey Entertainment and 3 Ball Productions.
I would wager that this show's potentially pathetic unwatchability is inherent in the fact that I don't know who most of these alleged "teen idols" are. I mean, who the fuck is Billy Hufsey? Isn't Christopher Atkins that guy who hates God? Oh wait, that's Christopher HITCHENS...Christopher Atkins is that guy from The Blue Lagoon. Needless to say, Vh1 is scraping the bottom of the barrel even harder than they have for "Celebrity Rehab 2," and considering that show managed to drag Rodney King out of the woodwork, it was really stretching the definition of "celebrity" to begin with. This "Confessions of a Teen Idol" show looks grim indeed, with one notable exception. This name jumped out at me, not only because I recognized it immediately, but because I was unaware that a moody, abusive proto-John Mayer/construction worker qualified as a "teen idol," but Jamie Walters AKA RAY PRUIT from the greatest show in the history of television "Beverly Hills, 90210" is trying to prove otherwise.
In case you're a little rusty on your college-era Bev Niner, Ray Pruit was Donna Martin's boyfriend for entirely too long. Ray was this annoying singer/songwriter who was overall a terrible guy to date. He hated all of Donna's friends, he slept with (totally hot slut) Valerie Malone, he constantly stormed off, and when he got really pissed, he'd verbally abuse Donna with awesome lines like "so typical...you don't get what you want so you turn on the faucets.". During one episode where the gang went to Palm Springs for a KEG House convention, Ray even pushed Donna down a flight of stairs.
In addition to tormenting Donna, Ray also tormented the patrons of the Peach Pit After Dark with a string of atrocious musical performances involving an excessively brooding Ray strumming his acoustic guitar and wailing about his feelings. His onstage skills were entertaining only when they lured his mother LuAnn, a chain-smoking alcoholic who inexplicably speaks with a bad Texas accent despite hailing from Reseda, California, to the After Dark to get wasted on screwdrivers and dance inappropriately with David Silver before tripping over her own hideous rayon floral-print pantsuit.
Unfortunately, his portrayal of Ray Pruit was so defining a role that his next acting job, as the male lead in Aaron Spelling's short-lived show/band "The Heights," promptly tanked despite the show's theme song "How Do You Talk to an Angel?" hitting number one on the Billboard charts. Presumably nobody imagined that conversations with a so-called "angel" involves what Todd "Too $hort" Shaw once called a "five-finger hand plant straight across your face to make sure all you bitches understand it." I have to say, I probably wouldn't be having teen fantasies about a guy after this great moment in televised domestic violence was burned into my memory:
That all said, I'm glad Jamie Walters is still gainfully employed. I look forward to listening to him whine about being typecast as a wife-beater to Scott Baio and the older brother from "The Wonder Years."
Labels: Bev Niner, CorporateCard, TV, Vh1
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
With virology, anything is possible
Thursday night television is really a great conduit for my rage. All night there's something on TV for me to utterly hate. At eight, we have a double dose of "Ugly Betty" and "Smallville," followed by an hour of stupid Seattle surgical sex drama on "Gay's Shitnatomy." Now that I know the producers of this broadcast spunktrap (my new favorite word) are total lesbian-hating homophobes, "Gay's Shitnatomy" may as well be the proposition 8 of primetime television. I also especially want nothing to do with any type of drama involving science. On CBS there is some shitshow called "Eleventh Hour" that looks a lot like that "Fringe" trash on Fox, except it doesn't have Pacey from "Dawson's Creek" in it. There's a freaky, borderline autistic yet obnoxiously arrogant scientist who knows everything about everything in spite of the fact that his hypotheses are ill-informed and he can't bother to run a single fucking control on any of his poorly designed attempts at experimental science. Somehow this ass-clown got a job with the FBI despite having zero social skills (which, one could argue, makes him far better suited for academia) and competence only in the area of insufferable scientastic gibberish, and he's in charge of solving any X-Files-type crap that should arise.
Last Thursday, I was busy working (hence no updates in a week...sorry, dudes, it's been a rough week) and texting (unfortunately, my primary means of communication these days) and turned on the TV for some background noise. Apparently I turned on this "Eleventh Hour" crap, because I was jerked away from my attention to rhinovirus 1A sequence data on my laptop when I heard the following words issue from my television:
"With virology, anything is possible."
Virology? On TV?! That hardly ever happens! Despite the fact that viruses impact all our lives on every level, from the cold that infects us to the HIV epidemic that burdens our global economy, most people don't find viruses sexy or interesting enough for primetime. They certainly don't find virologists to be a component of engaging television programming, so I was slightly shocked to see that CBS not only had that hot swarthy guy from The Mummy and Resident Evil: Apocalypse playing a virologist, he was waxing poetic about the grand potential for a career in virology. I got momentarily excited.
My excitement, unfortunately, was short-lived. Almost immediately Annoying Know-It-All Doctor Guy started having a conversation with the Hot Swarthy Virologist that made my blood boil with rage at the piss-poor fact-checking on the part of the "Eleventh Hour" writers. They were talking about how some terrorist or something made a chimeric virus out of adenovirus (another cause of the common cold, although not NEARLY as hot as rhinovirus) and variola, which is better known as smallpox. Supposedly this was done to make smallpox airborne, like the common cold. Too bad this is unnecessary because a simple Wikipedia search would have informed Hot Swarthy Virologist that variola is already transmitted by the airborne route. Frankly, if he's the "Head of Virology" somewhere, he should know that anyway. It certainly would save him all the time and trouble of making an adeno-poxvirus chimera that is unnecessary and after all the tedious cloning required to construct such a thing, probably wouldn't even be infectious. If you're such a crack virologist that "anything is possible" on your watch, then maybe it would be possible to learn how to pronounce "adenovirus" correctly, you loser!
This annoyed me because there are way more pressing issues in the field of virology that people should know about. I don't like shows coming along that confuse people with a lot of scientastic, impossible, pointless bullshit when there are more pressing virology-related issues to address. In fact, while I was busy fucking around with virus sequence data and getting pissed at the scientific implausibility of "Eleventh Hour" episode plots, I was also trying to improve public health by educating a concerned layman. Specifically, I was discussing diseases that one might get from banging porn stars. I was texting back and forth with my ex-boyfriend Benzo about whether or not the Daily Kos is full of self-congratulating jerkoffs when he got sick of arguing with me and decided to switch to a topic we both enjoyed discussing: pornography. It seems Benzo has recently discovered the many talents of one Miss Flower Tucci, the star of cinematic masterpieces such as Flower's Squirt Shower vols. 1-6, Jam It all the Way Up my Ass, Can a Brotha Get a Squirt?, Viagra Falls, Squirt in my Gape 2, and White Butts Drippin' Chocolate Nuts, to name a few. Here she is, dressed in finery reflecting the elegance and sophistication befitting an anally inclined female ejaculation specialist like Flower:
I've always been somewhat intrigued by Flower because the girl has a fucking firehose in her vagina. I've personally female ejaculated a couple times, but it's always been really random. I couldn't really associate it with any sort of particularly amazing or distinctive sex. It just happened and I have not figured out how to do it on cue, much less with anywhere near the volume and force someone like Flower Tucci achieves on a regular basis. I'm pretty comfortable with my body and generally very aware of how it works, but that's one of the few aspects of my sexuality that remains shrouded in mystery for me. However, clearly Flower has knowledge more advanced than I because the woman has mastered the craft. She's so infamous for her squirting talents that she even engaged another squirting pornstar, Cytherea, in the porn star equivalent of a 2Pac vs. Biggie style beef over who could get the most distance. This is a level of sexual competence above and beyond what most people can even imagine, and it's hardly surprising that even veteran porn viewers like Benzo and myself would be impressed by it. However, the price of porn is often infection, and as I pointed out to Benzo, I don't think from a virological perspective it's a very good idea to take a faceful of Flower's squirt.
Benzo: Oh by the way, what do you think of pornstar flower tucci?Benzo: She's a squirter!Razzy: Oh i know who she is! famous ass, loves anal, and can squirt 100 feet. But i find her striking because she looks a lot like (this girl who went to college with me)!Benzo: Ooooh that kinda ruins it for me. Although (this girl) was physically hot I felt she always came off in a non-sexual manner.Razzy: Yeah me too! I imagined she was always busier smoking joints than smoking poles.Benzo: Now flower looks like the kind of girl that might fuck you to death!! A wet death! :-)Razzy: Truly. Flower is no joke.Benzo: I'm not sure why flower is sooo hot but she's a slut and she's hot!! Anal and squirting don't bother me at all.Razzy: Nor I. I'd just think she was hotter if i didn't think of (this girl) chuckling that 'heh heh heh' stoner laugh at (this girl's ex) every time i see herBenzo: Now that's funny, (this girl's ex) used to stop in at my old job and see meRazzy: Not really something you want to masturbate to, thoughBenzo: That dependsRazzy: And how can you argue with fact? (This girl) is no flower tucci.Benzo: No argument. I'd let flower fuck me before I fucked (this girl)!Razzy: You know, though, flower probably has the herp. Almost all pornstars do. Now known thanks to an outbreak belladonna myspace blogged aboutBenzo: Yeah, that's why you j/o to porn and fuck real girls w/ rubbers. In nyc you can find a "pornstar" experience any night. Nut you've got to wrap it.Razzy: As lil wayne says, 'better wear a latex, so you don't get that late text, that i-think-i'm-late text.' Equally bad is the 'call me ron mexico' text.Benzo: Yeah...blah, blah! Lil wayne blows.Benzo: Having said that, I would still love to hook up with Flower TucciRazzy: You can still get herpes with a condom, ESPECIALLY during anal and doing stuff like getting squirted directly on a mucosal surfaceBenzo: Damn science...such a dick limper!Benzo: But only during an outbreak right??Razzy: Usually, but you often cant tell just by looking. And ppl can still shed virus between outbreaks. Getting anything on your mucosa is asking for troubleBenzo: Fair enough, I'll tell flower that we're off for dinner this weekend. I won't even eat her ass.Razzy: Yeah, she'll be disappointed. But i bet your girlfriend will be glad she's on ass-eating detail instead of flowerBenzo: She will be
A little more investigation confirmed that indeed Flower has starred alongside the 2007 "Dirtiest Girl in Porn" Belladonna herself in 5 different movies. About a year ago, Belladonna confirmed that not only is this title accurate because she can do things like deep throat all eleven inches of Lexington Steele's penis and get assfucked by baseball bats, but because she had a vicious outbreak of the herp all over her infamous ass. She said she was planning to retire, then changed her mind because in her words, "Dude, there's no way I can not be in that scene sucking that dick." Since her retracted herpes-based retirement, Belladonna has starred in Belladonna: Manhandled 3, Belladonna's Cock Pigs, Belladonna's Cock Happy 2, Belladonna's Fucking Girls 6, Defend Our Porn, Discovering Alexis Texas, Pirates II, and Strap-On Chicks 20. In the course of filming these eight cinematic classics, probably at least 20 actors/actresses were exposed to Bella's herpes. When you consider that she claims to have been infected in 2002 and she has starred in over 200 films since then, it's a wonder that there are any porn stars who aren't spreading the simplex. Considering Flower's professional associations with Belladonna, it's hard to imagine her signature squirting as anything but a gushing torrent of infectious herp. Probably some papillomaviruses too, since Flower starred in an orgy scene in Fashionistas Safado: The Challenge with Sasha Grey, who is rumored to take long career breaks due to recurrent anal warts.
According to hot, swarthy fake virologists the sky's the limit for crafting scary bioweapons with nature's coolest intracellular obligate parasites, but I'd be far more wary of Flower Tucci's ejaculate than some sort of made-up super smallpox (that isn't all that different from regular smallpox). While anything might be possible with virology, it's a lot more probable that it's just going to make your porn a little less fun to watch knowing that everyone starring in a given scene is popping an industrial-sized dose of Valtrex and rubbing Herpecin on their genitalia before the camera starts rolling.
Labels: Benzo, epidemic geekery, perversion, porn, science, TV, viruses rule
Friday, October 31, 2008
Horrible movies
I like horror movies a lot. I'm into tits, violence, and nerdy shit, and horror movies usually have at least two out of those three key elements. Thus, I've been very happy about the proliferation of horror movies on the old idiot box leading up to Halloween. Unfortunately, with horror movies being on constantly for a month, channels like AMC run out of decent ones and have to resort to digging through the $0.99 DVD bin to fill up the time. In the course of watching craptastic shitshows like The Rage: Carrie 2 and Hellraiser: Inferno, I've learned a few things about horror movies that are SO fucking bad, they're not even unintentionally funny.
John Carpenter's _________ often=ASS
If a movie title begins with "John Carpenter's" ANYTHING and it doesn't involve Kurt Russell, there is a very good chance that it will suck cheesy balls. Have you ever been unfortunate enough to sit through John Carpenter's Vampires? It involved James Woods being an annoying, leathery old lech while one of the lesser Baldwin brothers banged Laura Palmer from "Twin Peaks" in the midst of some lame ancient-vampire-rising-and-we-have-to-stop-it plot. One time my buddy and fellow horror enthusiast and I spent a solid two hours watching John Carpenter's Shameless Creepshow Knockoff Body Bags and shouting obscenities and derisive jokes at the television. Then we got really, really high to erase our memory of the experience. John Carpenter's Prince of Darkness is only good because the protagonists are a bunch of grad students at the "University of Science" who inexplicably get charged with transcribing scientastic equation-looking gibberish emanating from a big jar of Satan that some priests were keeping in their basement. And don't get me started on the time I endured the audiovisual abortion known as John Carpenter's Ghosts of Mars, which was like the unholy child of Total Recall and a body modification conference sponsored by Hot Topic. Not even the combination of O'Shea "Ice Cube" Jackson, Pam Grier, and hot-ass Natasha Henstridge could salvage a mere second of that appalling shitshow. However, I was excited to see that the woman who plays Arnie's mom in John Carpenter's Christine is the same actress who played Steve Sanders's lesbian primetime drama TV mom Samantha in "Beverly Hills, 90210," which was an excellent non-Kurt Russell casting choice in my opinion. Not coincidentally, this is also one of the few decent Kurt Russell-free films John Carpenter has made.
Rabies does not make you want to drink human blood
David Cronenberg really should have hit the books harder in his microbiology class. That dude's understanding of rabies virus, parasitology, and infectious disease in general is lacking. Maybe science education in Canada is even crappier than here in the United States of Asskickery.
Go back to Hell, you overpierced losers
Hellraiser movies do not scare me at all. Seriously, you solve a fucking Rubik's cube and open a dimensional portal that lets in a bunch of piercing enthusiasts who look like they just knocked a few back at a S&M leather bar? I would leave that dumb Puzzle Box alone just to keep the pasty PVC-wearing Pinhead set from showing up to piss me off with their crappy style.
STFU, ROB ZOMBIE!
Robert Barlett "Rob Zombie" Cummings (snicker) is probably the most irritating horror movie personality ever. Not only is he constantly accompanied by his vapid skank of a wife, he has this smug attitude that makes me want to gag him with his own unshorn stank dreadlocks. Suffering through even a minute of Sheri Moon Zombie's giggling, monosyllabic critical analysis of the movie Willard is bad enough, but I would rather be trapped in an abandoned knife factory with Michael Myers than topping that off watching Rob Zombie congratulate himself for his fanboy-turned-auteur genius at ruining (John Carpenter's) Halloween. I had enough when Rob Zombie made his first movie House of 1,000 Corpses (which by my count was around 989 corpses short of the body count advertised), a film that amounted to a ninety minute White Zombie video retelling of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Since then, I've had to suffer Rob Zombie shooting off his mouth like he's the next Wes Craven every time he gets to go on camera. If he wants to do something really useful, he could put a sock in it and go get a fucking haircut.
What's really scary? The Oxygen network
I have seen the most horrifying thing on television, and it wasn't even a scary movie. I made the mistake of switching to an episode of "Coolio's Rules," and there is definitely something to be said concerning the adage about curiosity being potentially fatal. Shudder.
So is the E! channel
As long as I'm talking about not-intentionally-scary-but-actually-terrifying pop culture trends, if you're looking for a homicide spree trigger, I highly recommend watching the episode of "The Girls Next Door" where Girl Next Door #2 Bridget plans a "haunted murder mystery" party.
Die, Mac dude, DIE!
Every time I watch Jeepers Creepers, I just pray for the imminent consumption of the douchebag Drew Barrymore-fucking Vassar dropout Justin Long guy who plays the Mac in all Apple commercials. Sadly, this doesn't happen until the very end of the movie. Sorry if I just ruined Jeepers Creepers for those of you who haven't seen this exercise in cinematic assfuckery, but don't worry: the ending is actually more horrifying than just the eye-explanting demise of the Mac dude. After ninety minutes of being a complete dumbass who will not cease with alternate juvenile sibling bickering and obnoxious attempts at collegiate wit coupled with repeated STUPID fucking attempts to get killed (ie: sliding down the pipe which acts as a monster body dump conduit out of a misguided desire to play Hardy Boys), this asshole's shrewish harpy of a sister doesn't get killed as well.
Late sequels are crap
Freddy's Dead: The Final Nightmare is quite possibly one of the stupidest fucking movies I've ever seen. Seriously, the premise of the film is that the world's hottest foster kid psychiatrist, who happens to be Freddy Krueger's long-lost daughter, decides that it will be beneficial for her psychotic sleep-deprived patient to take a vanload of ragtag misfits back to Elm Street for a nice visit. Once there, they find the creepiest, most cockroach-and-smoking-clown-infested local fair in the history of small town horror movies. The genius visitors observe that conditions are so grim because there aren't any kids around (which sounds like paradise to me, except for the fact that Roseanne and Tom Arnold make a hilarious cameo to explain that this is on account of Freddy, who takes time out of his child-murdering schedule to chalk self-portraits on the town sidewalks.) After a lot of retarded wandering around through the world's lamest high school class/pathetic attempt at bringing whatever sorry fools somehow saw this movie who somehow didn't know the premise ("Freddy 101") and Freddy fucking around with people's demonic dream hearing aids until their heads explode, playing an evil variation of Pitfall on a satanic Atari, and blasting Iron Butterfly simply to provide a context for clumsy peri-homicidal puncraft, these geniuses figure out that the solution is to bust out some dream kung fu on Freddy's ass, which the street kids are luckily proficient in. The main thing we learn from this movie besides "don't go to sleep if you happen to be somehow related to either Freddy or his fucked-up hometown" is that after many sequels, most horror franchises really do need to go the way of the main villain's victims. When Freddy has to resort to terrorizing people with gigantic maps that say "you're fucked," it's time to hang up the knife-fingered glove, get some skin grafts, take up shuffleboard, and hopefully invest in a new sweater. This one is right up there with Friday the 13th VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan, in which Jason actually spends most of the movie murdering retarded horny teenagers on a Circle Line cruise rather than anywhere on the fair isle where I reside, in terms of bullshit unintentionally hilarious movie premises.
Mommy issues don't scare me
Ed Gein is only good when you listen to his scary mom say "you'll be nothin' but a blubberin' pantywaist for the RESTA YER LIFE!" or "KILL THE EVIL-TALKER, BOYYYYYYYYY!" and watch flashbacks of her whipping him for reading sexually suggestive comic books in the bathroom. Otherwise, I'm just reminded of how not-scary mama's boy slashers (in other words, 99.99999% of them) are. Frankly, in the original, Jason's MOM was fucking scary. However, once Pamela Voorhees passed the machete she was decapitated by on to her undead son, Jason himself was pretty lame, slow, and lucky to have the dumbest bitches imaginable to easily dispatch. His only stroke of genius or style was his adoption of the hockey mask, but in every other respect Jason completely sucks. I could probably outrun his slow ass, if I were stupid enough to take a job as a summer camp counselor at Crystal Lake in the first place. Given the high (100%) unrepentant slut murder rate there, I imagine that even as an inexperienced and annoying teenager I would probably look elsewhere for employment. Ed Gein's irritatingly cliched control freak of an evangelical Christian mother doesn't hold a candle to Pamela Voorhees. For that matter, Ed Gein doesn't hold a chainsaw to the mama's boy horror villain based on himself. Leatherface hung screaming bitches on meathooks while wearing a patchwork mask of human skin. Ed Gein just shot a bitch after talking to himself a lot, drove her to his house while she feebly slapped at him, acted creepy while she slowly died of sepsis from the non-fatal gunshot wound, and then made some ladies' accessories and a titty vest with her fatass carcass. God, what a fucking pussy. Not scared of you, loser. NEXT!
Pelicula de terror
Halloween Seis: La Maladición de Michael Myers is not nearly as scary as Halloween VI: The Revenge of Michael Myers. "Esta la casa de Michael Myers, es verdad? Serio." This does not keep me up at night, although now that I think about it, it didn't keep me up at night when I saw it in English, either.
Good thing it's Halloween, and as of tomorrow, I'll be back on the football and not throwing stuff at whatever idiotic trash AMC is showing. Happy Halloween, fools!
Labels: movies, nerd alert, retard rage, spooktiness, TV
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
HEY! YOU! GUYS! You suck at apostrophes
I have no idea why, but periodically Sesame Workshop drops into my hood to disrupt all the parking on St. Nicholas Avenue by filming new episodes of "The Electric Company." This is a little weird, because whenever stuff is filmed on my street it usually either involves the cast of "Law and Order: SVU" pretending to bust some perv in the park or some kind of movie about crack and/or gang violence, like the low-rent straight-to-video movie that caused my dog Caesar to run afoul of Tom Berenger's production assistant. As a children's educational program on PBS, "The Electric Company" is a bit of a departure from the usual urban crime-oriented fare that gets shot in Sugar Hill.
So let me get this straight...the person who wrote this letter is planning on teaching the language arts to children "age's six to nine"? I didn't realize that age could own numbers. I guess this must be part of some advanced new teaching strategy, because there's no way that an educational series that "strives to encourage language and vocabulary development" would fuck up their punctuation so flagrantly. Granted, I hate children and don't really care whether they are proficiently literate or not, but those children will grow up to annoy me with their poorly punctuated blog comments and e-mails. Therefore, I can't abide "The Electric Company" running up on the telly with a shout of "HEY YOU GUYS!" and proceeding to instruct kids on the finer points of misusing apostrophes and confusing the plural and possessive forms of a word. When these fools are double parked all over my neighborhood come Thursday, I'm going to march right up to their head bitch in charge with this letter, a red pen, and an indignant sense of grammatical superiority. Cancel this shit.
I don't really care about parking disruptions because I don't have a car, although both children AND public television can, in the words of the inimitable Kelly Taylor to some unworthy frat boy at the Halloween party where she was later almost date-raped by a different frat boy, "get into Daddy's Lexus, drive to the Santa Monica pier, and just keep on going." PBS sucks! With the notable exception of the hotness that was "Where In the World is Carmen Sandiego?," I didn't even like any of the children's programming on PBS when I was a child. "Sesame Street" was for dumbasses who couldn't count or spell, and anyway I learned how to do both from books, not big annoying puppets with imaginary elephant friends. Even at the age of five or six I was convinced that I would greatly prefer Big Bird stuffed, trussed, roasted, and served with gravy than teaching me facile lessons about friendship, singing songs about phonics lessons I'd long since mastered, and sending the message that obnoxious, pathological self-delusion is okay. Fuck Big Bird and the fucking stupid street he lives on, and fuck PBS running pledge drives to support this trash, especially considering these shows fail miserably in the education department anyway. Certainly the correspondence issuing forth from their production staff leads me to believe that their education credentials are decidedly lacking.
As I was walking the dogs last night, I noticed that "The Electric Company" had taped letters to all the lampposts explaining their presence in the neighborhood:
So let me get this straight...the person who wrote this letter is planning on teaching the language arts to children "age's six to nine"? I didn't realize that age could own numbers. I guess this must be part of some advanced new teaching strategy, because there's no way that an educational series that "strives to encourage language and vocabulary development" would fuck up their punctuation so flagrantly. Granted, I hate children and don't really care whether they are proficiently literate or not, but those children will grow up to annoy me with their poorly punctuated blog comments and e-mails. Therefore, I can't abide "The Electric Company" running up on the telly with a shout of "HEY YOU GUYS!" and proceeding to instruct kids on the finer points of misusing apostrophes and confusing the plural and possessive forms of a word. When these fools are double parked all over my neighborhood come Thursday, I'm going to march right up to their head bitch in charge with this letter, a red pen, and an indignant sense of grammatical superiority. Cancel this shit. Labels: destroy all children, grammar gestapo, Harlem world, TV
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Liveblogging 90210 2.0 or whatevs
I was just going to post my thoughts about last night's premiere episode of "90210" v2.0, which I gathered with my bitches to view at my friend JerseyGirl's house. However, while there, CorporateCard wanted to know why I wasn't "liveblogging" the episode. She works in cable news so she probably wants me to be a citizen reporter or whatever, because my coverage of a bunch of drunk girls watching a trashtastic CW TV show is definitely going to meet a serious need in the world of cable gonzo journalism. After the first scene, in which Ethan, AKA New Dylan McKay, is receiving a BJ from either David Silver/Kelly Taylor's half-sister or a chick who later turns out to be a major druggie, I decided that this wasn't a bad idea, if only to straighten out all the new Niner canon we'd have to absorb. We thought at first the head doctor was the drug chick and were unimpressed with her skills. She doesn't have much endurance in the fellatio department because, according to CorporateCard, "Her name is Poppy Pills. She doesn't have enough strength for blowjobs. She's a pill popper!"
Anyway, with that sort of shit going on, I figured that even if I didn't "liveblog" in the sense of immediately publishing my reportage, I could at least open up my laptop and record some of my thoughts for this morning. I didn't quite love the show as much as JerseyGirl (who announced the close of every commercial break with "OKAY YOU GUYS, QUIEEET, IT'S BACK ON!"), but I have to confess that I was pleasantly surprised by it. It wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been for a show that literally rips off the original Niner premise (Midwestern family–Rob "Kyle McBride from 'Melrose Place'" Estes and Lori "Aunt Becky from 'Full House'" Loughlin and their two similarly aged kids–move to Beverly Hills and try to fit in), and even though Rack pointed out that the New Brenda Walsh looks like a cheap Ali Lohan knockoff, the new Jim and Cindy Walsh are too hot for me to care much. JerseyGirl wouldn't stop raving about Rob Estes–or "Grant Show," as he was mistakenly called several times–being "like, the hottest dad EVER."
There were also enough appearances by former Niner characters to keep me watching. Apart from Brenda Walsh and Kelly Taylor returning to the show, Hannah Zuckerman-Vasquez (almost-bastard daughter of Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman and her cuckolded baby daddy Jesse Vasquez) is the anchor for the West Beverly TV news station ("Good morning, West Beverly High...and buenos dias") and Erin Silver, daughter of hot pieces Jackie Taylor and Mel Silver, DDS, is a main character. Some of the new characters are also awesome. I love Naomi, the slutty New Kelly Taylor, who looks like Jessie Spano with a dash of slutty-ass Lucinda Williams thrown in, and whose name is so reminiscent of the Elizabeth Berkeley's greatest role, Nomi, from Showgirls that I plan to refer to her as Nomi henceforth. Apparently Nomi is on the outs with Silver after spreading gossip that ruined Mel and Jackie's second marriage (as usual, because Mel Silver couldn't keep it in his pants around his dental hygienist staff). I also love the fact that New Brandon Walsh is black (he's adopted, as the dialogue immediately reveals to prevent any confusion that he may be the fruit of Rob Estes and Lori Loughlin's loins), because it's high time Niner added a little splash of diversity to the main cast. Also, Lucille Bluth from "Arrested Development" plays the washed-up, drunk ex-Skinemax actress of a grandmother, Tabitha. From the moment Tabitha steps onto the scene brandishing "an iced tea before noon...with a little Long Island in it," I know I'm going to love her.
By the next scene, she's dishing out advice on how to get back at lacrosse bullies. "Just grab onto those jewels and twist them, like a garbage bag," says Tabitha about ball-squeezing revenge for the possibly racial targeting of the New Brandon Walsh. Later her computer "freezes up" because she spills scotch on the keyboard and suggests that the lacrosse team terrorize their rivals by unleashing a horde of pigs on their pitch or whatever. When Rob Estes suggests she cut back on the boozing, she responds with a dismissive "oh PISH!"
I certainly can relate to Silver when she's confronted about her bloggity scandals by her big sister and West Beverly guidance counselor Kelly Taylor, who says, "What are we gonna do about this blog of yours? It does nothing but cause problems." I've seriously had the same conversation with my parents about a dozen times, after I've said something like, "So, uh, don't freak out or anything, Mom, but some chick tried to get me raped via Craigslist" or "So, uh, don't freak out or anything, Mom, but I just got served with a $25,000 defamation suit." Silver responds with, "That's what blogs are supposed to do. Cause problems." Thus far, I can relate to Silver. She's also exactly as hot as the offspring of the incomparable ex-coke snorting hot piece Jackie Taylor and horny oral surgeon Mel Silver should be.
The other teenagers (with the exception of Navid, the New Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman, who looks like some type of literary Criss Angel) are at least intriguing. The drug girl who may or may not be too Viked out to properly fellate the New Dylan is constantly "rollin' hard" (per JerseyGirl) and is constantly in debt to her dealer. She even bursts out in random snatches of druggie song in class and almost gets caught using in class by the New Gil Meyers ("Claim Benadryl," advised CorporateCard sagely). She also apparently is acting in Disney Channel shows to pay her mother's mortgage, but this isn't working out very well because she's usually too fucked up to follow through with her auditions. She's not too fucked up, however, to stand up for Silver's blog-skewering of Nomi (who was publicly humiliated by the New Dylan when he cheated on her) by screaming, "She wasn't rejected, BITCHLIPS!"
The show is not without its problems. As far as the New Brenda and New Brandon are concerned, there's entirely too much sexual tension between brother and sister. They're constantly having their Brenda-Brandon sibling counsels while laying in bed together.
"If you're gonna do it, at least have an Americana quilt underneath," said CorporateCard. "It takes the edge off the incest." There was always some tension between the Original Walshes, but these two new ones make Brenda and Brandon look perfectly tame. At least they're adopted, so if they do screw at some point, their potential offspring won't emerge with a flipper on its head. Then again, Grandma Tabitha just looked at the new Brenda and said, "Look at that ass...you could crack an egg on it." Maybe inappropriate sexual behavior runs in their family.
The new Brenda Walsh is also a whole lot of I don't care. Not only does she look like a misplaced Lohan sister, she shares the Original Brenda's predilection for ill-advised moral freakouts. In fact, at one point Nomi sees her at some party and says, "I didn't expect to see you here, what with all your morals and everything." However, she's no Brenda Walsh in terms of personal style or drama. As CorporateCard wisely noted, "She doesn't have the brains, she doesn't have the bodysuit...NO DEAL!"
In spite of the fact that she's a plain, boring pain in the ass aspiring to dethrone Drug Girl as the queen bee of the West Beverly theaterfag circuit, all the boys seem to like her. New Dylan is vying for her affection with some super-wealthy Bentley-driving douchebag who looks like a cross between Tom Cruise and that guy from "Smallville." Too bad the Original Dylan was a badass who won Brenda's heart by taking nips from airplane bottles of booze and smashing Bel Age Hotel flowerpots in rage. The New Dylan is a lacrosse stud (and since when was FUCKING LACROSSE a popular sport on the West Coast?), and he attempts to woo New Brenda by weaving tales of a mythical five-armed sea creature called a "pentapus." What in the "bitch, please" is that?
The new Gil Meyers also annoys me. He's ten times more interfering and morally self-righteous than the original Gil Meyers, English teacher and faculty advisor of the West Beverly Blaze. He also has already started dating Kelly Taylor after almost bungling it by referring to her four-year-old son as "baggage." Oh yeah, and did I mention Kelly Taylor has a son? I couldn't figure out if her baby daddy is Dylan or Brandon, because while we all thought it was Dylan's, a conversation with Brenda Walsh revealed that Brandon may be somewhat of a deadbeat dad, choosing to live in Belize rather than Beverly Hills with what remains of "the gang." In any event, Kelly Taylor has the little brat wearing CROCS, which is inexcusable, even on a toddler.
Anyway, overall, the new "90210" is hardly the original, but even if it doesn't measure up to the lofty standards set by the greatest show in the history of television, I can still roll with it on Tuesdays. I'd watch it just for Silver's blog-mediated revenge schemes. There was one hilarious number lampooning the public outing of New Dylan cheating on Nomi in which New Dylan says nothing but "I like lacrosse." Silver recognized her own genius.
"I think this may be my best blogisode ever," she notes. At that point JerseyGirl exhorted me to turn on my laptop's webcam and film our own "blogisode," which was a pale imitation of Silver's, to say the least. For one thing, I am no cinematographer, director, or any kind of editor while demonstrating proper blowjob technique on beer bottles via the computer webcam on my lap. For another, I have no idea how to make Flash animations. I could learn a few things from Silver, especially since her skills have netted her HALF A FUCKING MILLION UNIQUE HITS PER DAY!
Anyway, if you're really, really bored, here's our unbelievably shitty "blogisode." Haters can have a field day with my chin:
Labels: Bev Niner, CorporateCard, HillsYes, intentional buffoonery, JerseyGirl, TV, Twathopper
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