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Academy Fucks Up commune Oscar Pool Something AwfulApril 1, 2002 |
Hollywood, CA Junior Bacon Denzel & Halle: Thanks for the heads-up, Hollywood
A move trumpeted as ground-breaking and courageous by Academy publicists and people trying to sell newspapers nation-wide, the Academy was deftly able to both punish Russell Crowe for acting like an asshole (and for doing an action movie in 2000, making them look bad for giving him his 1999 The Insider Oscar that year), and open the door to give Tom Hanks another Oscar the next year there's an outstanding black actor in a leading role. Unless, of course, Robert DeNiro or Sean Penn get really sick and the Ac...
roving once and for all that you don't have to be white to win a token acting award, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences kissed it's own ass Sunday by awarding the Best Actor and Best Actress Oscars to known black people Denzel Washington and Halle Berry.
A move trumpeted as ground-breaking and courageous by Academy publicists and people trying to sell newspapers nation-wide, the Academy was deftly able to both punish Russell Crowe for acting like an asshole (and for doing an action movie in 2000, making them look bad for giving him his 1999 The Insider Oscar that year), and open the door to give Tom Hanks another Oscar the next year there's an outstanding black actor in a leading role. Unless, of course, Robert DeNiro or Sean Penn get really sick and the Academy has to hurry up and give them more awards before they die.
Washington received his Best Actor Oscar for his work in Malcolm X, which inconveniently came out ten years ago, in 1992, the year they gave Al Pacino the Best Actor Oscar for his work in The Godfather Part II, which came out in 1974. In 1974 the Best Actor Oscar went to Art Carney, because he likes puppies.
But the Academy is nothing if it's not just, at least on a 20-year scale, and the rest of the deserving 1974 field would get their kudos in time. Dustin Hoffman would go on to win his 1974 Lenny Oscar in 1979, while Jack Nicholson had to wait until 1983 to win his 1974 Oscar for Chinatown.
The developments in this year's awards have changed everything for black actors, and by that I mean Denzel and Morgan Freeman, who both now have a chance to be nominated again. Reaction on the street has been unanimous, with Americans from all walks of life joining together to say: "That's cool. But Training Day? I guess, whatever."
The reaction at the commune offices was much more passionate, as no one had counted on this being the Academy's year to pat itself on the back. As a result, the commune's annual Oscars office pool was won by Lil Duncan, who hadn't seen any of the nominated films and filled out her ballot with some help from an issue of People magazine. Ivan Nacutchacokov had the most to be upset about, as he had spent weeks developing a complex algorithm to determine the winners, but had left out the variable that among the front-runners, the blandest film always wins.
When Ron Howard was announced as the winner of the Best Director Oscar, Nacutchacokov laughed at first, then realized it wasn't a gag announcement and stormed off in a huff, requiring him to be tasered by security personnel. No one was entirely sure the tasering was completely necessary, but they weren't taking any chances since Ted Ted had thrown our original television set out the window in a rage during the ceremony's opening title sequence, and our TV set budget had been badly depleted during Australia's poor showing at the winter Olympics last month. the commune news. Great. Just fucking great. Red Bagel is the commune's aider and abeditor, and wants everyone to know he's seen Showgirls more times than any man alive.
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Saddam lawyers may plead Satanity
Wal-Mart stockholders foolishly price-match K-Mart stock
500,000 new jobs created in April already outsourced
Newsweek Slammed for Not Using That One Picture of Michele Bachmann Where She Doesn't Look Crazy
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American Idol Finale Results: America Loses Memorial Day Celebrated With More Memorials in Iraq Congress Lobbied for More Material to Complete Brando Memorial Impotent Landslide in China Kills Only Micro-Fraction of Glorious Population |
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 April 4, 2005
Match of the CenturyI've had a few money-making harebrained schemes in my day, but you good people know it's not my usual style. I'm not about making a quick buck, I'm about doing irrational things with little or no prep time. Still, if I can make a few dollars with a harebrained scheme I was going to do anyway, that's the gravy on the ice cream.
I initially suggested Lee and Camembert's girlfriend, Girl Elvis, work out their troubles in the boxing ring just because I wanted to see some good old-fashioned fisticuffs. Ginger Baker, my beloved and betrothed, once I finalize my divorce to my current harpy of a wife, is the one who thought it would make a terrific spectacle. Apparently there's a huge audience out there for a man fighting a woman, and as soon as she said that I remembered Girl Elvis was a woman. You can hardly blame me, her rendition of "Love Me Tender" sounds just like the man himself. It's like you're transported in time back to 1963, sitting on the grassy knoll and listening to the radio right before you shoot JFK.
But enough of my time-traveling fantasies, like the world needs a 36th column of me writing about shooting Kennedy. This is about the long-awaited match between man and she-man. To see the sweet explosions and fury when the sheer muscle of womanhood collides with the elegant musical talent of mandom. Who will win? No one can say, although Vegas odds have Lee going down before the sweat has a chance to accumulate on his forehead.
º Last Column: Pretty Big O' Me
º more columns
I've had a few money-making harebrained schemes in my day, but you good people know it's not my usual style. I'm not about making a quick buck, I'm about doing irrational things with little or no prep time. Still, if I can make a few dollars with a harebrained scheme I was going to do anyway, that's the gravy on the ice cream.
I initially suggested Lee and Camembert's girlfriend, Girl Elvis, work out their troubles in the boxing ring just because I wanted to see some good old-fashioned fisticuffs. Ginger Baker, my beloved and betrothed, once I finalize my divorce to my current harpy of a wife, is the one who thought it would make a terrific spectacle. Apparently there's a huge audience out there for a man fighting a woman, and as soon as she said that I remembered Girl Elvis was a woman. You can hardly blame me, her rendition of "Love Me Tender" sounds just like the man himself. It's like you're transported in time back to 1963, sitting on the grassy knoll and listening to the radio right before you shoot JFK.
But enough of my time-traveling fantasies, like the world needs a 36th column of me writing about shooting Kennedy. This is about the long-awaited match between man and she-man. To see the sweet explosions and fury when the sheer muscle of womanhood collides with the elegant musical talent of mandom. Who will win? No one can say, although Vegas odds have Lee going down before the sweat has a chance to accumulate on his forehead.
Camembert, lovable little red pacifist that he is, still hopes for a peaceful resolution to the problems. I say all the names in the barrel have been hurled and they still want blood. The only way to settle this is with a highly-profitable sporting event hosted on Pay-Per-View, with HBO getting first crack at the second airing. And not just for me, who has mortgaged the house three times over to promote this event, and not just Ginger Baker, sinking heavily into debt to rent the arena and hire celebrity judges. No, this has to be settled in a 12-round match, by decision or knockout, so we'll know once and for all who is the king of the sexes. That doesn't just mean for men—there have been women kings, too.
I plan on airing a 45-minute video, professionally made by myself and my old indie film buddy Piglet, explaining to all audiences exactly how this match came to be. Not all the boring financial stuff. But how Lee kept practicing his bass whenever Girl Elvis was trying to watch AMC's Elvis-All-Weekend marathon, which became their first match-up. I had just enough time to film the last part of the argument and the first sucker punch, and that itself is worth the price of admission, good people. Yes, I can charge admission to a video tape. I asked my lawyer, Jerry Nascar.
It had all started before that, of course, with Lee's merciless slaughtering of the entire Elvis catalogue in his Christian band, Up With Prophets. Girl Elvis told him she'd rather be crucified than hear him ruin another classic, and that fretted Lee quite a bit, starting him speaking in tongues and everything, though it might have been the epilepsy. He's had bouts of it ever since the car accident.
Just between you and me, faithful and singular commune reader, Lee is still trying to weasel out of it, and if I saw the Vegas odds, I would, too. He claims Jesus wouldn't want him to fight, and I've been trying to get this Jesus fellow on the line, since he's obviously hoping for a cut of the action to prod Lee forward. But trust me, if I have to toss him into the ring with the help of a few burly boys, I'll do it. Hell, I might even throw Camembert in there, just to remind him who's boss. He's been getting awful cocky lately.
Of course, until the event actually happens, I won't have a wide berth to talk about it, according to my lawyer. But I've still got plenty to offer in future columns. I wouldn't mind sorting out this mess with my ratings once and for all. And I have yet to give a progress report on the X-M radio. Hardly everything I had hoped. º Last Column: Pretty Big O' Meº more columns
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|  January 7, 2002
Volume 11Dear commune:
Hey, what up? Long time no see, m’man. How’s shit gone down for ya? What you do for New Year’s and all? I was getting down with some tasty honeys. Nothin’ too drastic, I get enough action I ain’t gonna exaggerate it or nothin’. But it was suh-weet! You KNOW I got their digits.
Where you been? Ain’t nobody seen you at the club since Shorty got that clap. Everything cool?
Dennis Warrell
St. Louis, MO
Dear Dennis:
Everything’s cool. We had nothing going on for New Year’s. Had some friends over, played board games of all things, just downed some cases of beer and a bottle of wine, watched the ball drop on T.V. Dick Clark still looks like he ain’t aged none, something’s going on with that guy.
It’s all good here, we just ain’t been down with the club scene in a while. It’s getting tired, man. We know you’re gonna give us shit for it, but we just can’t keep on doing the same thing anymore. The girls get younger and younger and dumber and dumber, there ain’t no sport in clubbing anymore. the commune would rather just hang out on the weekend with a nice girl, or just relax and watch T.V. or read a book. But you the man! You keep up the hunt, if you got game in ya. I think we’re hanging up the jersey, though.
What’s up with Shorty? Last time I saw that motherfucker he had this fuck-ugly bitch hanging all on his jock and he was...
º Last Column: Volume 10
º more columns
Dear commune: Hey, what up? Long time no see, m’man. How’s shit gone down for ya? What you do for New Year’s and all? I was getting down with some tasty honeys. Nothin’ too drastic, I get enough action I ain’t gonna exaggerate it or nothin’. But it was suh-weet! You KNOW I got their digits. Where you been? Ain’t nobody seen you at the club since Shorty got that clap. Everything cool? Dennis Warrell
St. Louis, MODear Dennis:
Everything’s cool. We had nothing going on for New Year’s. Had some friends over, played board games of all things, just downed some cases of beer and a bottle of wine, watched the ball drop on T.V. Dick Clark still looks like he ain’t aged none, something’s going on with that guy.
It’s all good here, we just ain’t been down with the club scene in a while. It’s getting tired, man. We know you’re gonna give us shit for it, but we just can’t keep on doing the same thing anymore. The girls get younger and younger and dumber and dumber, there ain’t no sport in clubbing anymore. the commune would rather just hang out on the weekend with a nice girl, or just relax and watch T.V. or read a book. But you the man! You keep up the hunt, if you got game in ya. I think we’re hanging up the jersey, though.
What’s up with Shorty? Last time I saw that motherfucker he had this fuck-ugly bitch hanging all on his jock and he was pretending she was fine. I was about ready to swat that bitch, I swear. His standards gone to shit or what? Peace out, man.
the commune
Dear commune: I appreciate the extreme views on your website. Even when I don’t agree with them it’s nice to see people thinking for themselves and asking different questions. It keeps our media fresh and alert, which keeps our system of checks and balances working. I do have one question for the commune: Is all the strong language necessary? It seems to me these are basically public air waves, in a sense, and children and anybody could find the commune and read what’s printed here. I don’t think the essence of what’s being said, the real substance, would change if the language were more fitting for all potential readers. I truly believe that a poor vocabulary is the product of an unimaginative mind. Surely the columnists and feature writers for the commune write better words than the ones they often use? Annette Bustlen
Ontario, CanadaDear Annette:
Fuck a yeti, you rusted old Canuck twat.
the commune
Dear commune: I don’t know why I’m choosing to write to you. I’m at my wit’s end and need help. I have a neighbor who plays his stereo way too loud. I hate to think of myself as an old fuddy-duddy, but it really bothers me. He plays the stereo at top decibels all day long, even as late as 10 p.m. at night. I have to work in the morning! Not right now, it’s Saturday night, I just mean through the week when I usually hear the stereo and get upset. What should I do? I hate to be a jerk about it or anything. Darren Hutchins
Calder, CaliforniaDear Annette:
Usually straightforward honesty is the best policy for dealing with an unpleasant situation. Confront your neighbor, be unrelenting but understanding and explain to him why the loud stereo is a problem for you. It is important you refuse to give any quarter or show any signs of backing down, often people will try to talk their way out of situations or turn the blame on you. By being polite yet forthright, you should alleviate the problem. Failing all else, you must be firm and contact the police or landlord about the problem, anyone who can enforce a stern rule about disturbing the peace. Sooner or later, with your commitment toward solving the problem, your neighbor will concede and turn his stereo down.
Unless it’s Creedence. Crank that shit till the dial breaks! It rocks, it rocks hard.
the commune
Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible low turn out at American professional soccer events. C’mon—it’s soccer, people. What did you expect?º Last Column: Volume 10º more columns
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Quote of the Day“Upon being stopped by the Customs Officer during my trip to America, he asked: 'Have you anything to declare?' I burst forward, telling him, 'Only my genius!' I was promptly beaten to a piteous pulp and subjected to a humiliating search. Needless to say, they found my weed.”
-Wildman OscarFortune 500 CookieLove is a relative term, but even that nugget won't save your ass if you pork your cousin. Stay away from salty snacks this week, even if it means tunneling underground. Try wearing your watch on the other arm—maybe that's your problem. This week's lucky names: Alexia. Ephyn. Scatman. Toolio.
Try again later.Most-Quickly Deleted Internet History Entries| 1. | NymphosOverNinety.com | | 2. | KissLikeAGayMan.com | | 3. | LetMamaDressYou.com | | 4. | DeadPuppyPics.com | | 5. | Scientology.com | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 12/13/2004 Greetings, America! I hope you enjoyed the trip and didn't encounter any disturbing horse porn on your way over. We're here, as we always are, time without end, to lend a judging hand as Hollywood turns its head and coughs up another week's worth of ripe, ripe shwag. So let's waste no more time before scraping together Hollywood's best efforts with the side of a credit card and exposing them to the cold, cold light of day, shall we?
In Theaters Now:
House of Flying Buggers
The most depressing of the many downsides to the recent kung-fu swordfighting movie epidemic has been the new life breathed into the unfortunate "Redneck Karate" subgenre. Aimed at audiences who like powerful ass-kicking without all the mystical crap or Chinese...
Greetings, America! I hope you enjoyed the trip and didn't encounter any disturbing horse porn on your way over. We're here, as we always are, time without end, to lend a judging hand as Hollywood turns its head and coughs up another week's worth of ripe, ripe shwag. So let's waste no more time before scraping together Hollywood's best efforts with the side of a credit card and exposing them to the cold, cold light of day, shall we?
In Theaters Now:
House of Flying Buggers
The most depressing of the many downsides to the recent kung-fu swordfighting movie epidemic has been the new life breathed into the unfortunate "Redneck Karate" subgenre. Aimed at audiences who like powerful ass-kicking without all the mystical crap or Chinese people, Redneck Karate has been a stain on the Martial Arts movie landscape since Chuck Norris slithered off his cross-training machine long enough to White up the screen in 1972's Killninja. Long the unofficial Redneck American ambassador to the East, Norris' throne was usurped by the slightly less redneckish Steven Seagal in the 90's, thanks to Seagal's having worked in a Chinese restaurant for a while and having seen The Karate Kid twice, thus trumping Norris' highly-misinformed and offensive sense of "karate."
Now that the "Magic Flying Crap" genre of Martial Arts films has captured the public's imagination, the redneck nation has responded with the first "Magic Flying Redneck Karate Crap" hybrid, a monumental birth that should be celebrated by burning all remaining film negatives and promotional materials, immediately. If you thought it was painful to watch guys who don't know karate doing karate, try watching guys who don't know karate or flying, flying around and doing karate. I promise you'll kill someone soon.
The Life Aquatic with Vanilla Zissou
Who keeps giving this guy money to make movies? Vanilla Ice, I mean. He must have compromising photos of somebody important; which is likely since any photos with him in them at all would qualify. Thus the high price sometimes extracted for posing for a photo with a loser during his fifteen minutes of fame. Never before has such a one-hit wonder extorted so much from his momentary success, holding audiences hostage over the years through his various insane ego-boosting exercises like Vanilla Sky and Vanillas in the Mist.
Now he's back to claim his dubious fame once again, this time by snookering the easily-led into believing that Vanilla Ice spent most of his youth as a groundbreaking underwater adventurer. Flexing his impressive muscles for co-opting the hard work of others, Ice stretches it out this time to claim that he invented the submarine, and discovered the dolphin and the ocean, of all things. At least he didn't say he invented the ocean. I give this film two stars, and only offer that many in hopes that it will get Vanilla Ice's attention long enough for him to poke his head up, so I can sock it with my whack-a-mole mallet.
Ocean's Twelve
Everyone has a tendency to lie about their age as they get older, and aging pop stars are no different. Neither are aging one-hit wonders or largely forgotten hacks like Billy Ocean, who recently celebrated his 50th birthday by releasing a movie about how he's actually only twelve. Call it a "Caribbean Dream" or a pathetic fantasy, either way Billy Ocean's got you talking about him again. Suckers.
Ocean has always done everything to excess, including the time he wore a Velcro tuxedo to the Grammies in 1986 and got stuck to Tito Jackson's afro for the better part of a harrowing hour and a half, before a celebrity volunteer fire department could cut him free with an acetylene blowtorch. And Ocean's excessively bland cocktail parties are the stuff of Hollywood legend. But this time Ocean may have gone too far in his going too far. Even in a town whose inhabitants are routinely constructed mostly of age-defying Mylar polymers, nobody in their or anyone else's right mind is going to believe that Ocean's twelve. The movie itself is nothing but an expensive embarrassment, although it did land Ocean an invite to the Neverland Ranch.
And this is where the conga line stops, America. Hope you got yourself a good hip shake and a pat-down from someone vaguely attractive. And for those of you who kept banging the back of your heads on the floor, that's the limbo, stupids. We'll be back in this spot in another two weeks, so mark your calendars and put that baking potato in the oven now.   |
