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 March 14, 2005 |
Washington, D.C. Courtesy Polydor We’ve seen the future of the U.N., and it’s cheesy as hell
“I’m certain Michael’s smooth, soulful style will serve to soothe relations with our European neighbors,” Bush suggested, wiping tartar sauce on his ever-present lobster bib.
Regardless, political observers believe this move to be Bush’s latest and ultimate “Fuck You” to Europe, whose representati...
resident Bush shocked observers who somehow still cling to their ability to be shocked by President Bush this week, nominating two-time Grammy winner and bald mullet inventor Michael Bolton as U.S. ambassador to the United Nations. Though lacking in diplomatic experience, the president’s supporters believe the 51-year-old soul crooner will be just as popular among the U.N.’s General Assembly as he is among people with truly horrible taste in music.
“I’m certain Michael’s smooth, soulful style will serve to soothe relations with our European neighbors,” Bush suggested, wiping tartar sauce on his ever-present lobster bib.
Regardless, political observers believe this move to be Bush’s latest and ultimate “Fuck You” to Europe, whose representatives will now all have to spend time with Michael Bolton.
“We were excited at first when we heard a rumor that the new ambassador would be American beach bunny David Hasselhoff,” explained Germany. “But then we got the real news. This is worse than an insult.”
“Michael Bolton is an asshole,” explained France. “And we do not like him.”
Spain was more diplomatic.
“He’s not going to sing, is he? I mean, if he has something to say in meetings, he’s just going to say it, right? Not sing it out like it was one of his cheesy goddamned songs, right? If we have to sit through some bullshit like ‘When a Man Needs a U.N. Security Resolution,’ we’re going to quit the U.N., no shit. Spain is not kidding.”
According to insider reports, Bush’s first choice to fill the position was Ronnie Gaylord of the pre-rock white vocal trio The Gaylords, but the president was disappointed to learn he had been dead for thirteen years.
“Michael Bolton has sold over 52 million albums worldwide over the course of his career,” boasted White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan. “How many albums have the president’s detractors sold? Probably not as many. Unless you count The Eagles. They sold an awful lot of records.”
Bolton came to a very small fraction of the public’s attention in the late 70’s, as the lead singer for the heavy metal band Blackjack. However, Bolton’s lush, pussified style didn’t mesh well with hair band riffs, and by the mid-eighties he had discovered his true gift for making music fans vomit with the whitest of all possible R&B sounds.
“It’s always been my dream to lead,” explained a surprised Bolton upon hearing the news. “Actually, my dream was to make a lot of money, but I’ve already done that. Now leading sounds pretty good.” the commune news is surprised as anyone by Bush’s recent choice, seeing as we all had our money on Luther Vandross. Lil Duncan is back on the Washington beat this week, after beating would-be White House beater Ivana Folger-Balzac with a tire iron and being the first one to find the laundry chute escape route out of the hospital. According to reports, Ivana Folger-Balzac remains duct-taped to her bed, in stably enraged condition.
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Diamond price-fixing keeping poor out of diamond market
Chinese AIDS vaccine cheaper if you go for immunization buffet
 At Least One Team in SuperBowl 'Really Came to Play'
Contraceptive sponge returns to shelves; squarepants still unmarketable
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Iraq blah blah blah Suicide blah blah blah Dead Big Whup: Whale Swims Across the English Channel Heather Graham�s Career Found Dead in Apartment Polish Roof Falls in Following �Drinks Are on the House� Debacle |
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 May 27, 2002
What's A Cornhole?I have a question for my loyal readers, or even the disloyal ones, anyone who traipses over the column on their way to reading Entertainment Police or Pickle Barrel or maybe some guys stumble on the page by accident thinking commune is French for pussy or something, I don't know, the French probably have 50 words for it.
My question is: What's a cornhole?
Please don't laugh now, I've just never heard the term before. I grew up in California and we had no real experience with corn out there. I mean, we'd eat it, but it's not like in Iowa or nothing, we didn't go out and plant it and grow it and sit and watch it for hours and burn it for fun or nothing. We had television and yoga where I grew up, not ways to waste your time.
I tried asking my mom and she passed out on the phone, which might be unusual except for the fact she does it all the time. My dad just went into a spiel about how back in his days the homosexuals didn't rub it in your face. I'm not sure what that has to do with corn or why the homosexuals would rub corn in your face, or what exactly it is that they rub in my dad's face that gets him so riled up, but it wasn't worth talking to him for another hour to figure it out.
I asked everybody at the commune and they just break out laughing, like when I ask who's supposed to edit my columns. Nobody would tell me at all, though Ramon Nootles offered to show me. I don't even want to talk to him after the last time he...
º Last Column: Lindsay Wagner Wants Me Dead
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I have a question for my loyal readers, or even the disloyal ones, anyone who traipses over the column on their way to reading Entertainment Police or Pickle Barrel or maybe some guys stumble on the page by accident thinking commune is French for pussy or something, I don't know, the French probably have 50 words for it.
My question is: What's a cornhole?
Please don't laugh now, I've just never heard the term before. I grew up in California and we had no real experience with corn out there. I mean, we'd eat it, but it's not like in Iowa or nothing, we didn't go out and plant it and grow it and sit and watch it for hours and burn it for fun or nothing. We had television and yoga where I grew up, not ways to waste your time.
I tried asking my mom and she passed out on the phone, which might be unusual except for the fact she does it all the time. My dad just went into a spiel about how back in his days the homosexuals didn't rub it in your face. I'm not sure what that has to do with corn or why the homosexuals would rub corn in your face, or what exactly it is that they rub in my dad's face that gets him so riled up, but it wasn't worth talking to him for another hour to figure it out.
I asked everybody at the commune and they just break out laughing, like when I ask who's supposed to edit my columns. Nobody would tell me at all, though Ramon Nootles offered to show me. I don't even want to talk to him after the last time he offered to show me something. Stu Umbrage actually did offer an explanation, but he would only speak in palindromes, so after an hour of him uttering only four words, three of which weren't even palindromes, I gave up. No answer at the commune.
I've heard "cornhole" plenty of times, usually in movies or reading through Omar Bricks' hate mail, but I'm never sure what it's supposed to mean by the context I find it in. It didn't bother me until I picked up a script over the weekend for a part I'm auditioning for next week. The movie is titled Cornhole but I couldn't really grasp the meaning of the word from reading my six-line part. You might guess, I don't like to read entire scripts because I don't want my character to know about things going on that my character wasn't there for, and I also hate to read.
Would you believe "cornhole" isn't in the Webster's dictionary? That's the assumption I'm going on. If anyone finds it in there, let me know. It will definitely be a surprise.
I guess it could be a Spanish word or something, maybe some kind of dip. Sometimes really artsy movies are titled after foreign words because that makes them smarter. If you called a movie Fartknocker you're not getting the same kind of audience as if you called it Le Knocquer de Flatulénte. As far as field research on the term and everything, I've never seen holes in corn. I suppose if you rip a corntree out of the ground the hole left could be called a cornhole, but what's the point of calling somebody that or referring to that in a prison?
So anyway, I hate to take up a whole column with this question, but I've got to find out, it's driving me nuts. Hurry up and let me know, if you can. Nothing would be worse than showing up at an audition for a movie called Cornhole and not knowing what it means. They'd think I'm an asshole or something. º Last Column: Lindsay Wagner Wants Me Deadº more columns
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|  September 20, 2004
Roughed Up by an AngelDear readers, I have never been a religious man. I have trouble believing in anything I cannot see, unless it is revealed to me by a trustworthy patron of a familiar bar. But all that has changed—I am now a believer, for I have been touched by an angel. Or not quite touched. Pulverized might be the word for it.
Yes, there is a God, and he deemed I should get the beating of a lifetime to prove it. Or, it's possible, there isn't a God, there's just the dead. Bodiless apparitions hauling ass here and there in our corporeal world, and occasionally taking time out of their schedule to kick our asses. Maybe there's a God, and if that's what he wanted to impress on me, just send me a warning. Not the full-blown throttling I already received, just a slap across the face or something. Just to really drive home the point.
Come to think of it, I'm not really sure what the angel wanted to impart to me. He didn't say much. More of the "talks with his fists" type. But you can't really make a point that way, not a coherent one anyway. He growled and ranted and muttered things here or there, but they mostly concerned some guy named Donnie and the money Donnie owes him. I suppose he thought I was Donnie, it was hard to tell with a ghostly fist boxing my ears.
You may be thinking I have surely seen ghosts before, or had otherworldly encounters—aliens, the sasquatch, time-travelers from the future. And then there's my dead reporter friend Mordecai...
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Dear readers, I have never been a religious man. I have trouble believing in anything I cannot see, unless it is revealed to me by a trustworthy patron of a familiar bar. But all that has changed—I am now a believer, for I have been touched by an angel. Or not quite touched. Pulverized might be the word for it.
Yes, there is a God, and he deemed I should get the beating of a lifetime to prove it. Or, it's possible, there isn't a God, there's just the dead. Bodiless apparitions hauling ass here and there in our corporeal world, and occasionally taking time out of their schedule to kick our asses. Maybe there's a God, and if that's what he wanted to impress on me, just send me a warning. Not the full-blown throttling I already received, just a slap across the face or something. Just to really drive home the point.
Come to think of it, I'm not really sure what the angel wanted to impart to me. He didn't say much. More of the "talks with his fists" type. But you can't really make a point that way, not a coherent one anyway. He growled and ranted and muttered things here or there, but they mostly concerned some guy named Donnie and the money Donnie owes him. I suppose he thought I was Donnie, it was hard to tell with a ghostly fist boxing my ears.
You may be thinking I have surely seen ghosts before, or had otherworldly encounters—aliens, the sasquatch, time-travelers from the future. And then there's my dead reporter friend Mordecai "Three-Finger" Brown, but frankly I've never believed he was really dead, it all just seemed like a tax dodge. None of that prepared me for seeing a real, actual ghost in my bedroom, demanding from me money I didn't have, and then wiping the bedroom floor with me.
It began as a simple enough evening, in my matching red pajamas and nightcap, monogrammed, of course, turning in for bed. I had clapped off the lights and turned my TV to the late-show reruns of M*A*S*H that I so love. I must have dozed off, because I woke up to complete darkness and the sound of drunken mumbling. I could hear also, beneath the drunk talk, the sound of footsteps. I opened my eyes, but could see nothing but darkness. Then, I saw the outline of a hunched-over figure, and heard him dragging his heels toward my bed. At first, I thought it was Rascal, my manservant, playing another prank, but then I realized Rascal is quite the big fellow, and this figure was more of a modest size, like myself. Then I thought it was me, playing some gag on myself, but that made no sense.
Before I could figure out exactly what was happening, a cold hand grabbed my leg. Then, I was yanked out of bed and pummeled. Icy dead knuckles, like the hand of a skeleton, smacked the hell out of my face, fattened my lip, blackened my eye, and held me down against the hard wood floor. I tried to get up, but he couldn't hear my pleas while he was rambling about his money.
Being the investigator I am, I immediately went to find out as much as I could about the penthouse apartment I live in. Quite a fascinating history, if you must know. It turns out a very successful man named Gatsby once lived there, a long time ago, and may have even been the Gatsby F. Scott Fitzgerald based his character on, at least I've heard great things about him. He was a well-to-do-man, like myself, and very generous, which is where the comparison ends. But those who remember him, like the door man to my building, stress that while Gatsby had been a very generous man, he didn't just give things away. He expected to all debts to be repaid, and apparently had a hell of a drinking problem. I grew excited right away, and was asked to step away from the door. A ghost of a man much like myself! I can't wait to find out more. º Last Column: Iraqi Politics Made Simpleº more columns
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Quote of the Day“There ain't no cure for the summertime blues. Or HIV. Boy, AIDS, that must suck. This has been a Public Service Announcement from Eddie Cochran.”
-Eddie CochranFortune 500 CookieLook to the stars for guidance: preferably someone who's been in a big movie in the last five years. You will go to the bathroom this week. Don't be fooled by your lack of progress in life: things can still get much worse. This week's lucky gelatin desserts: Jell-O Jigglers, Jell-O Epileptics, Limp Hicks, Greased Piggie Bites, Spineless Weasels, Slime Dogs.
Try again later.Least Popular April Fools' Pranks| 1. | Entire world repopulated with talking dogs while you slept | | 2. | Autistic cousin did your taxes for you, but it turns out he's a music savant | | 3. | You're CNN's Kidnapper of the Week! | | 4. | Woke up covered in 200 glued-on toupees | | 5. | Anal rape | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 10/29/2001 Sweet Jesus America, are you back again already? It looks like Uncle Roland will have to dig deep into his bag of goodies for some tender morsels to keep you entertainment hounds happy! How about we start with everyone's favorite Quid Pro Bono, Ask Roland?
Q. I've been an avid fan of yours since back in your days of writing movie reviews for the Radio Shack employee newsletter, and even your brief stint as a film reviewer for Trucker Girls Magazine. Looking through my collection of your reviews recently, I was startled to discover that you gave "Cock-Gobbling Space Sluts" a four-star review when you were writing for TGM. Excuse me? Were we watching the same movie? Only a truly desperate fan of low-budget erotic science fiction comedies would find...
Sweet Jesus America, are you back again already? It looks like Uncle Roland will have to dig deep into his bag of goodies for some tender morsels to keep you entertainment hounds happy! How about we start with everyone's favorite Quid Pro Bono, Ask Roland?
Q. I've been an avid fan of yours since back in your days of writing movie reviews for the Radio Shack employee newsletter, and even your brief stint as a film reviewer for Trucker Girls Magazine. Looking through my collection of your reviews recently, I was startled to discover that you gave "Cock-Gobbling Space Sluts" a four-star review when you were writing for TGM. Excuse me? Were we watching the same movie? Only a truly desperate fan of low-budget erotic science fiction comedies would find this cavalcade of clearly faked Venusian orgasms and unconvincing prosthetic Martian hard-ons anything less than tiresome. And where's the internal logic? So the mischievous vibra-doodles need to hide in Linda Sproket's cleavage to survive the journey through deep space so they can sneak into Luke Dorkmer's pants, but Stud Astroglide and Gina Galaxy apparently don't need to breathe while copulating on the moon's barren surface? There's no air on the moon, Roland. Oh, and also, are there any plans in the works for a book of your movie reviews to be published?
Duke Rainfever, Lost Meadow, Maine
A. Thanks for the letter, Duke. It's always heartening, and a bit suffocating, to know you have fans who have been following your career so closely. I take it from your collection that you're both a Radio Shack employee and a frequent reader of Biker Girls Magazine, and from your return address stamp that you live in Maine. The question I have for you, Duke, is which set of fingerprints on the envelope are yours: the big, smudged greasy ones or the smaller, more delicate prints with the tighter swirls? I have a bet going with some friends at the FBI on this one—Christmas might come early for Roland this year! And lastly: Stay the hell out of my car.
Q. On a recent trip to the theater to see David Lynch's new romantic comedy "Mulholland Dive", I was plagued by one nagging question throughout the film's generous 400 minute running time. And that question is this: "What the fuck?". Thought maybe you could help, thanks.
Carny Viceroy, Tumult, Florida
A. Your question is an understandable one, Carny. There are two important things to remember when watching any David Lynch film. The first is that Lynch did a gargantuan quantity of drugs early in his career and is now considered to be mildly retarded. Did you ever see that "this is your brain on drugs" commercial several years back? They actually used David Lynch's brain for that commercial, no lie. As a result, Lynch's films are best enjoyed after drinking a bottle of shoe polish and setting your feet on fire, as the director intended. The second thing is that it's best to remember that all of Lynch's films are originally shot in Portuguese, underwater and backwards, then they are translated back by migrant workers, dubbed into English by the cast of "Saved by the Bell", run forward and spliced together with Mexican soap operas at random intervals. So to best follow a Lynch film, it's recommended that you have an illegal immigrant friend watch the film for you, then describe it to you through two tin cans attached by a waxed bit of string. If you missed any of those directions, don't worry. They're reprinted on the DVD packaging for "Lost Highway", which was actually about the Spanish Civil War.
Now for the movies!
In Theaters Now:
From Hell
Good God! This isn't the touching Christmas fable I remembered as a child! I think they've pulled a fast one on you and I, America.
Iron Monkey
A completely yawn-worth action epic that pits the Beastie Boys and their fake karate antics against a gang of futuristic numbskulls, set against the backdrop of a post-apocalyptic New Jersey suburb. What do you mean it's not post-apocalyptic?
Mulholland Drive
Confirmed nutbag director David Lynch finally teams up with an actor who's talents match and compliment his own: Sylvester Stallone. Sure, the movie is the same backwards mindfuck that Lynch's last 13 films have been (some say he never recovered from the intense drug-fueled filming schedule of his first hit, "Dumbo"), but finally we're given someone interesting to look at up on the screen while all of the Shriners are running around and playing croquet with Ann Margret's balls. Sly pulls off every albino midget enema scene with dignity and style, and he's got a skull that could stop a runaway trolley car to boot. I'm looking for these two to team up again, maybe on the next James Bond film if we're lucky.
Riding in Cars with Boys
Britney Spears' acting debut reminds me of the innocent days of cherry cokes and sock hops, when every children's film didn't end with the heroine in a three-way Asian gang bang. Not much happens in the film, but that's precisely as it should be in films made for teenagers, lest they get any bright ideas. As ever, Spears is a sterling role model of decorum and taste, teaching young girls that it's better to be respected for your mind
than ogled for your body, and that it's okay to wait for marriage before you go down on an entire soccer team on live national television.
Now on Video:
About Adam
Here's some free advice to first-time director Adam Curry: If you're going to shoot a biographical documentary, it's probably best to choke down a pinch of humility and make it about someone slightly more fascinating than yourself. Also: I hear that every hairdresser in the nation is on a mission to search out and destroy that hair, dude.
Along Came a Spider
I've said it before and I'll keep saying it again until these slow-witted Hollywood types get the message: ENOUGH WITH THE INTERNET MOVIES ALREADY! They apparently didn't get the hint from the millions of people who didn't turn out to see other 'net thrillers like "The Net", "Cookie's Fortune", "Bandwidth on the Run", "James Baud in Golden-ISP" and "Summer of Spam", not to mention NWA's controversial "FTP" video. Whoever thought a 90 minute thriller could hinge on the suspense of whether or not a website would get indexed by search engines or not needs to dial-up the real world sometime soon.
Freddie Got Fingered
Less ballsy moves have ruined the careers of bigger stars, so you have to applaud loveable meathead Freddie Prinz Jr's foray into the brightly-colored world of gay porn. Even if everybody knew it was going to happen sooner or later.
With a Friend Like Harry
Funny bio picture about Harry Houdini's best friend Mick Rabbie, who remained affable and good-natured throughout a lifetime of being ditched at parties and dinners by Houdini, who could never refuse the challenge of escaping from anywhere and everywhere. There's a great whorehouse scene here that I won't ruin for you by telling too much about the hermaphrodite in the closet.
Television:
Continuing my run down of this year's new shows:
Scrubs (NBC)
Only Spike Lee could make racism and ghetto danger so darn funny! A couple of white MIT graduates
move into the middle of gang territory in L.A. One's sloppy, one's a stuffed shirt, but if either leaves the
apartment wearing blue or red they'll be dead! I usually don't laugh at white guys being threatened by
gang members and insulted constantly, but when it's funny it's funny! Way to go for this daring new
sitcom!
Philly (ABC)
Yikes! Somebody call ABC and tell them the day of the cute kid and his horse is over. I don't know
what possessed them to replace tough-talking crime drama "N.Y.P.D. Nude" with this sugary third-rate
Black Stallion, but the guys in Programming ought to be hung up by their novelty corporate
neckties. Get with it, people! The plots are lame, the kid is ugly, and the horse can't act. Say good-bye
to this Awful World of Disney hour.
Accordion Jim (ABC)
This year ABC must stand for "All Bound for Cancellation." What's the most annoying instrument on the
face of the planet? The accordion! And who's the master of the accordion? Who cares! Turns out it's
some guy named Jim and ABC has given him a half-hour variety and sketch comedy show that's so
popular these days. But mark my words and small dollar bills, this son of a gun is going nowhere. One
more second of that trilling blowhard sound and I'd smash my T.V.! Not to mention the accordion
drives me nuts, too.
Video Games:
Woo-hoo! What a time to be a game enthusiast! Because they're making a whale's ass load of games!
Let's just skim some of my favorites quickly, eh?
Tony Hawk Prosecutor 2 (Playstation 2)
Playstation brings their successful courtroom simulator to the all-powerful PS2, and it doesn't
disappoint! The defense attorneys are real bastards this time out, but only you, as world-class
criminal prosecutor Tony Hawk, can womp them on the head with a writ of habeas corpus
so def as to make them think twice about taking the Bar exam!
Devil May Cry (Playstation 2)
No telling how the geniuses at PS2 got a game about the bombing of Afghanistan out so quick, but
more power to those ace patriots! It's your job to find and destroy Mr. O-some-asshole bin Laden
himself using the military's top bombadiers. Just hit every cave you can find, and when that fails, bomb
everything within the border! Unlike other games of the same type, there's no penalty at all for bombing
civilian targets, so have at!
Final Fantasy Tac Tics (Playstation)
I usually love to give a game a chance, but I just didn't get this one, folks. Maybe I lack vision, but I
don't see breath-freshening candy making a successful transition to the video game consoles, though
maybe the limited power of the Playstation wasn't a good platform to start out on. Just between you
and me, the disc itself tastes like shit, too.
That'll have to do for now, gents and wo-gents. Check back in two weeks for more entertaining
bits shaken out of the nation's toaster!   |
