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Hollywood Not Optioning Nebraska Bank RobberySeptember 30, 2002 |
Norfolk, Nebraska Snapper McGee Lead Detective Vernon McCain investigates crime scene while accidentally locked in bank by slow deputy. oney, the verdict is in and Hollywood is saying a resounding "Mmm-Mnnt!" to a Nebraska bank robbery in which five were killed and three were left scared out they ever-lovin' minds by three hold-up men.
The robbery happened in Norfolk, a dead town with no night life whatsoever, when the three hold-up men shot four bank employees and one civilian like they were last year's fashions and crashed through the wall in a balls-out kaboom to flee the scene. Another customer was winged in the shoulder in true Hollywood style. Police chased down the robbers in a sweet-ass manhunt that reminds this reporter of her early years. The governor authorized the use of Black Hawk helicopter in a show of force that certainly won my heart.
Yet with all of this grade-A material, don't...
oney, the verdict is in and Hollywood is saying a resounding "Mmm-Mnnt!" to a Nebraska bank robbery in which five were killed and three were left scared out they ever-lovin' minds by three hold-up men.
The robbery happened in Norfolk, a dead town with no night life whatsoever, when the three hold-up men shot four bank employees and one civilian like they were last year's fashions and crashed through the wall in a balls-out kaboom to flee the scene. Another customer was winged in the shoulder in true Hollywood style. Police chased down the robbers in a sweet-ass manhunt that reminds this reporter of her early years. The governor authorized the use of Black Hawk helicopter in a show of force that certainly won my heart.
Yet with all of this grade-A material, don't wait for Hollywood to put this on your local theater screen.
"Frankly, most of it plays great," said Universal Vice-Vice President Armio Durkness, "the daring daylight robbery, the guns and the explosions and the Black Hawk helicopter—God, I'm wet over the Black Hawk helicopter. But the shooting of four bank people? And the customer? Bad move, guys. Makes us less sympathetic to your character. We're passing for now."
Apparently our fearsome threesome have a Master's degree in domestic terrorism, but a big fat failing grade in media savvy.
"Man, it could have been great," said MGM Studio Exec Dandelion Waters. "Three buddy bank robbers in the western United States decide to pull off that one big heist and the evil, corrupt governor—metaphorically speaking, of course—wants to bring them down so he can get re-elected. Sends out every cop in the state, even a super high-tech Airwolf-style chopper. Then they had to go and ruin it by blowing away people. Nobody wants to see that on their news and they definitely don't want to pay to see it at the theater."
Three men were arrested in a town about 76 miles away, but it could not be certain if the men were the ones they were seeking or just a couple of boy-toys doing an honest day's work. If the latter is true, this reporter needs to investigate personally.
The action and romantic notion of robbing a bank in modern America, minus the bring-me-down of the murders involved, is a dangling piece of candy that Hollywood may not resist entirely. Although reaction is slow and moviemakers aren't jumping on the wagon just yet, there is talk that maybe the story can be salvaged, with some Hollywood-sized adjustments.
"If they can make a big scarefest like the O.J. Simpson stuff into a movie, we can certainly work enough magic with the more ample material we have here," said Mike Oliphant, a stubble-faced producer at Miramax who smells like he works out often. "We dump the murders right out, that's a given—do a little more background on the characters, maybe make them three childhood friends doing it all for the memory of a friend who died too soon. You know, cancer, AIDS, that West Nile stuff is big right now. I'm starting to like it. Kind of a 'our last big shot to take the brass ring.' It's do-able."
The real story is being sought by many moviemakers right now, but only to see if there's any usable gold nuggets within. If not, Tinsel Town is famous for making their own brand of gold dust.
"If people wanted reality, they'd watch the news," said Dreamworks consultant John Dorfenfoof. "Or maybe not the news. Definitely not Fox News. But they'd watch something. Not movies." the commune news is so touched by your compliments we're turning a bright shade of red—big fat commie red. Stigmata Spent is back after what we are referring to as a long vacation in Bangkok. That's right, a vacation. Don't think about it anymore.
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Conservative Woman Found he White House, always on the search for rare species of human beings or close approximations, unearthed an impressive find last week: A female conservative. Defying usual stereotypes, the so-called “right-wing woman” is apparently not a career politician or from the deep rural South. In fact, she’s completed higher education and appears to be not at all an idiot of any sort—though field-testing leaves the possibility open. And, perhaps most startling of all, the administration found the rare species in the most unlikeliest of places—within its own ranks. The alleged female Republican is Harriet Miers, White House attorney and personal lawyer to the Bush clan for years. Born and raised in Dallas, a small state in the country of Texas, Miers earned several accolades for her legal work and previous appointments by Texas governor George W. Bush, no relation to the current president. Though she lacks any bench experience, discounting bus stops, Miers is a respected lawyer, despite being personal attorney to the president and the White House counsel. Fox Disappointed by Desperate Alien Prison Escape Ratings he new television season barely underway, Fox executives are already lamenting the low ratings for their most calculated new show of the season, Desperate Alien Prison Escape. “We don’t understand it,” lamented stunned network executive Roger Bacon. “This show capitalized on every hot trend currently on TV. We even had swearing. It should have been the biggest hit of all time. Fuck.” Fox’s latest ratings hopeful follows the travails of Juk, a member of a secret alien invasion conspiracy who intentionally gets arrested for sleeping with a bored suburban housewife in order to help his cousin escape from jail, using a detailed map he had tattooed on his scrotum, which due to his alien anatomy is located where a human being’s eyelids would be. Alec Baldwin Records Devastating Voice Mail Message for Shooter Sony’s Poorly Timed “PS3 Price Massacre” Backfires |
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 November 1, 2004
Remorse CodeThere's nothing more ugly than a fat man in banana-colored jams. That's just a fact of life. Sweet canary-colored Christ, is that a hard fact of life. This having been said, I admit there are more tactful ways to spread the word about this eternal truth than screaming it through a batch of megaphones you've got welded to the roof of your car like some kind of old-timey politician on a budget.
But may all the world's unfortunately-dressed fat men be my witness when I say I didn't set out this morning to malign the portly and ill-coutured via electronic amplification. I just wanted to test out the six-megaphone behemoth I had recently added to the roof of Bricksmobile III (formerly known as the Bagecudda) for purposes of thinking out-loud while in commute. Needless to say, that unfortunate fat bastard surprised me by appearing on the sidewalk in the middle of one of Omar Bricks' famous stream-of-consciousness clusterfuck rants, which led to me inadvertently screaming "Sweet Grandma Moses, did you see that fat fucker's pants?!?!" at the top of my lungs for the benefit of most of the greater metro area. If I'd had more time to think about what I was broadcasting at the decibel equivalent of two jet engines exploding in a stainless-steel men's room, I might have made it less obvious which fat fucker I was talking about, saving that jams-wearing butterball a fair measure of public embarrassment.
Of course, as should surprise nobody, Omar Bricks was man...
º Last Column: Vote Knievel º more columns
There's nothing more ugly than a fat man in banana-colored jams. That's just a fact of life. Sweet canary-colored Christ, is that a hard fact of life. This having been said, I admit there are more tactful ways to spread the word about this eternal truth than screaming it through a batch of megaphones you've got welded to the roof of your car like some kind of old-timey politician on a budget.
But may all the world's unfortunately-dressed fat men be my witness when I say I didn't set out this morning to malign the portly and ill-coutured via electronic amplification. I just wanted to test out the six-megaphone behemoth I had recently added to the roof of Bricksmobile III (formerly known as the Bagecudda) for purposes of thinking out-loud while in commute. Needless to say, that unfortunate fat bastard surprised me by appearing on the sidewalk in the middle of one of Omar Bricks' famous stream-of-consciousness clusterfuck rants, which led to me inadvertently screaming "Sweet Grandma Moses, did you see that fat fucker's pants?!?!" at the top of my lungs for the benefit of most of the greater metro area. If I'd had more time to think about what I was broadcasting at the decibel equivalent of two jet engines exploding in a stainless-steel men's room, I might have made it less obvious which fat fucker I was talking about, saving that jams-wearing butterball a fair measure of public embarrassment.
Of course, as should surprise nobody, Omar Bricks was man enough to admit his mistake, which I did by flipping a bitch across the median and heading back to apologize to the yellow-legged monstrosity whose dignity I had shitcanned with my ear-piercing insensitivity.
This time around we were heading in opposite directions, so I only had time to yell "Sorry, fatass!" before my window of opportunity was gone. Anything I'd said after that would have appeared to be directed at this gang of Latino guys hanging out on the corner, who didn't look like they had any kind of sense of humor about loud, public affronts to their manhood. Not to be prejudiced or anything, maybe they were a sensitive barbershop quartet or something, but those didn't look like barbershop tattoos to me.
In the split second that I saw that big yellow blimp's face on the way back, I couldn't quite interpret the look he was giving me, but it for sure wasn't the look that says "Don't worry about it dude, and thanks for having such an unbelievable assload of class." It seemed more like a mix of "Why me?" and "Fuck you," so clearly he'd misunderstood my message and thought I was just buttering him up as the set-up for a really devastating critique of his wide-load fashion sense.
Needless to say, Omar Bricks just couldn't let that injustice stand, so I threw the Bricksmobile in reverse and made my way back up the sidewalk to re-apologize. I'd barely megaphoned a heart-felt "I'm sorry for drawing attention to your big yellow ass, chunky" when the dude took off running like he'd never heard of social etiquette.
Most people aren't familiar with the proper technique for driving backwards up a city sidewalk; they think you should take it slow and steady to make sure you don't hit anything, careful to remember that turning left makes the car go right, etc. Actually, that's the most dangerous thing you can do, you're in real deep shit if you honestly think you're going to keep all that crap straight. It's much safer to put the hammer down and let the G-forces steer your car for you, the sidewalk and surrounding buildings will direct your car far better than your eyes ever could, trust me. But most people don't know this, so they overreact and dive out of the way when they see your car bearing down on them, accelerating into the low 60's with a mangled shopping cart bent across the trunk.
Jimmy Jams was apparently from the overreactor's school of backwards-sidewalk driving, because he hit the shoe-leather expressway like a big fat Lamborghini running on NASA fuel when he saw the Bricksmobile take out that kiosk of newspaper vending machines en route to apology. I knew I was going to have to think fast to set this whole thing right.
"Really, you're not that fat," I offered charitably over the megaphones. "Anybody would look bad in those pants."
But the rotund runaway kept on sprinting, even after I blurted out "My bad" on the car's horn in universally-understood motorist Morse code. Some people just can't be reached, especially after you wipe out into a fruit stand and your homemade bank of megaphones snaps off and flies through the window of a nearby deli.
I think he got the message though. And even if he didn't, I imagine the sprint for his life helped him drop a few pounds, so I figure I'm karmically in the clear on this one either way. Bricks out. º Last Column: Vote Knievelº more columns
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|  May 2, 2005
The Seven Month ItchHello and welcome to day four of Operation Jerkhunt, the pet project of a neighborhood group I recently organized to hunt down the freakish scum who stole my neighbor Hamms' Winnebago and, once they'd had their vile fun, dumped it in the Potomac River to conceal the evidence of their truly heinous crimes against the retired. That's the story the vigilante group is working from anyway, I personally know better but am in the unique position of being unable to correct their misconceptions without revealing the fact that Omar Bricks was the one who borrowed the Winni and, through no fault of my own, drove it into the Potomac with a half-naked record store clerk in the shower. "Drove" is actually entirely too strong a word, since in truth there was a giant stuffed carnival bear behind the wheel at the time, and the Winnebago actually rolled downhill backwards into the river thanks to the stuffed bear's poor understanding of parking brake procedures.
I have a rock-solid alibi since I was in the Winnebago's shower at the time, as can be backed up by a half-naked record store clerk named either Darlene or Danielle. That was a large part of the problem, actually, since when you're already wet and in the shower, it's not as obvious as it would otherwise be that your mobile home is steadily sinking into one of America's greatest rivers. So by the time you put two and two together, it's way too late to organize a team of pack mules to pull the Winnebago out of the river...
º Last Column: Check Your Breasts º more columns
Hello and welcome to day four of Operation Jerkhunt, the pet project of a neighborhood group I recently organized to hunt down the freakish scum who stole my neighbor Hamms' Winnebago and, once they'd had their vile fun, dumped it in the Potomac River to conceal the evidence of their truly heinous crimes against the retired. That's the story the vigilante group is working from anyway, I personally know better but am in the unique position of being unable to correct their misconceptions without revealing the fact that Omar Bricks was the one who borrowed the Winni and, through no fault of my own, drove it into the Potomac with a half-naked record store clerk in the shower. "Drove" is actually entirely too strong a word, since in truth there was a giant stuffed carnival bear behind the wheel at the time, and the Winnebago actually rolled downhill backwards into the river thanks to the stuffed bear's poor understanding of parking brake procedures.
I have a rock-solid alibi since I was in the Winnebago's shower at the time, as can be backed up by a half-naked record store clerk named either Darlene or Danielle. That was a large part of the problem, actually, since when you're already wet and in the shower, it's not as obvious as it would otherwise be that your mobile home is steadily sinking into one of America's greatest rivers. So by the time you put two and two together, it's way too late to organize a team of pack mules to pull the Winnebago out of the river before someone's collection of rare "road music" LPs is damaged by the river water, silt, and various beaver activities therein.
So far we've had little luck tracking down the vermin, though we have concluded conclusively that there's no way in hell he could live in our neighborhood. In fact, it was likely a woman, possibly crippled, from remote Eastern Europe, making retaliation all but impractical. There is a moral victory, however, in knowing the truth, and I know that Hamms has appreciated my help and the fact that he can sleep well at night now, knowing that Omar Bricks is keeping an eye on his house and assorted goodies.
Our previous misunderstandings about my frequent trespassing in his bathroom, burning down his house while it was being built, having him arrested twice on charges of necrophilia, and taking a shit in his garden and blaming it on my dog now well behind us, Hamms and I have moved on to a beautiful new phase of our friendship. Namely the first phase after someone's been your enemy before and now you think they're okay on a provisional basis. Like I said, truly a beautiful thing.
He's had me over to his house for beers twice now, once that he knew about, and I can clearly see the roots of a lifelong friendship taking hold. Or at least as long as he's going to live, which from the looks of things should only be another seven months at best since Hamms is older than Bob Hope. But Omar Bricks is pretty good at seven month friendships. Any longer than that and you hit the dreaded "Seven Month Itch," when your friend inevitably finds out that you used their precious Hummel figurine collection for a pyrotechnic-heavy one-sixteenth scale recreation of the Spanish Civil War or that you're the one who's been painting all those crude sexual figures on their bathroom walls at night.
But those first seven months, or five, man. That's the beautiful part. Bricks out. º Last Column: Check Your Breastsº more columns
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Quote of the Day“The good die first. Then, the not-so good. Then the ugly. Strike that, the ugly should die first. Can I start again? If there are any good left, don't kill them yet, we've still got some uglies over here.”
-Billiam SwordswartFortune 500 CookieThe next time you give a dog as a gift, why don't you try poking some holes in the cellophane, ay handyman? Here's something to chew on: gum. Remember: you can't hurry love, but you can get your ass in motion when you're blocking the express lane, chunky. This week's lucky ducks: Donald, Daffy, Dontrelle, Fukka.
Try again later.Best 90's Nostalgia Collections| 1. | Grunge AGAIN! | | 2. | Bitch-Slapped By Gangsta Rap | | 3. | Golden Memories... Yeah, Right | | 4. | They Sold Out At Woodstock '94 | | 5. | Where Were They Then? | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 1/19/2004 Buenos reados, America! I'm Roland McShyster and goddamn if you didn't come back for another week of Entertainment Policification. It's enough to make a weak man cry. Well, you've done your part, so I suppose it's time for me to do mine. On to this week's movies!
In Theaters
Along Came Paulie
Ben Stiller is the world's biggest pussy until a wisecracking talking bird straightens him out in this, probably the worst use of the "faux-documentary" technique yet. Believe me, I can understand the motivation to use crappy hand-held cameras to make a ludicrous premise seem more believable, plus it leaves more budget money for those delicious little rolled-up deli meats. But as the saying goes, you can't make a silk shirt...
Buenos reados, America! I'm Roland McShyster and goddamn if you didn't come back for another week of Entertainment Policification. It's enough to make a weak man cry. Well, you've done your part, so I suppose it's time for me to do mine. On to this week's movies!
In Theaters
Along Came Paulie
Ben Stiller is the world's biggest pussy until a wisecracking talking bird straightens him out in this, probably the worst use of the "faux-documentary" technique yet. Believe me, I can understand the motivation to use crappy hand-held cameras to make a ludicrous premise seem more believable, plus it leaves more budget money for those delicious little rolled-up deli meats. But as the saying goes, you can't make a silk shirt out of a pig's ass. Speaking of which, I'd like to meet the guy who thought you could, because that's one optimistic son of a bitch. I need that guy writing fortune cookies for me. Anyway, if you really think you need to see this movie, just watch Cujo with the Spanish subtitles on. You'll be just as pissed and you won't have to wait in line for popcorn.
The Butterfinger Effect
Ashton Kutcher is a vaguely good-looking klutz in his latest film, in which he also has an acting role. Kutcher plays a bumbling Mountain Dew dude who utilizes the nasty side effects of antihistamine medication to travel back in time and try not to drop shit everywhere. But he learns the hard lesson that going back in time just allows him to trip over shit and knock down huge displays of dominos twice, and that the past is the same as the present, only sort of yellow-tinted. Unfortunately the film is ultimately done in by its own implausibility, since if this kind of time travel were possible the filmmakers would have obviously gone back in time and made The Blair Witch Project instead. Thankfully for them, the soundtrack is filled with the kind of nauseous crap young people pretend to listen to these days, so the movie is still bound to attract teens like a giant, flashing bug zapper on Hollywood's front lawn regardless of quality.
Mindhunters
If you've never seen a slanty-browed redneck in camouflage overalls blow up a deer using only the power of his mind, well then I'd wager a week's salary you've never seen Mindhunters. Either that or you just really weren't paying any attention at all, or maybe you had to get up to piss every five minutes and the people sitting around you didn't have the common courtesy to answer basic plot questions when you got back. Whatever happened, you missed a hell of a movie. Not really, but I like to say that sometimes. Actually, saying you missed a movie like this is kind of like saying you dodged a bullet or almost got hit by a bus, people should slap you on the back and take you out to lunch. You might even take stock of your life; think about maybe being a little nicer to that Malaysian family you've got hidden in your attic. It's that bad. If you saw it on purpose, I can only hope you're either a fellow movie reviewer (in which case, "Yo!") or are Val Kilmer's mom, because otherwise you're a marked man. Unless you're a woman.
Wow. Okay America, it's safe to come out now. You've had your socks blown off and your asses blown clean out of your pants, as expected. And what did it cost you? Not enough. We've got to figure out some way to get more cash coming my way in this whole transaction. I'll get back to you on that one, so don't go blowing all your greenbacks at the beer tent or on nickel whores before my next column, caprice?   |