ome groups (Christians and liberals) have called foul when the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences announced their nominations for the 2005 Oscars earlier this week, and their favorite agenda films The Passion of the Christ and Fahrenheit 9/11 were nowhere to be found. The greater mystery, if you ask any film fan in the know, is how the Academy could criminally overlook the short film masterpiece "Unmapped Island," released in 2004 just in time for the Oscars by film auteur and commune employee Ted Ted.

"Unmapped Island," released to poisonous reviews in early December 2004 by the independent film company Ted Ted Pictures, has been targeted for non-targeting by Hollywood elite, despite being completely original and elevating the film forum beyond the usual candy-ass picture Tinsel Town has been churning out for years. Meanwhile, tired biopics like The Aviator and Ray, and foxy boxing pictures like Million Dollar Baby steal the thunder from original films about one man pitted against nature and Nazis after surviving a shipwrecking.

Many were curious and highly pissed-off as to why a formidable new talent, perhaps even a genius(?), was completely passed over for the more traditional kind of slick-produced crap and prettyboy film star nonsense. Most notably, the director and writer himself, Ted Ted, called the move, "The same old Hollywood horseshit."

Though troubled by bad reviews from critics who either simply didn't get it or were too high-faluting to enjoy a movie that was great fun, "Unmapped Island," starring non-Oscar-nominee for Best Actor Ted Ted and also non-Oscar-nominee for Best Supporting Actor Ramrod Hurley, sold out both of its showings in Flatbush, New Jersey, and looked "quite professional," according to the theater owner and projectionist Randall Howard. The praise and audience approval falls on deaf ears in Hollywood, though, as letters go unanswered and phone calls unreturned by simple reporters trying to find out the facts for a story. Still, one has to wonder: Is Hollywood completely oblivious to identifying new talent these days, or do they hold some deep-seated perverse prejudice against filmmaker Ted Ted?

It's not the first time Hollywood has faced the Ted Ted controversy, and refused to answer perfectly reasonable questions about it. In 1999, Ted Ted's first short film Monolog was roundly ignored by critics, on the preposterous grounds that no one in the academy had seen it and it broke minor technical regulations by not being quite finished, though director Ted Ted promised the money for being nominated for an Oscar would be enough to get it finished in time.

Most disappointing, according to director Ted Ted, since he can't win an Oscar now by these ever-tightening Academy standards, he will never have the chance to respond to allegations by movie reviewer for the commune Orson Welch, who attacked the film as, "The most obvious attempt to rip-off both the television series 'Lost' and the movie The Great Escape ever to make it to any screen, even a local theater."

"It's a shame," said Ted Ted, in a carefully-prepared press conference attended by this commune reporter. "If I had the opportunity, I would have liked to reply to Welch, and other critics, by telling them: 'If you're so goddamned brilliant, why don't you go write your own movie and cast it and make it yourself with your hard-earned money? Oh, that's right, I remember now why—you can't. You're all hacks and all your stuff comes out looking retarded. Retards.'"

No one in Hollywood returned any of this reporter's calls, except for one press secretary representing Clint Eastwood, who asked us to please stop wasting her time.

Mohammed Confesses to 9/11 Attacks, “Falling Down A Lot” During Interrogations

Castro Announces 2008 Candidacy; Clinton, Obama Drop Out of Race

Conditions at Walter Reed Upgraded to “Nightmarishly Clive Barker-esque”

Unveiling of First Black Disney Character Raises Some Concerns

I hope all of you are content to die in the middle of the night, having accomplished all in life you set out to do. Because it is certain to happen shortly. The world is about to be destroyed by ominous forces from another world or plane of existence and no one will believe me. I suppose that is what really bothers me about it all.

Oh, make no mistake, good people—Rokwell T. Finger has no urge to die. Certainly there's a lot I have left to do in life, like anything substantial at all. Or eat a green apple, that always seemed like a wild experience I wanted to try at least once. But none of that matters now (refer back to first paragraph)—it's about to become dust in the wind, like the band Kansas. I think they also had a song by that title.

These aliens, who will be destroying us imminently, made one mistake: They foolishly broadcast their secret correspondence on Channel 26, the local UPN affiliate, thinking nobody was watching. Lucky for the earth I really enjoy that The Parkers television show. Then again, nobody believes my tale of the invasion, so I suppose the aliens did not make one mistake.

The aliens—or other-dimensional earthling beings, I don't want to sound ignorant to them if they aren't from outerspace—are small, green men that appear to exist in minimal dimensions. I could hear their alien war jargon, and most of it sounded like unintelligible nonsense. Words like "fudge-striped" and "chocolicious" were tossed about as they prepared to stomp the earth flat. Without the help of a translator, I could only guess at their plans by the sinister looks on their small faces. That brown goo-firing gun of theirs spoke volumes to me alone.

This is not another "War of the Worlds" radio broadcast, I assure you—these aliens aren't martians. To mistake them for martians would be to seriously miscalculate and risk losing casualties to their goo-gun, and I'm sure it would offend them as well. Which is not how I want to start my future life as a slave, should we fail to stop them.

Still no one will believe me. It really pisses me off. I can live with getting killed, the insulting part is to realize your friends and co-workers place absolutely no value in your judgment. One even suggested the signal I intercepted was a television advert for some kind of candy product. This is what I get for working with a gaggle of hippies, beatniks, and fruitcakes—they'll believe anything. Except for me. Why won't they believe me?

Needless to say, knowing what I know, I plan on living these last few possible days to their fullest. I've worn my best underwear, straight out of the drawer (no waiting for Saturday now; every day will be wear the nice underwear day) and I've begun writing that play on Norm Abrams that I've always dreamed about. I've also taken to reading The Golf Bible for myself—not just skimming it, but really reading it. And I've begun writing out my will, which will surely be the filler for my next column should this whole thing turn out to be some sort of mix-up. But I'm reasonably sure we're going to die, so I'm not worried about that.

In the meantime, hug your children tight and perform dangerous erotic acts on your loved ones with care, certain that it may be the last time. Maybe these mysterious Keeblers will be thwarted, but it won't be by anyone here at the commune.

º Last Column: My Memoirs Are Not Coming Along Well
º more columns

Once again the current political climate has brought out the worst in the spend-o-crats. In case you're thinking that's another name for a real political party, don't be stupid. It's my funny way of saying Democrats that makes all my fans hoot and holler and make farting noises in approval. They know what I know—the spend-o-crats just like to spend our money on useless socialist programs, money that could be much better spent on bombers and tanks.

As my die-hard fans know, I decided to go into the job of professional right-wing personality when listening to the radio one day and hearing an out-of-context quote from that hippie socialist Robert Redford about how if we took all the money we were using to kill people overseas we could use that money to feed those same people. And I'm thinking, of course, "Cu-ckoo!" Am I right, readers? Why in the name of Jeepers H. Crackers would we want to feed the people we're trying to kill? What a spend-o-crat! The idiot totally doesn't get the idea of warfare. Unless maybe he was talking about poisoning the food we give the enemy or something, which I don't agree with. It's much more civil to shoot someone in the face than poison them.

I knew at that moment I could be a spokesperson for the "unpopular" view in Hollywood. I began to appear on radio programs, blowing away my opponents and sounding very handsome indeed. I would go on television programs, where I overcame the natural disadvantage of how I really look to out-argue such spend-o-crat linguistic acrobats as Pamela Anderson and Carrot Top. Slowly, one by one, I built up not only my following, but also my '83 Imapala's engine. Now I drive from city to city, lecturing to sold-out crowds of wealthy people who like to have what they already know reinforced by expensive speakers. And I make a pretty penny doing so, let me tell you! It's the American way.

But that doesn't give me the right to relax and let any nobody who happens to have a congressional job tell the president how to spend his money. And once again those spend-o-crats are going back on their word. They promised W. (my little nickname for him) that they would go all the way on this War on Terror, and like a scared teen-age girl who changes her mind at the last minute, they need a little coercing. That's what I'm writing about.

The spend-o-crats approved the War on Terror months ago, when it was a popular idea and the right thing to do. They knew if they didn't, if their stupid liberal pacifism showed its ugly head at that time, they would be ousted right from office by the public! I'm not sure exactly how that would be done, I'm not an expert on the law, the constitution, or how the government works in any fashion, but by God, we would have done it. Now that the war's been going a little slow they figure they can flip-flop and talk about spending that War on Terror money on domestic issues. I say to hell with that! That's War on Terror money! If I were the president (God willing, someday) I'd chew on that money like a dog with a bone. "No ya don't! That's my Terror money! Get off, bitch!" Though maybe without the street lingo.

And though nobody likes an argument, except most of us, the president knows darn well he has to be firm and unyielding with those War on Terror funds. The spend-o-crats gave 'em, now they can't take 'em back. You know what we call those people? Indian spend-o-crats. Or injun take-backers. Drunken redskin bastards. Something truly offensive to Indians. I say don't take it, W. We started out to level and destroy any country that doesn't like us, that's what the War on Terror's about, and by golly, we need to stay with it. Even if it means Iraq or Iran is next. And hopefully, eventually, France.

º Last Column: I Haven't Laughed that Hard Since Mom Killed Dad
º more columns