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Someone Wanted to Hear Jennifer Love-Hewitt Sing AgainOctober 14, 2002 |
Flatbush, New Jersey Snapper McGee/AP Love-Hewitt's CD, featuring brazen upper-back nudity and presumably unremarkable music.
The album, cock-teasingly titled Barenaked, the one-word spelling somehow making it more musical, contains tracks presumably sung by Jennifer Love-Hewitt and possibly even written, co-written, or just bought by the actress for the purpose of singing on the album. The release is the latest in a series of maddening superstar actor vanity albums by the likes of John Travolta, Telly Savalas, Joe Pesci, Sebastian Cabot, and Joey Lawrence, and the notorious William Shatner release T...
he world continues to surprise reporter Ted Ted in what he thinks he knows. Surprise event of the week occurred last Tuesday when actress and breast-delivery system Jennifer Love-Hewitt released another album that was demanded somewhere, at some time, by somebody completely unknown to Ted Ted.
The album, cock-teasingly titled Barenaked, the one-word spelling somehow making it more musical, contains tracks presumably sung by Jennifer Love-Hewitt and possibly even written, co-written, or just bought by the actress for the purpose of singing on the album. The release is the latest in a series of maddening superstar actor vanity albums by the likes of John Travolta, Telly Savalas, Joe Pesci, Sebastian Cabot, and Joey Lawrence, and the notorious William Shatner release The Transformed Man, which is actually really funny and should immediately be listened to for its covers of "Hey Mr. Tambourine Man" and "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds."
Love-Hewitt, however, who sings normally and really has nothing outstanding from Britney Spears except her brunette hair, should not be listened to. There's always the possibility that something exceptional is being recorded on Love-Hewitt's CDs that could surprise everyone and make her a huge cult hit, but it is seriously in doubt, and Ted Ted, for one, is not going to risk listening to one to be the one to find out. All likelihood points to major sucking.
The new album release, discovered during a routine search for topless actresses, may be called Barenaked but even the cover fails to live up to that. The chance that the album is nothing more than Love-Hewitt describing herself naked in vivid detail is very low, but ought to inspire a few dozen sales out there at least among her alleged fans.
Love-Hewitt's latest movie, The Tuxedo, with Jackie Chan, looks putrid, even for a Jackie Chan film. Love-Hewitt has made a career out of awful teen-age movies like I Know What You Did Last Summer and the brilliantly-named I Still Know What You Did Last Summer, which is possibly a sequel. The two best reasons to see the films—Love-Hewitt's breasts—can likely be obtained online from the thousands of fansites for the actress run by fans of her breasts, though who is buying her music is still unknown.
Claims that Ted Ted should "get over it" or "let it go," made by office wank Ramon Nootles, were immediately invalidated by the fact that Nootles is not a music fan and has standards so low he himself might own every Jennifer Love-Hewitt album ever released, and even some unreleased singles or EPs or recorded concert audio, who knows. Calls to prove he doesn't own a Jennifer Love-Hewitt CD have remained unanswered.
Love-Hewitt, apparently a well-selling star in Japan, proves once again Ted Ted's theory the Japanese will buy anything as a joke. The Japanese sense of humor, though wickedly ironic, is still a negative factor in as much as it encourages the release of Jennifer Love-Hewitt albums here in the states as well, as do the people who go to see poor-quality movies like The Tuxedo.
In its entirety, the release of the album and the continuation of Love-Hewitt's popularity at least serve as evidence in Ted Ted's belief that society's standards, even as low as they have been in the past, continue to erode hideously. More on this as it develops. the commune news is just a squirrel trying to get a nut, a'ight? Ted Ted is the commune's hotheaded office correspondent who may not deliver real news, but he sure is adorable when he gets enraged—which happens frequently.
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 February 4, 2002
A Piper Bill for QuebecIf there's one thing Ned hates, it's dribbling baby eyeballs. Seemingly everywhere: in Ned's taco, spreadable on toast, and in the wheel-well of his car even! Cereal boxes so jam-packed that there's not even room for the cereal itself. Drooping out of his glove compartment, sloshing around in his underwear drawer, filling up his rain gauge like they was invited!
Who can Nedder blame for this plague of ocular proportions? Quebec? Yes, most likely so it is Quebec who is fallen asleep at the wheel. Long has Ned trusted them Canadians to keep his living space clear of such annoyances, and for another time they have let Ned down. First it was the day he found his deep-freezer to be full of crickets, a sure sign that Quebecans is slacking off on the job. Another time it was all the slimy basketballs in Ned's pool, and yet another the day he woke up with his sinus cavities packed full of rice crispies.
Long ago was the day the King of all Lands appointed them Quebecers the guardians of all things irregular and entrusted them with keepin' the world stable and whatnot. And more often than not, they've done their jobs. But today, Ned is calling them to the carpetbagger on their failure to keep things right.
But what does a boy do now? Does Neddle send them a bill for having all them drooping baby eyeballs flushed out of his radiator? Is Ned to expect a letter of apology for the Eye McMuffin him accidentally bit into this morning? What about the...
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If there's one thing Ned hates, it's dribbling baby eyeballs. Seemingly everywhere: in Ned's taco, spreadable on toast, and in the wheel-well of his car even! Cereal boxes so jam-packed that there's not even room for the cereal itself. Drooping out of his glove compartment, sloshing around in his underwear drawer, filling up his rain gauge like they was invited!
Who can Nedder blame for this plague of ocular proportions? Quebec? Yes, most likely so it is Quebec who is fallen asleep at the wheel. Long has Ned trusted them Canadians to keep his living space clear of such annoyances, and for another time they have let Ned down. First it was the day he found his deep-freezer to be full of crickets, a sure sign that Quebecans is slacking off on the job. Another time it was all the slimy basketballs in Ned's pool, and yet another the day he woke up with his sinus cavities packed full of rice crispies.
Long ago was the day the King of all Lands appointed them Quebecers the guardians of all things irregular and entrusted them with keepin' the world stable and whatnot. And more often than not, they've done their jobs. But today, Ned is calling them to the carpetbagger on their failure to keep things right.
But what does a boy do now? Does Neddle send them a bill for having all them drooping baby eyeballs flushed out of his radiator? Is Ned to expect a letter of apology for the Eye McMuffin him accidentally bit into this morning? What about the goopy, gelatinous eyeball muck currently clogging up his roof gutters? One is afraid to even address that issue, sure enough.
How about the time that Volkswagen pulled up in Ned's driveway and those thirteen identical Martin Shorts got out and insisted on staying as Ned's guests for a month? What with all their juggling and dirty joke-telling and whatnot. Who's to reimburse Nedder for that trauma of an emotional nature? And who's going to compensate the local pee-wee league football team who had their knickers dusted by the All-Martin-Short team in the championship game?
There's a smell on the wind and Ned's nose tells him it's the smell of Canadians. Time for them to get them maple-syrup-slurping bottoms on down here and pay the piper. He's been noodlin' on that pipe for a good four days straight now, and Ned sure as hell didn't hire him, and so is not likely to be too up in the teeth about paying him his owed due wages. Let me tell you.
So come on, folks of Quebec. Time to get with them programs! No more raining lobster bibs, no more child seats full of walrus meat, no more erector-set birthday bees. You know how them things is likely to happen and how they aint. No more celibate tuna policemens or nerf balls that come out the governor's mouth when he talks. No more deep-sea flute recitals or monsters bearing witness to the conversion of pope Archibald. No more, says Ned! Them shindiggeries has gone on long enough. º Last Column: Flush it Down, Charlie Brownº more columns
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|  August 19, 2002
The Cold Dish on Reality TVThe simple truth of my business—truth-telling—is that there's not enough column space and enough interest for me to write more often to tell all the unsettling truths out there. The answer for me is to prioritize what gets told, which means I use my column space for only the most dire of conspiracies and the occasional request for summarizing books for my book club reading for me. Which means some of my revelations are late in coming—like the truth about reality TV.
I have never liked so-called "reality TV," ever since the farce that was Cops first debuted, but it seemed generally harmless and not worthy of my attention, just a distraction and nothing more. But as I reach a dry spell in my material, it seems necessary now to reveal the truth about that distraction and allow people to start focusing on the horrible truths of real life, like the story behind the snakehead fish and Craig Kilborn.
To cut to the truth quick and early, reality TV is no more real than Everybody Loves Raymond, and only slightly funnier. In fact, shows like Friends hold more truth than a "reality show" like Big Brother—at least the characters on Friends are based on real friends of the creator (except for Chandler, who could never exist in our world). The Big Brother "contestants" are simply poorly-written cardboard stereotypes that live up to people's expectations so thoroughly they seem real.
Like the "real...
º Last Column: Someone Has Ruined Citizen Kane for Me
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The simple truth of my business—truth-telling—is that there's not enough column space and enough interest for me to write more often to tell all the unsettling truths out there. The answer for me is to prioritize what gets told, which means I use my column space for only the most dire of conspiracies and the occasional request for summarizing books for my book club reading for me. Which means some of my revelations are late in coming—like the truth about reality TV.
I have never liked so-called "reality TV," ever since the farce that was Cops first debuted, but it seemed generally harmless and not worthy of my attention, just a distraction and nothing more. But as I reach a dry spell in my material, it seems necessary now to reveal the truth about that distraction and allow people to start focusing on the horrible truths of real life, like the story behind the snakehead fish and Craig Kilborn.
To cut to the truth quick and early, reality TV is no more real than Everybody Loves Raymond, and only slightly funnier. In fact, shows like Friends hold more truth than a "reality show" like Big Brother—at least the characters on Friends are based on real friends of the creator (except for Chandler, who could never exist in our world). The Big Brother "contestants" are simply poorly-written cardboard stereotypes that live up to people's expectations so thoroughly they seem real.
Like the "real people" on Cops, every reality show character is portrayed by unknown actors with strong improvisational skills, but poorly-constructed characters. It's amazing they've gotten away with it for this long, given the exceptionally-ridiculous paper-thin characters on talk shows like Ricki Lake and Jerry Springer.
I first became convinced of the truth while watching old repeats of Cops, which air 24-hours on independent local stations almost everywhere in the country. I distinctly saw then-unemployed actors Edward Norton, Eriq LaSalle, and John Travolta—after Look Who's Talking and before Pulp Fiction brought him back. In fact, I think I saw every member of the cast of Welcome Back, Kotter somewhere in the episode, even the guy who played Mr. Woodman. It soon dawned on me that reality TV has become a port for actors yet to make it big or weathering a bad storm. Any day now I expect to see actors with troubled careers like Larry Wilcox and Alf turning up as contestants on Survivor.
This use of destitute actors has reached its height with recent shows The Osbournes and The Anna Nicole Show. It turns out Osbournes star Ozzy Osbourne was a former singer of some kind of band, as well as an actor who has appeared in films like The Jerky Boys and Little Nicky. I'm not sure about the rest of his "family," but Osbourne himself is not a real person, just another down-on-his-luck performer. Anna Nicole, whose real name is Anna Nicole Smith, is actually nothing more than a failed actress and former Playboy playmate, again, not a "real" person. I have done so much independent research on her that I knew who she was without having to look further into it.
In all likelihood, reality TV is another fad, like space travel and feeding starving people in Africa. And besides the fact it is trivial and mindless entertainment watching self-obsessed "real people" going about their day-to-day business or competing ruthlessly for unearned money, I have nothing against it. Still, I implore producers of so-called "reality TV" to quit lying to us and presenting something as true when it's not—that's a job best left to the president. º Last Column: Someone Has Ruined Citizen Kane for Meº more columns
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Quote of the Day“To sleep, perchance to dream. As long as I do not dream of being pursued by that creepy Duracell robot family, for that shit was truly too much for a soul to endure.”
-Robert ShakenspearFortune 500 CookieDo not take the road less traveled, 'cause the toll is complete bullshit. If everyone jumped off a bridge, would you? Your mother will finally find out this week. Two brutal assaults is a coincidence, three is a lack of self-control. Expect to be broken hearted this week, as the writing on the bathroom wall foretold. Lucky numbers all make a sum of 9.
Try again later.Top 5 Smart New Weight Loss Tips| 1. | Carbs are like the devil’s penis: Delicious but fattening. | | 2. | After a workout, treat yourself to a tasty ice cube sandwich. | | 3. | Weigh yourself after masturbating. For guys, you’ll be a little bit lighter. For the ladies, you won’t be so upset when you find out you’re still fat. | | 4. | You’re never going to lose any weight if you insist on eating every single day. | | 5. | At-home liposuction is the third-easiest surgery to perform on yourself at home, after heart valve roto-rootering and a cock transplant. | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Lemon Chester 9/6/2004 The King of the Road (Part 3)Author's note: In preceding chapters, King Luthor of Kuntnose leads a valiant hodgepodge of near-warriors in a quest to defeat the evil dark enemy Rupert, by way of discovering the source of his dark power in the castle of Oogh. After narrowly bypassing certain danger at Volcano Mountain, Kuntnose, Sir Bainbridge the potentially brave knight, Linux the leprechaun, Feedle the large-for-a-dwarf, GiGijerod the geriatric wizard, and GiGijerod's flatulent dog Farts, continue on to Flower Valley, where they narrowly avoid certain casual sex when Kuntnose refuses to ask for directions and the band of fellows ends up in the Quaking Bog instead.
"It was a good thing we escaped that Bog before the ducks came out," sighed a relieved Bainbridge as the road wound its way into the...
Author's note: In preceding chapters, King Luthor of Kuntnose leads a valiant hodgepodge of near-warriors in a quest to defeat the evil dark enemy Rupert, by way of discovering the source of his dark power in the castle of Oogh. After narrowly bypassing certain danger at Volcano Mountain, Kuntnose, Sir Bainbridge the potentially brave knight, Linux the leprechaun, Feedle the large-for-a-dwarf, GiGijerod the geriatric wizard, and GiGijerod's flatulent dog Farts, continue on to Flower Valley, where they narrowly avoid certain casual sex when Kuntnose refuses to ask for directions and the band of fellows ends up in the Quaking Bog instead.
"It was a good thing we escaped that Bog before the ducks came out," sighed a relieved Bainbridge as the road wound its way into the open. "I think I even heard them quacking."
"It's the Quaking Bog, not the Quacking Bog, you illiterate moron," scorned Linux, who was distasteful after being the only one who had to use a snorkel to get through the bog, due to his height.
Suddenly, or perhaps gradually, none could say for sure since all were spacing out at the time, the road ahead was blocked by a tall, handsome man on a tall, horse-faced horse.
"I am Hunkley, son of Tolden the Son of a Bitch. And grandson of Hubert the Drunk," said the tall, hunkish man in the road.
"We welcome you into this band of fellows, young Hunkley," declared King Luthor of Kuntnose, who was pathologically unable to say no, which had resulted in the brief memberships of Ian the Lecherous and Stone Mahoney in the band of fellows, before both chose to shine on Kuntnose and take their own route to Flower Valley.
"I am also nephew of Todd Who Likes to Touch Young Girls," added Hunkley.
"That's enough, please," begged Kuntnose.
"I bring neither great strength nor cunning, nor any particular skill to dazzle the eye," explained Hunkley the tall and beautiful. "I bring instead… I'm sorry, I've forgotten what I bring."
"That's fine, we'll think of something along the way," said the King. "You can bring the wine."
At that moment, Feedle, who had disappeared for days within the Quaking Bog and was assumed to have been eaten by tropical girls, returned unexpectedly from a particularly long dump in the brambles.
"All right, who gave the dog pistachios?" whined Linux as a ripe stench befouled the air.
"That's not the dog," GiGijerod answered gravely. "The road ahead is guarded by a battalion of Dorks."
The band of fellows froze in their tracks, except for the ones who weren't moving at the time. They just kept up with the not moving. Dorks were foul, displeasant creatures, weak of body and thick of glasses. Linux liked to shoot them, but usually a murph would suffice in a pinch. The Dorks ahead were blocking the road, playing a game involving dice and fantasy.
"They are a horrible, ruint race, created by mixing Geeks and Milquetoasts," explained GiGijerod. GiGijerod's dog, Farts, farted in agreement.
"You really should do something about that dog, GiGijerod," complained Bainbridge. "He's about to put me off of my mayonnaise sandwich."
"This dog has-" GiGijerod began, the rest of his statement drowned out by a particularly long retort from Farts. And that settled it.
"We cannot risk the road that is guarded by Dorks," GiGijerod warned in his creaky old-man voice. "If we get into a conversation with them, we could be stuck here for hours, and Kuntnose would surely then ask them to join our band of fellows. We must travel to the north instead and ask the advice of Rubert the Wise."
"Wait wait wait wait," interrupted Linux, who was already readying his bow for Dork hunting. "Wasn't the whole point of this quest to defeat Rupert?"
"I didn't say Rupert the Evil, I said Rubert the Wise. Do try and keep up," GiGijerod scolded oldly. "Rupert and Rubert are entirely different people, and I can't believe you'd confuse them. It's really not that hard. We must ask wise Rubert for his counsel, and only then can we continue our quest to defeat Rubert. I mean Rupert."
For more of this great story, buy Lemon Chester's novel
The King of the Road   |
